Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Ryan
Lying on my couch with my feet propped up on the arm and ice packs on my knees, all I feel is exhaustion.
For a two-game road trip, it may as well have been four for how I feel today.
Sure, we had success against Florida, but we got absolutely shit pumped by the Carolina Bob Cats the next day.
Granted, that might have been because we were all hungover.
And that’s also why Coach Chris called an early morning bag skate for us today instead of letting us rest like we normally do after returning home from a road trip in the middle of the night.
Hence the ice packs on my knees and the bottle of ibuprofen within arm’s reach.
After an hour’s worth of suicides on the ice, it’s safe to say I’m wrecked.
We’ve reached the dog days of the season. The final stretch. In all my previous seasons, my fellow Mules and I would be planning our summer vacations and post-season golf trips. But this year, we’re all rehabbing our bodies in the hopes of being able to play deep into the postseason.
That postseason is so close I can taste it. I want it. It should be all I’m thinking about.
But it’s not. Because even while I lie here with ice on my knees, all I can think about is the other thing I want. Brandon. I wonder what he’s doing.
Oddly enough, he’s probably taking a fucking nap.
That’s what he used to do on Sundays when he was younger.
Sundays were everyone’s one day off. Monday through Saturday was nonstop hockey.
Games, practices, workshops, conditioning, all squeezed into every hour of our days that wasn’t spent studying.
In the pie chart of our days, sleeping generally took up the smallest wedge.
And none of us would have it any other way.
We lived and breathed hockey. We still do.
But back then, it was even more all-consuming than it is for us now.
Now, as professional players, it’s all we need to do. As kids, we had to dedicate just as much time but also had to squeeze in everything else just in case our wild hockey dreams didn’t come true.
So yeah, Sundays at the Bouchards’ were always about rest. We’d get to sleep in.
Big Mike would prepare a full spread of potatoes, bacon, and eggs for breakfast. Momma B would pull warm homemade cinnamon rolls out of the oven and load them with frosting.
We’d watch movies on the couch with the smell of pot roast slow cooking on the stove all day.
And Brandon and I would often be left alone because Ander could never sit still and would usually find someone outside of the house to keep him entertained.
I miss those days. I’ve tried to recreate them, but microwave bacon and peel and bake cinnamon rolls just aren’t the same. Being alone in my apartment isn’t the same. Flipping between endless streaming options instead of picking out a well-used DVD isn’t the same.
It used to be fine. I had gotten used to my version of a lazy Sunday off when the Mules didn’t have a game to play. But then Brandon showed up, looking suddenly grown up and attractive, and now all I can think about is how nice things were for the one year that I lived with him.
It might be considered cruel, after the conversation we had in Florida, but as I lie here alone in my apartment, I’m having a hard time believing my own bullshit.
I like Brandon. And while, yeah, I’ll admit some of that is tied to him being associated with the most stable and grounded time of my life, the other part of that is that now as adults, we could fit.
We have chemistry. We have confirmed mutual attraction. We could work. And yes, the guarded side of me that is screaming not to risk anything is very quickly losing to the reckless side of my personality that has always had to bet on myself.
Maybe I’m moving too fast. Reaching, I grab my phone off the table. It’s been a while since I’ve checked socials. I can scroll for a bit and see if that keeps me from making a stupid, impulsive, dick-driven decision.
Twitter is always my place to start. It’s where I can quickly get caught up on what all the pundits are saying.
From the looks of it, they still have the Blizzards as the favorites to win the cup, which is no surprise.
But they’ve finally all moved Chicago out of playoff contention.
And most of them have slipped us lowly Mules into the final playoff spot in the west.
Though that has come with some caveats, it seems. For one, no one expects us to make it out of the first round. And for two, as much as they don’t foresee us making a deep run, they do all wish that wasn’t the case because they’d love to see a Bouchard brothers showdown in the finals.
I forward this to Brandon. He’ll hate it, but maybe it will help him realize that he truly has arrived.
After my scroll through Twitter, I hesitate, then open Instagram.
