Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
After the All-Star break, the Comets have a long home stand, so I easily fall back into my weekly routine: team practices, long workout sessions, meetings with the coaching staff, and games every few days.
With an afternoon game today, I woke up early to jog through my neighborhood’s park.
At this hour, long before the city becomes loud and noisy, I can empty my mind and breathe in crisp air.
Watching the sun rise over Chicago is one of my favorite pastimes since moving to the city.
Sunlight pours between tall dark monoliths, glittering off the reflective glass of skyscrapers and filtering through the early morning fog.
Few people are out at this hour in the park, so it’s our shared experience, the promise of a new day.
The local radio station plays in my earbuds, countering the sound of my heavy breaths and the pad of my footfalls against the pavement.
Since the Comets are hosting another home game today, the hosts encourage everyone to tune in between pop songs and advertisements.
Chicago has much to look forward to with the back half of the hockey season; barring total disaster, the Comets are on track to make it to the playoffs.
By mid-morning, the city bustles with life.
Before returning back to my apartment, I stop at my favorite coffee shop a block away to wait in line for breakfast. Most patrons are everyday workers with typical office jobs dressed in business casual, so I stand out like a sore thumb in sweats and a hoodie.
My phone pings just before it’s my turn to order, so I pull it out of my armband to take a look. My breath catches when I realize the notification was for a text message from Eric.
“James?” the worker asks, familiar with my name since I’m a regular at this cafe.
It’s my turn, and I’m holding up the line full of people who need their morning fix as much as I do. I apologize, order my coffee and breakfast, and shuffle out of the way to take my usual seat at a table by the floor to ceiling window.
I type in my phone’s password in a hurry, messing up the first time thanks to shaking fingers. I type it again, going slower, and unlock my phone to check my messages.
Eric
The highest amount of shots on goal recorded by a single team in a regular season game is 70.
Can’t begin to imagine how exhausted the goalie must’ve been.
I can’t believe Eric’s texting me this soon… well, at all, actually. Between busy schedules and his own commitments, I wasn’t sure he would follow through. I couldn’t help but worry what happened at All-Star Weekend would stay at All-Star Weekend.
Eric
Hope you made it back home okay!
Shitshitshitshit, what do I say? Is he actually trying to start a conversation?
I start writing a message back, but when I finish, I read my message and cringe—too desperate, too clingy, too overexcited.
I try again, but the message still sounds awful for the opposite reasons—too stiff, too professional, too abrupt.
This shouldn’t be hard. All Eric did was state a simple thought.
Eric
Are you writing a long text, or are you trying to send me something in Morse Code?
My face falls. Of course Eric would notice me starting and stopping with a response if he’s staring at his phone. Miles away, Eric must think I’m neurotic.
Me
Sorry I
I make the mistake of prematurely hitting send. In a panic I scramble to come up with an actual follow up message. Once again, I can only imagine how the conversation must look on the other end: a series of dots appearing and disappearing like a cry for help.
In the end, there’s one surefire excuse to fall back on.
Me
I made it home alright. Just been very busy with work and everything
The flight to Chicago was smooth, without hiccups.
In fact, the trip seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.
One minute I was still in proximity to Eric, the next, I was thousands of miles away from him with nothing but his number, a bobblehead souvenir, and cherished memories. Distance was always inevitable.
Coming back to an empty apartment was disheartening after having a great weekend. Not exactly what I would call a warm homecoming, but Eric doesn’t need to know about all that. On the bright side, I found the perfect empty spot for the Eric bobblehead amidst my hockey collection.
Me
I also haven’t had coffee yet this morning, so blame everything on that
Don’t worry, I’ll have my coffee fix shortly!
Eric
Consider me jealous. I haven’t had any yet this morning. What’s your usual order?
Me
Vanilla flat white with an extra shot
Eric
Yum
Me
You?
Eric
Caramel latte with whipped cream
Me
Are you sure that’s still coffee?
Eric
Look
I buy them at a coffee shop
So yes, it still counts as coffee
With the ice cracked, it’s much easier to fire back a natural response.
