18. You’re such a guy.
18
"You’re such a guy."
Aaron Miles
When the front door of the apartment opens, I hold my breath. It’s like all the air is trapped in my lungs, and I can’t expel it.
“Hey, I’m home,” Marissa says, not bothering to be quiet. I hear her take her shoes and coat off. Finally, she enters the living room. “And before you ask, it was a bust.”
“Oh,” I say, more because I really needed to deflate my lungs than to answer. I lay a hand on my stomach, which hurts from being so stressed o ut all night. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she says, not looking me in the eye. “Honestly, I’m just tired, and I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Since when does Marissa not want to talk about things with me? This is another first, and I don’t like it.
I spring to my feet. “Are you okay, Martin? Do I need to knock some teeth out?”
She arches an eyebrow. “You’re such a guy. Always thinking with your fists and not your brain.”
I frown. “What’s going on?”
It’s not like Marissa to condone violence, but she’s never had a problem with me saying stuff like that. It’s all the hockey culture that runs in her veins.
“Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” She raises a hand. “And no need to get all defensive. It’s fine. Just not what I expected. Also, my feet hurt. I just need to sleep.”
My chest constricts, wounded by her harsh tone. I hate that there’s nothing I can do right now. She’s pushing me away, and I have no choice but to give her space. It’s what she needs, even if all I want is to take her in my arms.
It’s also a painful reminder that we’re friends and roommates, but not everything Marissa does or feels revolves around me. Adler’s right. She’s an adult, and she has her own life. It’s just hard to accept that I’m not in every part of hers when it seems like she’s ruling mine.
I had the hardest time falling asleep, and I’m paying for it today at practice. It’s a non-game day. We’re focusing on power plays. The coach is working us especially hard, but it’s always been my favorite kind of practice. Plus, I need the distraction today. Marissa seemed fine this morning, a lot better than yesterday, so I didn’t push it. But I still wish she would have confided in me.
All the guys are pumped today, which means there’s an extra dose of teasing in the air coupled with a thirst to win. As much as I love Adler and Beaumont, I’m not going to let them take this one. Even if it’s just practice, I give it everything I’ve got. Carving my skates into the ice, I skate backward in front of Adler, trying to block him from taking a shot.
He’s dribbling the puck, teasing me. “You want it?” He smirks, faking left, then right, trying to throw me off.
“Yeah, I do,” I reply, pushing him off to the side as I swipe the puck from him in one smooth motion.
“Hey!” Beaumont calls as I pass the puck to Hawthorne, who takes the shot and scores.
“Yes!” we both shout, high-fi ving before getting back in position.
“Miles!” Coach shouts. “Save the shoving for your opponents!”
I freeze, realizing I did just shove one of my teammates. I swallow hard and glance at Adler. He’s fine, but he does look a little surprised. As he should be. That move was uncalled for.
I skate toward him and take my glove off. “Sorry, bro. I was in my head.”
He shakes my hand. “No worries. But you should get a massage or something. You look tense as a stick, man.”
I raise an eyebrow, then shake my head. He’s not wrong, but I don’t think a massage would do the trick. What I need is a mind-reading device.
“What’s up?” Beaumont asks, joining us. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Shut up,” Adler says, and I chuckle. “Let’s get back into position, and try not to suck as much this time.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but we’re all laughing as we skate back to start another play.
We keep going for a few more minutes, then switch to some Danger Zone 1 On 1 drills, and we finish practice with a small area game.
“That was good, gentlemen,” C oach bellows. “You’re doing great. Adler, come here.”
We all get off the ice, except for Adler, and hit the showers.
“Everyone’s coming tonight, right?” Hawthorne asks, ambling into the locker room. “Deacon’s birthday.”
We all nod and voice our confirmation. Deacon Collier rarely comes to our games, but he’s one of our most fervent supporters. He knew practically nothing of the game a year ago, and now he’s running the best hockey bar in town. Well, to be fair, we kind of took over because of its prime location—next door to the No Shelf Control bookstore and across the street from the Rise & Grind coffee shop, all just a short walk from the arena. But he embraced it, and he now cheers us on from the bar every game.
We start talking about tonight and what kind of presents we got Deacon. Being the grump that he is, he was firmly against having a party, but we didn’t exactly give him a choice. And because he was adamant about not having gifts, since we already paid for the remodeling and furnishing of his back room, we used the same rule we had for Emma’s birthday last year. Goofy presents under twenty bucks only. Hearing the guys now, it sounds like Deacon is going to have a boatload of goodies.
I screw my cap back on my head an d say goodbye to the guys before walking to the restaurant for my weekly lunch with Coach and Marissa.
She enters at the same time as me.
“Hey, Hotshot,” she says, giving me a hug. “How was practice?”
“Good.” I grin. “Beat Adler in Power Play and 1 on 1.”
She breathes out a quiet laugh. “What else did you do?”
I walk her through the entire practice, and she soaks in every word. She always came to practice last season, but now that the coffee shop is up and running, she can only make it to the games. But I know she misses seeing the tactical aspects developed during practice.
“Hey, you two,” Coach says while approaching the table, his deep voice carrying through the restaurant. He gives Marissa a hug and a kiss on the forehead before sitting down next to me.
We start off our conversation by talking hockey, as usual, and I’m glad to see he’s thinking the same as me—we’re in good shape for the Stanley Cup again this year. Except we won’t be making the same mistakes. And this season, we’ll lift that trophy. I’m not a fan of champagne, but I’m pretty sure it’ll taste great if it’s served in a 35-pound steel and nickel cup.
We shift our conversation to Mari ssa and Rise & Grind, where business is still booming, until Coach eventually brings her love life back to the table again.
“How was your night?” he asks, drinking his water. “Do I have to break any faces?”
“Dad! No. Still single,” she says, playing with her food. There’s something melancholic about her today, and I wish I could be inside her brain to figure it out. She told me she’s fine, but I’m not buying it. “You and Aaron are the same.”
I glance at Coach. “Cavemen, apparently.”
He shakes his head. “What about you, son? A little birdie told me you had a second date with Angela.”
“Nah. She’s nice, but we didn’t click.”
He nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Putting his menu down, he calls the waiter to order. No, I didn’t click with Angela. But the thing is, I don’t think I’ll ever click with anyone else. It’s like all the space in my head is reserved for Marissa. Only problem? If I ever admit that, I’m a dead man.