I honestly should delete my account. I never post on it unless it’s something the team has prepared for me.
Despite my lack of effort, I still have close to two hundred thousand followers.
But I, myself, only follow the Mules and my fellow teammates.
I do a quick search for Brandon so I can add him.
He pops right up when I type in his name.
Once on his page, he might be worse about this than I am.
He’s only posted fifteen pictures ever and the most recent one looks like it was from Ander’s cup party last summer.
In the photo, Brandon is standing far off to the side.
As far away from the cup as he can be while still remaining in frame.
I breathe out a sigh of relief even though I’m not surprised. Brandon is smart enough and most importantly, superstitious enough to know that touching the cup when you haven’t won it yet is a major faux pas. Certain to bring the worst hockey luck imaginable.
The rest of his photos are the bog-standard hockey player favorites.
There’s a picture of him with the Hodags.
Three with his UDub team. And a picture from his draft where he’s wearing a Mules jersey for the first time looking stunned.
Mixed in between all of these are pictures of him in Green Bay: fishing, playing pond hockey, and sewer ball in the back yard with Ander and other hockey players who are spread out around the league.
If I was smart, I’d close out here. Instagram is a ticking timebomb. The longer I stay in this app, the more likely I am to stumble across things I don’t want to see. I know better than to linger here. I know better than to scroll through the feed.
I’m two swipes up when I get hit with shrapnel.
There they are. My sisters. It’s Rachel, my younger sister, who posted this hand grenade disguised as a Reel.
Clearly, they’re at an event. The two of them are fully decked out.
Their matching blond hair is cascading over their shoulders in perfect bouncy waves.
Their makeup is flawless, and they’re adorned with sparkling jewelry.
Rachel is in a gorgeous pink, probably designer dress and balancing on sky-high-heeled shoes.
But it’s my older sister Rebecca’s dress that spears me through the chest. An elaborate white gown like she always dreamed of for her wedding.
Shaking my head, I close out of the app and call her. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t answer. But this isn’t normal. She’s going to see my name on her caller ID and know exactly why I’m calling which will, of course, motivate her to pick up her phone for once.
“Calling to congratulate me,” she says, her voice sickly sweet.
“Depends,” I say as I rise to my feet to start pacing the floor. The ice packs that were on my knees land on the carpet with a splat. “Is there any reason why you chose not to send me, your brother, an invitation?”
“You’re not my brother,” she says.
“That’s your version of it,” I shout.
“So I guess you’re not congratulating me,” she says, taunting.
“Fuck you,” I tell her then end the call.
I fling my phone across the room. It hits the floor and slides all the way to my door where it’s stopped by one of my gym shoes.
I stare at it lying there and take a deep breath.
This happened way quicker than I expected.
They’ve been dating for less than a year after having met each other at a charity event.
The searing hurt in my chest, though? That’s exactly what I expected.
It’s a lot for me to take in. And there is no part of me that is prepared to deal.
And there’s no one I can talk to about this as no one knows the truth about my family.
The closest anyone has ever come to knowing the truth is Momma B and there is no way I’m calling her.
So instead, I walk to my phone, pick it back up, and call her son.
Brandon
I’m lounging on Danton’s overstuffed couch with his youngest child, Danny, watching the latest Lego movie for what I’m pretty sure is the one thousandth time.
Danny is, of course, enraptured by what he sees on the giant screen.
He laughs at all the jokes like it’s his first time seeing it and in his hands, he holds the stuffed hodag that I have officially relinquished to his care.
I have no idea how he got it again. I stowed it away on the topmost shelf of my closet.
Frankly, I’m impressed. And for whatever reason, he seems to love it.
I get it, kid. I really do.
“You boys look like you could use a snack,” Vicky says as she drops a bowl of buttered popcorn down between us. She ruffles both of our heads of hair, then walks away.
Danny and I simultaneously reach into the bowl and grab handfuls to shove into our mouths. He turns to look at me and smiles with his lips closed and there’s butter smeared across his face from his hand.
Yep. I definitely get it, kid. What a life he leads.