Me
When I’m out for a morning run, I always get coffee and breakfast on the way home. My reward for working hard
Right on cue, the barista calls my name with my drink and a toasted ham croissant sandwich. In my neighborhood, I’m virtually anonymous; few people recognize my name on any given day despite Chicago being a healthy market for hockey. It’s a relief. I just want to relax before heading to practice.
I crash back into the booth and take a bite of my breakfast, starving after my run. I chew on a doughy, flaky hunk of croissant while sending another message.
Me
This coffee place in my neighborhood makes the best croissant sandwiches for breakfast. Tbh nothing really compares on the road. Hotel breakfasts are usually whatever, and every coffee place I’ve tried doesn’t hold up
And I’ve been to a lot
Eric
Guess you’ve never been to the place across the street from our barn, Bean There, Drank That. They have these gigantic cinnamon rolls you gotta eat with a fork and knife cause they’re that big
I’m starting to get the sense Eric might have a serious sweet tooth.
Me
Cute name, but no, I haven’t
Haven’t really seen much of Seattle
Eric
It’s a coffee lover’s paradise. There’s tons of places, but you should try the one I recommended the next time you’re here
Unfortunately, the Comets and Seadogs have already had all their matchups for this season. The next chance might be in the playoffs, but that’s still a few months out.
Eric
You’re making me want to get one, but I’ve already eaten breakfast
Eric must be a morning person if he’s up this early, considering Seattle’s two hours behind Chicago.
Me
Treat yourself?
Eric
I shouldn’t. We have another game today
Btw, did the bobblehead make it to Chicago in one piece?
I snort down at the message. Of course it did. I double-layer wrapped it up in spare clothes inside my carry-on luggage to ensure it survived the flight.
Me
Yep! It has a new home on my shelf
…Along with all my other hockey memorabilia inside my apartment, including the poster of him.
Eric
You should send a picture sometime
There’s absolutely no chance in hell. I don’t think I could ever recover if he found out how much of the collection focuses on him and his accomplishments.
Me
How’s your morning been?
Eric
Alright. I’m about to head to the gym in an hour to workout with Braydan
The image of Eric working out, thighs barely contained in a pair of gym shorts, performing something like barbell back squats forms in my mind.
Man, what I wouldn’t give to be in the gym with him seeing it first hand.
I don’t know if I’d be able to focus on my own routine; my eyes would be glued to his assets.
A fresh text brings my mind out of the gutter.
Eric
How was your run?
Me
The usual
Eric
Do you listen to anything while you run?
Me
Music. I can’t really focus on audiobooks or podcasts while working out
Eric
What kind of music do you like?
Me
Anything, I guess? I’m not picky. I really just listen to whatever’s on the local radio
…Of course, most radio stations are full of poppy love songs—dangerous for a guy with an active imagination.
Eric
Let me send you some of my playlists
I have no idea what to expect of Eric’s music tastes. His style is so cool and fresh, he probably listens to something equally as interesting. Seattle has a big music scene, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s local indie musicians.
A link for a playlist labeled “pregame” appears in our conversation. It has over twenty hours of music compiled together, but when I scroll through, I don’t recognize any of the artists despite their colorful and eye-catching album covers.
Eric
Most of it’s synthwave. Is that ok?
Me
I’m not familiar with the genre
Eric
Synthwave’s a type of electronic music. Lots of sick synths and nostalgic 80s vibes. Pretty retrofuturistic. Some of the songs on there are just instrumental, as a heads up
If you end up trying it, let me know what you think! I hope you like it!
Me
I’m open to trying new things!
I’ve never shared my morning with someone like this before. It’s strange to be seated in a public space, smiling down at my phone in the middle of a back and forth texting conversation. Typically I spend my breakfast staring out the window people-watching, daydreaming, or planning my day.
Eric and I are states apart in two different timezones, but it somehow feels as if he’s seated across from me, holding the conversation in person. It’s as if we never went our separate ways at the airport. I suppose that’s all thanks to the marvels of modern technology.
Eric
Braydan’s here. I gotta get going
With breakfast over, I need to head out as well. Can’t spend all day staring at my phone with one-sided hearts in my eyes.
