Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
As spring emerges from its slumber, Eric and I continue what I can only describe as a long-distance friendship through texting.
Our lives are busy and fragmented, but we’ve become pen pals, sending text messages back and forth.
Sometimes the texts aren’t long, little more than an emoji or a fast-fired, one word response to whatever was previously sent.
There’s the occasional hockey meme sprinkled in, and Eric somehow has endless fuel for his ongoing Goalie Facts bit.
No matter what happens to us or our teams in the hockey world, we carve out time for each other, even if it’s nothing more than a stolen moment inside the dressing room before the start of a game’s warmup skate.
This friendship is new and exciting, boosting my everyday mood. I can’t say there’s a scientific correlation, but I swear I’m playing better, falling into a rhythm with the spark of interest from Eric.
So when a week passes in which I don’t hear from Eric at all, especially on the day of a big grudge match against one of Chicago’s divisional rivals, I try not to panic.
Sudden silence was inevitable when neither of us can afford to be glued to our phones in the middle of the regular season.
Still, it sucks, and it’s hard not to wonder if I said or did something wrong.
I tell myself not to worry, not to overthink everything the same way I always do, but I can’t help it.
When a soft chime comes from my bag right before I was about to put on my gloves, everything stops.
I fish for my phone in a mad frenzy. I hope it’s Eric, fully aware how desperate I am to hear from him again.
A quick good luck or something funny to pick up where we left off in our conversation, anything to make up for the silence.
Instead, it’s a text from my dad and a picture of him in a dimly lit room surrounded by college students and a few faces I recognize as his coworkers. I’d say he looks out of place holding a pint and cheering to the camera, but the group around him participates too.
Dad
Good luck with tonight’s game! We’re rooting for you!
I zoom in on the picture’s background and squint to make out more details: countless flat screen TVs showing hockey and a long row of bottles behind a counter.
Me
What are you doing at a sports bar??? It’s a weekday???
Dad
English Department’s monthly mixer. This month I suggested we have it at this restaurant down the road from the university. No local teams are playing so I asked them to put on your game instead for us to watch in support.
My face burns with second hand embarrassment. I can’t imagine the regulars are pleased with being subjected to watching Central Division hockey on the TVs… but knowing my dad, he’s found a way to convince them.
Dad
If you guys beat Denver tonight, you’ll be at the top of the Central Division!
Me
Dad, those standings change week to week, often day to day
Dad
So? It means your team is continuing to do well.
In fact, I saw you’re one of the top goalies in GSAx, otherwise known as “goals saved above expected”.
I didn’t really understand what that meant fully, so I asked Peter, one of my grad students this year (you would like him, he’s in the picture I sent with the blonde hair), who also likes hockey. He said if you have a high GSAx, you’re considered a superior goalie.
I’m so proud of you, James!
I blink down at my phone. What is happening? Since when did my dad start following hockey stats and standings?
Dad
I saw that you’re higher than even Mr. Sinclair’s GSAx and other goalie related stats I was looking at.
Me
I’ve played two more games than him, but thanks dad.
There’s a lull in our conversation, and the same tension we always encounter whenever we talk returns with full force.
Me
I gotta go, have fun watching the game
My dad sends back a heart emoji, and I let out a sigh as I shove my phone into my bag. A soft voice in the back of my head tells me I shouldn’t be so negative and critical.
Your dad’s trying. He loves you. Let him be interested in his own way, even if it isn’t perfect, even if it’s a little clumsy.
But why now? I ask no one in particular. Why did I have to lose my mom for him to start showing interest?
By the time I burst onto the ice with the rest of my team for warmups, I put all of these thoughts, fears, and doubts behind me as best as I can. I take my position in the crease, letting the chill of the ice remind me of what matters most—stopping the puck from burying into the back of the net.
When I make it home that night, I’m exhausted from the game, finding myself irritated at nothing in particular.
I grab a snack from the fridge and crash onto the couch to scroll aimlessly through my social media feeds.
I encounter the usual: scores from other games around the league, a new Wes Harper highlight, and commentary from tonight’s games.
Just as I’m about to read an article summarizing the game, a text message banner from Eric appears from the top of my screen.
