Chapter Twenty Elise
I watched the Mavericks beat the Sharks in game five at Columbus. Kaden, my temporary housemate and previous hockey translator, is no longer around, but I’m beginning to understand the sport on my own.
Like the rest of the cast and crew, Kaden settled into the university dorm that Imagination Ohio rents during the summer months of performing.
I won’t be here all summer. By the time the curtain rises on opening night, most of my job is completed.
That’s eighteen days away. And despite my disappointment today, the show must go on.
It’s just me and Yorick now. Yes, I named the clown mannequin. Rainbow wig and featureless face aside, he’s become a reassuring presence, like a sentry who welcomes me when I stumble home after another twelve-hour day.
“I should text him, right, Yorick? Right. He’d enjoy knowing that I’m watching the game.” I’m talking to an inanimate object about hockey. How is this my life now?
Elise: Congratulations on the win! You were amazing! [sends a picture of the clown mannequin wearing the Haughland jersey].
There’s no reason to expect him to answer right away, seeing as the game just ended. But when the phone rings, I jump to answer without checking the screen.
“Hey! You did it!”
“I did what?” It’s Lily’s confused amusement that greets me. A pang of surprise is quickly replaced by delight at the sound of her voice.
“Sorry about that. I thought you were Randall.”
“They won tonight. He’s probably still at the arena.”
“You watched the game, too?”
“No, but I get notifications of the team’s socials. I had no idea this town was so crazy about hockey.”
“How’s Naomi?”
“Adorable, as always. She’s got new teeth that’s making her a bit moody, but she’s a trooper.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s doing much better. That’s why I’m calling. I’ve got a few days off next week. Are you up for a visit?”
I hadn’t let myself dwell on how much I miss Lily. Now, the thought of her in Cleveland with me is a balm to my disappointment.
“Are you kidding me? Yes! Yes, I’m up for a visit. When?”
We grab our calendars to finalize arrangements when I hear a ping from her phone, immediately followed by a hitch in Lily’s voice as she mumbles “bastard.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Lily, you are not in the habit of calling me a bastard, so please explain yourself.”
“It’s silly Mavericks hockey stuff. The guys are getting tagged on live feeds while they leave the arena.”
“By guys do you mean Gordon?” It hasn’t escaped my attention how those two gravitate to each other during every encounter.
“Ugh! They wouldn’t be half this sexy if they didn’t go from blood-stained sports jerseys to pristine designer suits. Savage masculine brawn barely contained in a civilized suit turns people feral.”
“Feral? Exaggerate much?”
“Fans are throwing themselves at the players’ cars as they try to drive away. I reserve the term for those willing to get run over for an autograph.”
“It’s not the players’ fault if they’re the focus of unwanted attention. You should feel sorry for them, not call them bastards.”
“You’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
Something about her tone of voice dips in a way I’ve come to recognize as reluctance.
“You’re right, it’s stupid. I can’t wait to see you next week!” The chirpiness sounds forced, but I let it go. We say our goodbyes.
I check my phone to confirm that there’s no text from Randall. That’s not unusual. However, hearing Lily talk about the team piqued my interest. A weird desire to see Randall after his victory takes over me.
I do what I’ve never done before: search for Mavericks tags on Insta.
There are adorable pictures of the team celebrating on the ice and one particularly heartwarming post of them smiling with kids wearing Mavericks shirts and holding banners.
There are the reels Lily was talking about: cars weaving their way through a crowd of fans screaming player names. A few guys roll their windows down for a picture or autograph. None of these posts feature Randall.
I remember the hashtag Lily found when I first met the goaltender at the bar. #RandallHaughland reveals a wealth of posts, updates, and fan pages dedicated to him. There’s a recent reel that makes me pause.
It’s a video of him from inside his car, taken by the passenger. I recognize Randall’s manly profile. His right hand over the gear shift is large and confident, just like I remember it. He’s focused on the fans outside, a smile playing on his lips even as he’s fighting off a wince when a woman presses herself against his window.
