Chapter 20 #2
Miller shrugs and gestures dismissively. “Did you watch the last four games? Did you see the scores?”
Paul opens his mouth to respond, but Doug is wise to cut him off.
“Thank you coach for your time. After this commercial break, we’ll be back to discuss the upcoming Stanley Cup matchup between Los Angeles and New York…”
The video ends abruptly. The loop starts over, and I watch it again and again, caught in the quicksand.
I can’t get off the rollercoaster, and no amount of straps or harnesses can save me from the freefall and the way my heart drops every time Miller calls me dead weight.
I can’t catch my breath. I can’t calm my heart.
I’m having a full on panic attack in the middle of my kitchen.
I stare down at my phone at a total loss. The harsh words play on a loop, over and over, voices droning on and on until my phone buzzes, causing me to startle. A long message from Eric appears.
Of course. Of course someone would share the video with him, or maybe he saw it himself while browsing on his own and felt compelled to reach out.
Eric
Everything he said is WRONG. You DIDN'T deserve that. You played out of your mind all season, and you got that team to the playoffs. You beat Seattle. You beat ME. You are a good goalie.
What would Eric know? Him and I hardly know each other.
Eric hasn’t seen the span of my career. He hasn’t seen what my coaches have over the past three years.
If my head coach is telling the media there’s a possibility I might not be coming back to the Comets next season because I’m an AHL goalie masquerading as an NHLer, then there must have been rumblings from the front office.
Conversations myself nor my agent have been privy to.
Those sorts of ideas don’t emerge overnight.
How long have they thought this way? The playoffs?
The regular season? From the very beginning?
Maybe Coach Miller’s right. Maybe I haven’t been ready to take this next step if I’ve been struggling for the past three years.
Maybe I’ll never be a playoff caliber goaltender.
Maybe I shouldn’t even be a starting one.
Maybe all the vitriol, all the hate, all the second-guessing, maybe it was all right, and I’ve been in denial all this time.
Maybe I’m nothing more than a fraud, an imposter, a wannabe. A loser.
What would Eric know about any of these problems?
When Eric’s initial contract with the Seadogs was coming up, the fans hoped and prayed he’d stay a Seadog for life.
Sure enough, the Seadogs front office couldn’t wait to re-sign him.
Eric had helped his team earn the Stanley Cup twice, and the day he signed his new contract, he promised to earn another before he retired.
Eric and I have never been in the same category of goaltenders.
Eric never dreamed about facing me the way I dreamed about him.
Before All-Star Weekend, I was no one; I was just another average goalie in the league.
I wasn’t on his radar, I didn’t even make a blip.
He only picked me at All-Star Weekend because he didn’t want a real goalie to overshadow him. I was never a threat to his status.
God, was I pathetic at All-Star Weekend.
I was nothing more than an obsessed fanboy who stole Eric away from the real players who deserved his attention.
Eric never even wanted to become my friend; I forced him into spending time with me.
I put him into an awkward situation, and because Eric’s a good man, he fulfilled his obligation, his duty as a veteran goalie to a novice.
Right as I swipe upwards to close the message application, I receive a call on my phone, and my thumb slides over the option to answer on accident. Eric’s voice cuts through the static.
“James?”
I can’t form words. I can’t do this. Isn’t it bad enough having my own coach embarrassing me on national TV?
Now I have to listen to the guy who has won countless accolades and two Stanley Cups tell me everything I could have, should have, done differently.
My thoughts crash into one another, one self-deprecating domino after another.
I don’t need Eric to say anything else. My brain’s already supplying the criticism for him, filling in the blanks like a depressing game of Mad Libs.
If you’d done x instead of y, then you could have stopped z, my inner version of Eric taunts.
I would have stopped those shots, James.
I’m better, and you’ve known this all along.
You like that I’m better. It should have been me, not you.
Not all goalies can play at this level, but I can. I have, and I will again, unlike—
“Are you there, James?”
I raise the phone to my ear. “Yeah,” I mumble at last, throat tight.
“I’m so sorry this happened,” he says, voice solemn. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine. No one would be in your shoes, but I want you to know that I’m here for you.”
I clamp my hand over my mouth to suppress the sound of my sobbing, but it’s futile.
The call remains quiet as Eric listens to my breakdown thousands of miles away.
He doesn’t waste his breath with empty platitudes or promises, plans for my grand return next season.
He doesn’t tell me to man up and stop crying.
Unable to do anything more, he waits, giving me space to let down my walls and indulge in the misery.
When the tears dry up, I run a hand down my face and let out a haggard breath.
Before his call, I was spiraling and entertaining the idea that Eric didn’t actually care about me.
That he’d think what everyone else thought, that he’d regret ever allowing me into his life, but I was wrong.
So many people in my life have been callous and cruel over the past few days, but Eric’s not one of them.