Eric
Had the guys over tonight for dinner
Several pictures from Eric’s dinner party appear following the text.
A barbeque layout built into stone with two rows of burger patties sizzling on the grill.
A group of Eric's teammates are seated around a lit bonfire, toasting with a beer in one hand. Braydan’s there, his arm draped around a woman with long dark hair pulled over her shoulder.
In the background of another picture, I notice the patio TV shows the Chicago-Denver game from tonight.
I can’t believe Eric and his teammates were watching in their time off. I have always been determined to follow Eric’s career in whatever way I could, but it’s different knowing he could be watching any one of my games now.
Eric
Those were some killer saves in the third to protect the lead. Denver made you work for it
I respond as fast as I can, hoping to catch him before he puts away his own phone.
Me
Thanks. Division games are always the toughest
The food looks delicious. The guys look like they’re having a good time. Do you cook for them often?
Eric
We’ve got a back to back at home this week. I always host something to put out good vibes with a homemade dinner
Me
Must be nice.
Oh, shit. Shouldn’t have said that. That probably sounds terrible. I try to come up with a quick message to smooth over my faux-pas, but Eric beats me with a response.
Eric
And yet no one offered to do the dishes, smh
No one cooks on the Comets?
I chew my bottom lip, hesitating before explaining further with another text.
Me
I wouldn’t know. We’ve gone out to dinner a few times, but we don’t usually have large gatherings.
The Comets are nothing like the Seadogs. I can’t picture all of us hanging out at Callahan’s penthouse, and he certainly wouldn’t be cooking at a grill.
Me
We’re not really that kind of team, I guess
Eric
Every team’s different
That’s true, but sometimes I wish the Comets were closer, even if it was only between the goalies.
I wish there was someone on the team I could talk to about hockey, hobbies, life in general, but every time I’ve tried to reach out to someone else, it’s always been “I don’t have time right now” or “maybe later” or “why don’t you just talk to the coach”.
Eric
Maybe you should host a team party? Do you know how to grill? I have plenty of tips if you need help!
One glance at my small apartment, and I can’t help but laugh. I don’t think I could accommodate twenty hockey players and their families in this kind of living space. My patio has enough room for a small grill at best, nothing like Eric’s outdoor kitchen.
Me
I don’t think I have room at my place
What Eric’s trying to do is nice, but I’m nowhere near as outgoing and social as he is. Hosting a party, wherever it took place, would be a monumental effort. I slump against the cushions, my stomach twisting into knots at the thought of opening up to anyone on this team.
I pivot the conversation in a completely different direction before Eric can press further.
Me
Have you always loved to cook?
Eric
Yeah, ever since my mom taught me, but I wouldn’t really call myself one
I sigh in relief. There we go. Back on track.
Me
Pleeeease tell me you have a novelty apron
After a brief pause, a selfie of Eric seated on his patio couch while dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and, yes, a novelty apron appears amidst our conversation. The black apron features white text over the chest reading “Mr. Good Lookin’s Cookin’”.
It’s the first selfie Eric’s ever sent since we started texting, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him since All-Star Weekend.
Little has changed with his appearance. He still sports the same scruff along his jaw, the same slicked back hair with two dark strands dangling over his forehead.
The back half of the regular season hasn’t exhausted him in the slightest.
Eric
Does this count?
It more than counts. It’s pure gold. Eric finds a way to look sexy in anything.
Eric
The guys bought that as a gag gift last year
Has lots of pockets, so it’s useful
Between the first round of photos and the selfie, I can’t help but wish I could have been there with him, partaking in his cooking and the warm atmosphere with his teammates.
But instead, my eyes start to droop, and I suppress a yawn. Cursed timezones.
Me
As much as I’d love to stick around as a long-distance guest, I’m pretty beat
Eric
You’ll have to come over for dinner someday. I’d love to have you
I reread the last sentence of Eric’s text again and again, turning the words over in my mind as my face burns thanks to the unintentional double-entendre.
Me
Hopefully someday. Good night!
I put my phone on my nightstand and wrap my arms around my pillow, holding it to my chest. I fall asleep to the dreamy vision of curling up around a warm bonfire with a blanket and admiring the cook from afar.