The passenger taking the video screeches in surprise before laughing. It’s a woman’s voice, confirmed when her phone camera tilts down to reveal feminine thighs encased in dark jeans.
The video ends and the caption reads: “Celebrating Mavericks win and Randi’s shutout with fans! #Maverickslife #RandallHaughland #FanLove #HockeyPlayoffs”
My stomach drops like it does when I ride those pendulum swinging ships at an amusement park. At the height of its swing, the ship pauses before falling in a stomach-churning sensation of weightlessness. It takes my breath away before it makes me nauseous.
What is wrong with me? I’m being ridiculous. So what if Randall brings home another woman? Maybe they won’t even make it home; there’s a stash of condoms in the glove compartment, after all.
Why wouldn’t a single man like him sleep around? It took me by surprise, is all. Not that he owes me a narrative about his dating life.
The phone pings, and I drop it like a hot potato.
Randall: Thanks for watching the game! Are you awake? Can I call you?
Is he seriously cramming in a phone call before he sleeps with another woman? I can’t stand the thought. I’m going to bed without answering this text. Tomorrow, when I’m not under this toxic muddle of fatigue and surprise and uncertainty, I’ll reach out.
My finger lingers over the “do not disturb” button when I see his name on the screen. I endure four rings before giving in to my perverse curiosity.
Why is he calling me now?
“Hey, what’s up,” I answer casually.
“Thanks for watching the game.”
I don’t point out that he already said that in the text.
“You stopped all the goals tonight. Even better than when I watched you live. Congrats, Randall.”
“I thought about what you said. To play like I’m imagining you wearing my jersey. To play like I want everyone to know my name. Thank you. I couldn’t wait to tell you that it made a difference. You made a difference.” He says it quietly like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to say it at all.
I’m touched by his sweet words. These glimpses at Randall’s vulnerability, especially after such a public accomplishment, feel like a private, precious gift. To a friend.
I quell my unease at the realization that Randall could be with a different woman on any given night. I should remember that he has a life outside our friendship. In fact, my reaction to the video is unwarranted. Randall can celebrate whichever way he wants. There’s no reason to feel anything but pride for him.
“I’m glad I could help, although I’m not the one who came through for your team. You deserve this victory.”
He’s such a great guy. I’m determined to focus on my friend who deserves all the accolades.
“How about you? Did they—”
“No. It was shut down,” I interrupt Randall, not wanting to relive the disastrous meeting I had today. “It’s fine. I should have workshopped the play more thoroughly. It’s my fault.”
It strikes me that apart from the artistic director and festival producer I spoke to about the scene, only Randall knows about it. I didn’t even have the guts to tell Lily or my mother.
“I’m sorry, Elise,” he says, and I know he means it.
“They’re right, you know. We’re opening in less than three weeks. Preview shows are coming up. There wasn’t any time. I figured it out too late.”
“Elise, baby, I’m so sorry. Nothing changes the fact that it was a great idea. Nothing changes how brilliant it is. Can you use that scene in some other play? Or the idea of it? Maybe it will be produced somewhere else, and you could—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt.
Vaguely, I process that he’s saying the right things, cheering me up, supporting me like the wonderful friend he is. But fuck if I’m not stuck on the “Elise, baby,” which I know he says casually.
Tell that to my body. Remind my hormones that at some point tonight, Randall will be calling some other woman “baby.”
“I wish I could be there for you,” he says, sincere and sweet and sexy. God, why does he always have to sound so sexy?
“I should go.”
“Yeah, me too. We fly back out to Miami tomorrow morning. I should get to bed.”
I bet you do, is at the tip of my tongue but I don’t say it. Why would I expect an explanation from a grown man living his best life?
It’s enough that he checks up on me and thanks me and provides laughter and comfort. That’s more than I can ask of any friend.
Then why am I still nauseous?