Chapter Seven Jamie
(I Went to New York)
My first games of the season had always brought about a thrum of energy.
That combination of excitement and nerves.
A lot of "I can't wait to get back out there" and "Am I ready for this?
" Most of it was eager anticipation. There’d always been a hint of fear that it could all go wrong.
And a lot of those feelings have returned sharply today.
Things can change from one year to the next.
So much stays the same.
As I watch Harper take the field—she's a starter now—I think I feel Mateo's eyes on me.
I also think it can't be true when he has a team to worry about, and he could've looked at me a dozen times over the past few months if he'd wanted.
Instead, we greeted each other minutes ago with a friendly handshake and clapped shoulders.
A friendly handshake. Because we're friends.
Or we’re friends enough to text and call and share stories and learn more about each other, even if we’re not the kind of friends who go out to eat or visit each other at home.
I get it, though. I really do. There’s never been a time I’ve seen him and not come close to begging for another five minutes or one more touch.
Mateo won’t invite me to dinner just to listen to me go hoarse with need.
Hearing his voice or remembering his smile is enough to push me over the edge when I’m hard and wet and wanting, but that confession won’t earn me another invitation either.
Friends probably don’t want to spend happy hour trying to forget about the shooting star that made them dream of being hard and wet and wanting together.
Harper's team wins that scrimmage. The season continues to go well for them after that.
Danielle shows up a few times. Melanie and I talk more than once.
Mateo and I see each other at least a couple of times a week, right there on the sideline.
Christmas and New Year's pass with sober texts omitting half the truth.
I turn another year older and spend it watching a hockey game while my leg aches.
"You know you could ask him out," Kai growls, fed up with my sulking on a random Wednesday night in early February.
I look around the mildly busy bar, then down at the stupid fucking mango chipotle wings I ordered. "You make it sound like we're dating."
"What you two are doing is so much worse than that. Waiting years for each other? That's some freaky tragic romance shit."
Over the next few days, I think about asking Mateo out to dinner. Or we could meet for drinks. Or just a movie. I could wear my hat pulled low, or his hoodie pulled up, and everything could be like the night we met, when we weren’t friends at all.
But whether those feel like dates or freaky tragic romance shit, I do nothing but kick a wayward soccer ball his way when I see him again.
At the end-of-the-season banquet, we spend more time together than we did the year before.
It would be unnecessary if we could remember how to do it anywhere else.
Harper receives the Most Improved Player award, and I'm reminded the night has nothing to do with me.
She has two more years of high school soccer to play, and I can't wait to see the ways she succeeds before she graduates.
I won't wish away time with her, but it doesn't stop my heart from keeping more than one beat.
In the weeks that follow, I'm scheduled for autograph signings with other former NHL stars because the things I touch are still worth something.
I continue to appear during a handful of game broadcasts because my name still gets attention and my face still keeps it.
I get asked to pose for pictures everywhere, and I love it because I'm wanted and wanted and wanted.
Mateo and I text between obligations. We talk a few times a month.
My leg throbs with pain I wanted gone a long time ago.
My chest aches for things that haven’t happened yet.
Another notification appears on my phone, and I smile at the M I put there more than a year ago, doing my best to ignore how much I still hurt about it, too.
Spring break comes around again, and Harper's just turned 16.
We get an invitation from Taylor McKeon, my fiercest rival-turned-acquaintance.
He offers to host us at his sprawling vacation home in upstate New York, and Harper agrees to the trip because she thinks Taylor's son is hot.
I agree because it's three time zones away from home.
She and I arrive, and it's gorgeous in this different world.
More than a dozen of us—mostly former players and a few gorgeous women—are spending the week together.
We forget about the rest of our lives as much as the rest of our lives will allow.
Of course, it's the end of the regular season when we’re in New York, and most of us are watching the playoff race closely.
During one game, we're surprised and unsurprised by the secret Taylor spills in the privacy of his own home.