“I wish I had all the answers, but I don’t. If you need to get away from Chicago, from your team, from everything, then come to Seattle.”
“What?” I blink wetly.
“You said you wanted to see more of the city. You wanted to go camping and see the stars. So spend the summer with me. Come out here.”
My breath hitches. Going to Seattle? Now? With Eric? Of all the ways I could have expected this call to go, I would have never imagined this.
Through the phone, I hear shuffling, then the sound of him typing at a keyboard. “There’s a flight from Chicago to Seattle this Friday. If you take it, you’d be here by the afternoon. I can pick you up from the airport.”
A morning flight from Chicago to Seattle? Friday? That soon? Sure, there’s something romantic about the idea of whisking myself away to spend the summer with Eric, but…
“Is it too soon?” Eric asks. “Do you already have plans?”
“No, I… I mean, I’d love to spend the summer with you.”
And once those words spill out, it’s as if a switch flips in our conversation.
“You’d love it here. Summer is beautiful in Washington.
Everything’s so green and in bloom. It’s the dry season, so it’s the perfect time to be outside.
I’d really enjoy showing you around,” Eric says, tempting me with ease.
“We could pack up my truck and go on day trips around the city. There’s so much to do.
I’d take you to all the tourist sites and all the hidden gems the Emerald City has to offer. ”
I rub my eyes. “But haven’t you been to all of them already?”
“Not all of them, no. But even with the ones I’ve seen already, I’d be experiencing them with you for the first time.”
My heart skips. Is this really happening?
“What about the Space Needle?”
“Of course. It even has a lookout restaurant at the top.”
I can picture Eric’s broad smile. Maybe he’s sitting outside on his backyard porch, gazing out at his view, maybe even imagining what it might be like to have me there with him.
“And you know, Seattle’s one of the best cities for sports. We could go to a baseball game and have some of the best stadium food you’ll ever have.”
“A baseball game?” I ask in a hushed voice, afraid to be smited by the baseball gods for what I’m about to say, “I’ve never been to one.”
“Really?”
“Never. Hockey’s been my one and only.”
“Then I’ll take you. We’ll get seats behind home plate—the perfect place to view the action.”
It’s all sounding too good to be true. Too surreal, too dream-like.
“And we don’t have to just go around the city.
There’s plenty of state parks just outside Seattle and where I live, perfect for camping.
We could take my trailer out and go on hikes during the day.
At night, you wouldn’t even be able to count all the stars you’d see out there in the wild.
You could give me those lessons you promised. ”
My heart beats faster the more Eric describes what our summer could look like if I follow through with his insane plan.
I’m waiting for the trapdoor, for the hidden cameraman and host to appear in my apartment and tell me I’ve been played, that my naive hope’s been put on display for the pleasure of others.
But nothing happens. My apartment’s still, inhabited only by me, its lonely steward. Eric continues, painting the future with so much detail, I can’t help but wonder if some of this was planned, if he’s been waiting for the chance to invite me to run away to him.
“You know there’s even a Renaissance faire out here in August. We could go together. I can’t promise to be any good at LARPing, but I’d follow your lead.”
For the first time in what feels like weeks, I crack a smile.
“What I’m trying to say is you could have a lot of fun out here, James. With me.”
With him.
Eric takes a deep breath then continues, “I mean it. Finish your obligations, then get out of Chicago as soon as you can. Friday, next week, whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here. Come spend the summer with a guy who knows how to treat a goaltender right.”
Eric was right. This is a crazy proposal, and I’m just as crazy for considering it. Am I really about to hop on a flight and run away to another city? Eric and I have become close over the past several months, but are we close enough to spend the summer together?
Maybe we are, if he’s willing to suggest this. Maybe it’s not all in my head as I thought. Maybe Eric and I really did become friends after these last few months.
Would anyone even notice if I disappeared for a few weeks? For the entire summer? Would anyone care if I slipped away?
My heart knows the answer: take the leap of faith and trust Eric.
“Okay,” I tell him, my smile growing stronger. “I’ll buy a ticket. I’ll come spend the summer with you.”
“I’m so happy to hear that, James. I promise, we’ll have a great time together.”
My heart can’t stop racing, my fingers clammy against my phone. I’m doing this. I’m really, really doing this, impulse and all.
“Thank you, Eric,” I whisper. “You… You didn’t have to...”
“No, I did. I needed to.”
I wish we didn’t have to hang up. I could listen to his voice forever. My feelings for Eric must be breaching the stratosphere if I’m hanging on to his every word.
“Be safe, James. I’ll see you soon.”
The call ends. Eric sends me another text message, but this time it’s just a pair of emojis: a hockey goal and a red heart. It’s cheesy enough to make me blush and smile, like he’s placed a long-distance bandaid over my broken, shattered heart.
Eric’s right.
No one knows a goaltender better than another goaltender.