29. PARKER
TWENTY-NINE
PARKER
It’s been a long time since an idea has gripped me like this. Not only do I get to build the program from scratch, but watching games becomes research, and I get to fill the whole thing with math.
I’m giddy.
I’m also trying really hard not to repeat past mistakes. When Connor is home, I force myself to set it all aside and focus on him. What we have feels big and tenuous. I’m not getting ahead of myself, but I can’t stop that sneaky little voice telling me that Connor is important. There might be a future between us, but it’s too soon to know for sure, so I force all those hopeful little pieces away and focus on the now.
The now where he’s in Canada, a whole other country, playing another Collective member, and I’m watching the game on my enormous flat-screen. I’m taking notes by hand, with my laptop open beside me. While this is good for planning, and I’m sure the game is probably over and I’m only midway through the second period because I keep pausing the TV, I miss being there live. I miss my big, lonely suite and the chill in the air.
With my resentment toward Connor gone though, I’m finally seeing what Dad saw in him. He’s an amazing player, and when he and Easton are on the ice together, the opposition always looks on the back foot. Montreal’s defensive side has been targeting Easton a lot this game, so he hasn’t had a chance to score yet, and I can tell Connor’s getting agitated about it.
I wish I was there waiting for him after the game. I could have been there. But we learned last time being on the road together was too tempting and too risky.
I toss my pen onto my notepad and run both hands down my face. What am I doing? Connor Kikishkin is one of the most high-profile players in the NHL, and here I am, hoping one day we can have a real relationship and ride happily into the sunset.
As his team owner.
I’ve lost all attachment to reality, I swear.
No matter how many times I go over the scenarios in my head, none of them have a good outcome for us. All people will care about is the serious power imbalance that exists between us. I own his career. There is absolutely nothing stopping me from exploiting the oldest Kiki brother, especially given our rocky past.
I know exactly what people will say about us, and that kind of speculation would move our relationship beyond hockey news and into the wider public. Telling people I’m a nervous wreck who’s desperately trying to hold on to how much I loved my dad won’t do a damn thing.
Telling people that Connor is the first person who’s made me feel something other than anger, frustration, and deep-seated loneliness won’t help either.
I pluck at my sweats, an option I’d thrown out once in passing coming back to me. I could sell the team. Move away from the hockey world, giving it time and space, and then we could go public. If we’re even dating then .
Shit. What if I sell the team so we can be together, and then Connor decides he’s done with us?
Then I’ll be back to square one of having nothing in my life that makes me happy. Can I risk that on a possibility?
I only ever have these thoughts when he’s not here. When my face isn’t buried in work and a stray insecurity creeps in, it sends me down an endless spiral of what-ifs. People don’t know our story, and unfortunately, no one wants the truth when drama and wild theories sell more stories.
My phone lights up beside me, Connor’s name on the screen, and I glance back at the game that’s only just wrapped up the second period. I must have gotten really behind.
“Hello?” I quickly answer.
“How fucking good was that goal?”
Ahh … I realize this is maybe one of those sort-of boyfriend moments that I probably should have been watching to see. “If you’re talking about a goal in the third period, I might not be up to that yet.”
His chuckle is so warm and comforting that I realize this is exactly what I needed. “You working?”
“Playing.” It’s not work if I’m not specifically on my laptop. At least, that’s the lie I like to tell myself.
“My mistake. I won’t ruin it for you, but someone scored the goal of the year.”
“I can’t wait to see how incredible you were.”
“Oh. Not me.” Something shifts in his tone that I can’t place. “Easton. He was … that was … just watch, okay?”
“Promise.”
“What are you doing now?” At least his voice goes back to normal.
“I’ll finish watching, then probably work a bit and go to bed.”
“Wish I was there.”
“I know?—”
“No. I really wish I was there. ”
“Con … are you okay?”
“I am, actually.” He clears his throat. “Just sort of missing you.”
This. How the hell am I supposed to walk away from something like this? Or hide it? Or lie about how amazing being with him makes me feel? “I’m a lot missing you. I hate not being there in person.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It kinda is.”
I laugh. “I also could have chosen not to get into a relationship with you, so you don’t get to take the full blame.”
“Fine. Be all logical.” There are muffled voices in the background. “The team’s heading out. Maybe, if you’re up working late enough, I could call you when I get back to my room?”
Yet another reason why I can’t regret our relationship, even as risky as it is. “I’ll make sure I’m awake.”
We hang up, and I’m left grinning. I put the game back on, absently sketching in my notebook, and when I look down, I find that I’ve doodled Parker Kikishkin and Connor Duchene all around the edge. I quickly scribble them out. I’m nowhere near thinking about marriage, and neither of us is close to thinking about it with each other.
My crush is crushing strong tonight.
I watch the game through until the end, and Colorado wins by one. It’s a tough game, but there was no way for Montreal to stop Easton’s goal. He threw himself into the air, caught the rebound on the very end of his stick, and when the goalie went high, the puck slipped past his glove for the type of goal where every little thing had to go right for it to happen.
I skip back and replay over and over, slowing it down frame by frame to follow the exact flow of movement.
This moment would look incredible in my software.
I’ve been mindful of what Connor said about making sure that what I’m creating can’t be a replacement for real people, and no matter how sophisticated the software is, it will still need human input.
My aim is to have the system preloaded with plays, natural movement from the players, which will mean doing body scans of them on and off the ice, and the ability for coaches to easily input new plays so they can talk their players through it. They should be able to overlay the game footage with the computer-generated players, then input commands for how play should have progressed. They can use this as a way to correct behaviors and moves, as a way to show the most effective way of playing against another team, as a way to introduce new lines and see how the players would work together … the possibilities are endless.
I’m so excited to talk to Macklin about it and walk him through what I’m working on, but while I might have shared with Connor, it isn’t ready for anyone else’s eyes yet. My experience tells me that some people can only focus on what is in front of them rather than embrace the vision of what something could be. I need a workable prototype to get people as excited and on board with my plan as I am.
I want it finished quickly, which is why I’m throwing every waking minute into it, and when Connor’s home, it’s a real challenge not to give in to the urge to grab my laptop and tinker.
His handjobs and the way he fucks me are good distractions though.
He’s still in his head about, well, giving head, but it’s not something I need. Maybe he’ll never get there, and that’s okay. I’ve told him that, but I’ve caught him a few times now, starting in that direction and hesitating.
Would I love for Connor to suck me off? Absolutely. But I have exactly zero complaints about everything else we’re doing, and there are so many other ways he makes me come.
Sex has never been a deal breaker for me. Affection is though, and luckily, Connor dishes it out constantly when he’s home.
So I’m happy.
Really happy.
I’m just worried that it isn’t going to last.
When my dry eyes come into focus a couple of hours later and see that it’s 3:00 a.m., I scramble for my phone.
Four missed calls .
Fuck. They were two hours ago, so he’d have to be asleep by now. My gut sinks under the sludgy feeling that I’ve messed up, and as much as I want to call him and repeatedly apologize, waking him up will only make things worse.
So I’ll sit with this unnerving feeling that I’ve screwed up before we’ve barely gotten started and call him first thing tomorrow.
Connor’s Connor, so I doubt he’s going to be angry. Mildly annoyed at the most.
It’s me I’m worried about.
This is how it all started with my ex. The thoughtlessness. The single-minded focus on work.
I don’t want to be like that again, but I’m worried it’s impossible for me to be any other way.