Chapter Thirty-Nine Elise
The second Randall enters the townhouse, he usually calls out to me to find my exact location. He’s determined to kiss me first thing.
So, when I hear the front door open and close but he doesn’t call out for me, that should have been my first clue.
I’m in my office, buried in books about adaptation and cultural appropriation because I need to prepare for a class. Although the theater department chair has yet to forgive me for passing my class to Amber—and who can blame him—the English department chair enjoyed the controversy spurred by Blood Will Have Blood.
In her words, “public humanities need to be relevant in the cultural debates of our time.” She requested that I submit a syllabus covering Shakespeare and contemporary adaptations. She’ll consider it for the spring semester, which will provide the steady employment I need to feel like an adult.
The process of preparing for the course has been inspiring in other ways, as well. I’m drafting my second play, based on Hamlet this time. And instead of centering on the famous dude, I’ll be focusing on Ophelia’s point of view. The madwoman’s desperation in the original play will be explored within a contemporary context of suffocating expectations imposed by academia.
“Hey, how are you?” I ask, concerned, since Randall is standing completely still, his back to me.
“I don’t remember you taking this.” He’s staring at a newly framed picture of him with his dad and brothers when we ate at the steak house. I took the candid shot after returning from the washroom and while they finished their post-meal whiskeys.
Charles was laughing at something Randall said while James Sr. and Jim look over with matching smirks. I loved it because it captured them at their most relaxed.
“It’s at the steak house. Do you like it?”
He turns to me with an anguished expression, his gorgeous eyes somewhat glassy.
“If you don’t like it, I can take it down,” I say because I know his relationship with his father is strained. “I’m sorry I printed the picture without asking you.”
He blinks quickly and shakes his head. “No, it’s great. Thank you. I love it, actually.”
“Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?”
“Can we sit down, Elise?”
“Sure.” My voice is steady though my heart rate spikes. Why does he sound so grave?
Randall holds my hand to lead me to the sofa. When he sits, he tugs me over his lap. Muscular arms wrap around my waist.
Something in me loosens, knowing that whatever his despair, I’m his comfort and not the reason for sadness.
“I received some news today,” he finally utters, face buried in my neck, lips brushing against my skin.
“Is your family OK?” I ask, running my fingers along his soft blond hair.
He chuckles without humor.
“They’re fine. It’s not about them, although my news involves Vancouver.”
“Randall, you’re making me nervous. Please just tell me. Whatever it is, we can figure it out.”
“Elise, I’ve been traded,” he says so quickly I think I might have misheard. Randall sighs heavily before continuing.
“The Vancouver Dragons offered the Mavericks a deal they couldn’t refuse. I’ll be first goalie starting at the beginning of the season.”
The words are clear enough and yet my brain is muddled.
“Does this mean you’re part of a different team next year?”
“Baby, I’m part of a different team now. I’m no longer allowed in the Columbus arena. Had to give up my locker, my equipment, my access. I’m officially a Dragons player as of the trade.”
“You’ll have to move,” I say in a trance.
“I’ll have to move.”
Slipping off his lap, I get a handle on the situation. It’s hard to think when we’re touching. What does this mean for him? For us? And why had I never considered the possibility?
We’ve been playing house for the last few weeks, never once talking about the conditions of being a professional athlete.
“I, um, I thought your contract is for five years.”
“Management can still trade me,” he explains while hooking a hand behind his neck. “Vancouver will take on the salary I negotiated, plus they offered the Mavericks their first-round draft pick and a power forward centerman for our second line.”
“Randall, I have no idea what half those words mean.”
“This is a big trade for the Mavericks. Our lack of offense is the main reason we didn’t advance past the second round. And the irony is, my performance during the playoffs is exactly why Vancouver made the offer.” Frustration practically pulses out of him.
“I should be happy for you, shouldn’t I? This is really good for your career,” I state with forced cheer.
“Elise, the last thing I’m thinking about right now is my career. All I really want to know is how you’re taking the news. What are you thinking, baby?”
“That this really fucking sucks,” I burst with no filter. I am eloquence personified in the face of adversity.
“It does,” Randall mutters. “God, I’m so sorry.”
“Why would you be sorry? It’s not your fault that this happened. It’s out of your hands, isn’t it? Please, don’t apologize for being amazing at what you do,” I say and hug him. We’re both in shock, but I can’t resent him for something he could never control.
“That’s not what I’m apologizing for.”
“What then?”
“I’m sorry, Elise, but I’m gonna do everything in my power to convince you to come with me.”
My heart flutters before it crashes. It’s hard to breathe. So much of the last few months logically pointed to us moving in together.
Now, Randall wants me to move to another country. Is that what I want? Is that what’s right for us?
“When do you have to leave?” I ask, not commenting on his statement about me.
“They gave me three days to settle my business here.”
“That’s so quick! How can you get everything done in three days?”
“I just have to bring what I need in the short term. Management will hire the realtor and movers. Training camp is in full swing, so I’m contractually obligated to be in Vancouver.”
“I should pack my things before your movers come,” I state as a matter of fact.
“Elise, look at me.” He engulfs both my hands in one of his. I turn to find his eyes are wide, like a deer in headlights, mid-panic and stock-still.
“What?” I prompt him after an uncomfortable silence. The first uncomfortable silence we’ve ever shared, I realize.
“I don’t want to talk about things. This place and the stuff in it, I don’t care. What I care about is what’s here.” He takes his free hand to smooth my hair back and settle on my forehead.
“And here.” He lowers the hand to lightly press against my chest where my heart is aching.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Please can we…can we just think about it before saying anything we’ll regret? I need time to process what you’re saying.”
His jaw tightens as if he’s having difficulty holding back. “Yes, of course,” Randall mutters past gritted teeth.
“I have to go to the library to pick up books for the course I’m building,” I say, scrambling for an excuse to get some air outside. “You’ll probably be busy figuring out what you need in the short term. I’ll give you some space.”
When I stand, our connection snaps. A coldness fills the air between us.
Randall’s hands open and close like he doesn’t know what to grab on to.
Neither do I.