Howie
I don’t even know if Ella came out of my room to eat yesterday. I tried to nap on the couch, ended up at Gianna’s Meatball Joint with a bunch of the guys, and spent a sleepless night with streetlights shining in my face while my feet dangled off the end of a sofa so firm I think I dislocated a hip.
I have to get ready for morning skate now, and I need to get a bunch of shit from my room.
I peel a banana, trying extra hard to listen and see if Ella is moving around in there. I tap gently on the door, crack it open in the silence, and see that she’s not here.
The bed is made, and her suitcase in the corner is unzipped, neat piles of clothing and stuff arranged tidily along the wall. I guess she snuck out like a panther to go to work or something.
I grab my gear and a protein shake from the fridge, listening for Rookie, who starts his morning hacking right on cue.
Eventually, he emerges phlegm-free from his room and starts eating his precious caveman meat.
I often forget how serious he is about people touching his stuff, but in the end, most hockey players are neurotic about shit they think might impact their game.
I should have known better than to eat his jerky sticks, and I definitely know better than to interrupt his game-day flow.
“You ready?” I gesture at the key rack, knowing we will take his car to morning skate, come home to nap, and then take my car to the arena for the game itself. Routine is essential.
I’m quiet on the way up to the practice facility, mostly because I’m exhausted and sore, but a thought occurs to me as Rookie flips on his headlights entering the highway. “Hey, man, we need to get some curtains or something in the living room.”
He looks at me, confused. “Why?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s weird that people can see in if we’re hanging out, right?
” He shrugs. Rookie knows he’s hot, and he knows people—women—like to look at him.
“But also, bro, I had streetlights burning holes in my eyes all night. Are you good if I call someone about installing some blinds or something?”
He scrunches up his face. “I guess it’s your money. Nothing permanent, okay? I don’t know how long I’ll hang on to this place.”
“I don’t think window treatments are going to impact your property value, Rook.”
He laughs. “Look at you with the lingo. Your ma still doing real estate over in St. Paul?”
I shrug. I haven’t talked to my parents in a bit. I know there’s basically no money left from my dad’s career, and I know they had some big feelings about investing in mine. I sent them my signing bonus, and they barely acknowledged it.
I don’t know what they’re doing with their time these days. Probably better that way.
We pull through security at the rink and go through our morning skate routines. Today’s Grentley’s day in goal, and he has that beef with the Stag twins on defense, which means there’s tension.
Coach gives me a look while I wait for the line change, and I see he’s expecting me to lighten the mood or something, but I don’t know if I have it in me. Best I can come up with is to ask Rookie, “Is your sister coming tonight?”
I know what it means to phrase it that way, and it draws the response I’m expecting. “Don’t talk about my fucking sister.”
Cappy nudges Rookie with his shoulder. “Chill, man. I assume Howie meant, ‘Will she be at the game?’ Let me know, and I’ll make sure Essence has her number.”
This starts a cascade of guys asking about Ella moving to town, hanging out with the Partners and Wives, and Rookie’s confession that he didn’t get Ella a ticket or mention the game to her.
“What the fuck, man? You are such a jerk sometimes.”
We skate through a few plays, bang the rust off, and switch lines. I tap gloves with Tucker Stag as he glides onto the ice. His falling-out with Grentley really has been a thing with the whole team. Lots of guys feel the residual tension in ripples.
Back on the bench, Rookie sits by Cappy. “I didn’t think about her coming to games. She has to study for some test at her job. I’ll ask her about tickets, okay?”
“Do that.” Our captain bops Rookie on the helmet with his gloved fist.
We finish morning skate and head home for mandated naps. And it’s weird, because my bed is right there, and if Ella is at work, she won’t need it until well after I’m on the ice.
But I sort of told her she could have the room.
I flop onto the couch and manage to drift off despite the sun glare from the river.
I wake to the smell of smoked meat. When I open my eyes, Rookie is standing over me, a jerky slim dangling from his mouth like a cigarette. “What’s with you? We have to leave in like ten minutes.”
He spins on his heel, and I know he’s off to find a very precise set of socks and boxer briefs. I struggle to care about my own game-day socks. I splash cold water on my face at the kitchen sink and grab my keys, driving us both to the arena while blaring our death metal playlist.
And then we get our asses handed to us by Boston.
I should go home and crash. I know this. But fucking Grentley commented on half the team being frat guys with no self-control, and the rebel in me cannot let him be right.
So, how do I demonstrate my professionalism and commitment to winning?
I drive straight to Gianna’s, order a bucket of meatballs, and pound a bucket of beers alongside the protein.
I’m not the only one. Spinner and Rookie have a similar supper. They also have jersey chasers draped over them. Gianna usually keeps the riffraff out so we can eat in peace, but I think those guys found some bunnies waiting for autographs after the game and brought them along.
With my remaining sliver of consciousness, I look around the room lit softly by Edison bulbs.
The farmhouse-wood tables and benches are mostly empty at this hour.
I’m alone in a corner with the dregs of my Michelob and teriyaki balls, and Rookie looks like he’s about to round third base with each hand at another table.
My thoughts drift to Ella, whether she found anything for dinner, whether Rookie will force her to pay penance if she raids the fridge, or give her grace because she’s his sister.
I laugh out loud at that, causing Gianna to pop her head out from the swinging door to the kitchen. “You alive over there, Howie?”
I nod, my head sloshing a bit. “Yeah. But I think I should head out.”
She extends her palm. “Give me your keys. I’ll get the dishwashers to take your wagon home again.”
I hand her my fob and a few hundreds for the pair of high school kids who, I realize, have made a decent side hustle from transporting my car for me each time I get wasted.
Gianna pats my hand, and I head outside, the frigid wind biting through my dress shirt. I probably spilled sauce on myself. I manage to hail a silver taxi and mumble my address before falling asleep in the back seat.
Between the lack of sleep, the loss, the heat of shame at my bad habits, and my concern for a woman I shouldn’t think about at all, I am a mess.
When I get to the building, without my keys, I don’t even have to explain myself to the doorman.
I shuffle behind him to the elevator and down the hall, sliding him more money when he unlocks the condo and bids me goodnight.
Shedding the pieces of my suit as I walk, I stumble into my bedroom, onto my bed, and pass the fuck out.