He hasn't played in years, but he's no better at staying away from the game than I am, and I feel the sting of envy when I hear the news we’ve all promised not to repeat until the story breaks.
I'm never far from hockey, but the lake has thawed and Taylor's extra skates remain piled in his garage. My wishes have to hold for another day.
There’s other fun to distract me, especially because this group of adults isn't known for following rules.
Those of us with kids are aware enough of what's happening to be considered responsible.
When the few teens aren't on their phones, they're pushing boundaries, but they're as safe as they can be under this giant roof—or within a loud whistle—and we leave them to it.
I'm probably laughing and drinking more than they are when my phone rings.
"Hey," Mateo says after I answer. "Do you want to guess where I am?"
I pull my phone away from my ear and squint to read the time. Math is mostly beyond me, but I'm just okay enough to figure out that it's still afternoon in California. Then I remember I spent one of those with him a year ago.
"Are you sitting in the shade, enjoying several toppings on your funnel cake?"
"Ah, I knew I forgot to do something before I got on this Ferris wheel."
"Oh," I say. Maybe it's a sigh. I move toward the patio doors, a beer in my hand. "You're really on it right now?"
"I really am. The view isn't quite as good as I'd hoped."
That stings. Mateo could have almost any view he wants, and mixed with alcohol, his comment makes me bitter tonight. "Guess you're in for a real disappointment when you reach the funhouse maze."
"I'm not sure I want to get lost alone," he says, and that's definitely a sigh.
"Even if I want to believe that's some sort of sideways invitation from a man who hasn’t seen me since a soccer banquet in February, I can't run into you at the fair today. I'm in New York with Harper and some friends."
"So, you have those now?"
It's borderline cruel, that question, and more my style than his, but it has me turning to look around anyway.
Harper and the other kids are upstairs playing video games.
Everyone else is spread out around the family room and kitchen, louder and more fake than Mateo's been a day in his life.
I'd easily agree to catch a game with half of them, but we wouldn't talk much.
What would we even say when we're not bullshitting a crowd?
"You know I don't," I answer, stepping further away from people who don't notice. "Even the one I thought was different—"
I don't know how to finish my sentence, and Mateo fills the silence. "I am different."
"But you don't want to spend time with me."
There's noise then—the distant clatter of metal and the mumbled thanks signaling the end of his ride—and Mateo returns with a derisive laugh. "You can tell me you're arrogant and selfish all you want, but I don't believe for a second you're that stupid."
"It's been almost a year, unless you think sharing a sideline brings friends closer together."
"Almost a year, but I've never stopped wanting to spend time with you, and I've never stopped being your friend," he hisses. "We get too comfortable when we’re together. It’s too easy to be near you, which makes it so damn hard to stay apart. And I know you’re willing to keep trying, but I can’t keep being the one to stop us. I’m not that strong. "
“There are things we can do—”
“And we could get away with it,” Mateo finishes.
“We could stop waiting and sneak around and cross all those lines.
We could stop lying to each other and only lie to the rest of the world.
But it wouldn't be fair to Harper. It wouldn't be fair to Sophie and Kai, who'd almost certainly have to cover for us at some point.
And it sure as hell wouldn't be fair to us.
We deserve an actual chance at this, and Harper's almost done with her sophomore year. We're almost halfway there.”
I think I was going to suggest ways we could be actual friends, without sneaking around, but I’m too tired to make those promises. I gulp at my beer before I pout for nobody.
"So the next two years will be spent on the phone?"
"I don't want them to be."
"But?"
"I don't know," he says.
There's more fight to pick, if fighting is what we've been doing at all.
I could apologize for being the way I am and try to explain that this is why nameless encounters have always suited me best. I could plead for a chance at friendship and swear that I can stop us, too.
But Mateo won't talk all night, and Taylor's sister approaches me now, swapping my empty bottle for a full one right after she takes a sip and winks.
I wink back, then squeeze my eyes shut. "We'll be home next week, so I'll text you then."