Me
Yeah, I need to get ready for our game later
Eric
If we both win our games tonight, l’ll buy myself one of those drinks as a treat
My smile morphs into a grin.
Me
Good luck! Let me know if you find the coffee in your drink ;)
Instead of sending a written response, Eric sends back a saluting emoji, understanding the task at hand.
After the Comets win our own afternoon game, I return to my apartment in the evening. Thanks to the timezone difference, I’m able to catch the third period of the Seadogs game. Apparently Eric’s had one of his best regular season performances today, and he’s on track for a shutout.
The final two and a half minutes of the game are a nail-biter.
The Seadogs are only up by one goal. Their opponents, the San Diego Starbirds, have pulled their own goalie, and to make matters worse, they’re on the power play for a 6-on-4 with Braydan in the penalty box for a high stick.
Doesn’t get any more do or die than this in hockey.
My stomach flips every time there’s a scramble in front of the net and the puck’s missing for a few seconds. The Starbirds power play unit tries their best to stuff the puck after every rebound, but Eric holds steady with the help of his defensemen.
When the power play ends without a goal, Braydan bursts onto the ice to return to his position and make up for his near-costly mistake.
The Seadogs clinch the victory, and the team lines up to congratulate their goalie, offering him helmet bumps, stick taps, and half-hugs. The home team’s broadcast doesn’t pan away, and I’m able to see Braydan and Eric hug and exchange a few words—probably Eric giving his friend a teasing scolding.
When it’s the backup’s turn, I lean a little closer to the TV to study their interaction. Just how close are the two Seadogs goalies?
I’ve never actually paid close enough attention to the Seadogs’ backup.
He’s certainly older than me, maybe even Eric.
He plays behind one of the best—if not the best—goalies in the league.
He has no idea how lucky he is to have such a partner.
The backup gives Eric a friendly slap on the shoulder, and then they skate off together, talking, with Eric gesturing to the ice and net, no doubt reflecting on the game.
However, Eric’s not gone from the ice for long. He returns to accept the first star of the game. With the shutout, he was easily the best player tonight. He still wears his gear, but his helmet’s off, allowing the remaining crowd and the audience at home to see his signature smile.
Eric skates straight for a young fan who holds a sign which reads, Mr. Sinclair, I’m a goalie too, you’re my hero, can I please have a stick? Eric tosses his goalie stick over the glass, and thankfully amidst the clamoring, a taller teenager grabs it and hands it to the fan Eric intended.
Onto the post-game interview. A rinkside reporter waits for him at the bench, and Eric skates over and leans against the boards.
“That was a stunning performance, Eric!” the reporter says, her excitement genuine. “I think I speak for everyone here, we were all on the edge of our seats those last few minutes.”
Eric runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the two strands dangling over his forehead. “Well, we would’ve preferred for the game to not be as close, but we came together in the end. We’re happy to get a win before the home crowd today.”
I can’t help but wonder if his earlier promise to me played a role in said performance. Probably not, but a hopeless guy can dream.
“This was your forty-fifth career shutout. Do you think it’s going to be hard making it to fifty?”
“I hope not, but I’m excited. I feel very fortunate to play for such a great team and even greater fans.”
“We look forward to seeing you hit that milestone. Thanks for your time, Eric, congrats again.”
Eric nods and waves goodbye to the crowd again. The TV broadcast pans away at last from the gracious goaltender, returning to the in-studio panel.
I fire off a quick text to Eric.
Me
Grats on the shutout! We won our game too, so don’t forget your promise!
I stuff my phone into my pocket and turn off the TV.
Rubbing my neck, I head for my bedroom, ready to clean up for the night and rest after a long day.
Eric probably won’t see the message until later, maybe not even until tomorrow.
Eager to return to where I last left off with my book, I settle under the covers and read for a while before bed.
Nearly two hours after the Seadogs game ended, my phone buzzes with a text from Eric right as I’m about to fall asleep. As I read it, I can’t help but grin.
Eric
I found the coffee. It may only be 10%, but it still counts!