Chapter Seventeen Jamie #3
December becomes January without the holiday greetings I used to count on. I wonder if he's worn my jersey since the night I saw him in it.
January becomes February, and February becomes March, and when March becomes April, it's time for spring break.
Harper and Simon decide to follow me to three road games, in time to watch us clinch home-ice advantage for the playoffs.
I'm curious whether he'll wait for her to graduate before he proposes.
I hope he does, but I'm not exactly a relationship expert.
And I almost start a conversation about carnival rides and midway games, but maybe I'm not an expert on those either.
April. May. June kicks off the Stanley Cup Finals, and we're still playing.
Then we're not, despite the athletic wet dream pairing of Taylor McKeon and Jameson Sinclair.
We fail to coach our team to a victory, our own championships worth little to a group of guys still seeking their first. I hear from Harper and Kai and a dozen former teammates, all of them offering condolences one way or another.
I hear from my mom, who offers criticism she thinks is constructive.
My dad doesn't bother, and it feels worse than being told what I did wrong.
I don't hear from Mateo, and I would need an English teacher to help me find a word worse than worse.
And yeah, I know I could call him. If only I weren't so afraid he wouldn't answer.
Harper helps him with his soccer clinic again, and I leave them to it.
To keep from confirming things Taylor suspected were true last summer, I ask whether he knows anyone who might be up for a blind date.
He promises to get back to me, and then he doesn't. I stay at home and drink too much vodka instead.
I'm not sure which night it is when Harper texts me.
Mateo says you haven't talked in months. What's going on?
I think I'm drunk enough that if she were anyone else, I'd start talking about boats and futons and Lena and kisses and pillows and docks. She's my daughter, though. She doesn't need to know that sex with Mateo was everything I wanted at the time I wanted it least.
We're both busy and far away from each other. Sometimes Kai and I don't talk for a while and it's fine
Mateo isn't Kai
I know
I'm not sure when I'll stop counting the months since I hugged him goodbye, but it's been almost a year. Then she sends a message that turns June into July, and July into August.
I read it over and over and over again. I will for longer than I can imagine.
Do you know someone named Logan?
I don't go to the lake house with Taylor.
I get more shit about it from the other guys than I do from him.
One afternoon, in the middle of their trip, my doorbell rings and there's something left outside my door.
It's a gift basket, and I suppose I should've seen that coming.
When I look through the ridiculous arrangement, I find it full of hangover remedies, a bizarre movie mix of cheesy rom-coms and filthy porn, and a box of tissues that could probably be used for either, depending on my mood.
The notes reads Snap the fuck out of it. If you really need that much help getting laid, we'll get you laid. I'm glad you're not all over the gossip sites these days, but sober up for the season. The Cup is going to be ours.
I sulk like a kid who's been sent to his room to think about what he's done, except that I barely understand the reference when I was only ever sent to the rink. The more I stare at Taylor's note, the more obvious it is that he's taken a page from my parents' handbook.
If it's weird that my punishment and my safe space have always been so intimately entwined, I don't dwell on it.
If it's weird that I think of my relationship with Mateo then, I don't dwell on that either.
Another school year starts, and the hockey season follows.
I don't know that I'm exactly sober, but I take coaching seriously.
I'm not seen in public doing anything wrong.
Then again, I'm not really seen in public doing anything right.
Nobody sees me much outside of airports and arenas, and the hotels I stay at in between.
Nobody except for a new collection of nobodies—women I pay for discretion and a touch that feels so little like the one I crave.
Do I know someone named Logan? Yeah, I fucking do.
I'm at a Westin in Detroit in mid-November, reading several of Harper's texts again.
She had explained little that night. Just that a guy named Logan stopped by the summer soccer clinic to bring lunch to Mateo, and that he'd brought enough for her to eat, too.
The same daughter of mine who used to comment on every hot guy in her classes or on my teams, had nothing to say about a man I know is attractive.
Whether her decision was made with Simon or me in mind, I don't know and didn't dare ask.
I'm still curious about the two-hour drive he would've had to make just to do a favor.
I'm waiting for that bitterness to dissolve on my tongue.
There's a knock on my door, and it's one of my fourth-line wingers, not a nobody.
I smile—genuinely—because it's why I'm here.
I will be whatever this kid needs me to be tonight.
Tomorrow, I will hear the perfectly unkind roar of an opposing crowd.
I will listen closely for the whisper of my name as I pass.
After too-little sleep one night, and a grueling game and overtime loss the next, we get on a plane. I need to close my eyes, but I'm playing with my phone. I scroll too far back in my texts, and I fire off a new one without thinking.
Everything has changed and I hate it
I'm about to toss my phone into my bag, but it vibrates in my hand. Maybe Logan's around, or maybe he's not, and I'm not sure I care either way.
Nothing has changed, sweetheart.