7. Roman
SEVEN
ROMAN
We won the game against the Toronto Knights, and I have one day’s reprieve before I have to see the team again during practice. Coach Cross calls me to his office afterwards and I sit in front of his desk like a child called into the principal’s office.
“Do you think what happened at the game was normal behaviour for a team, Maddox? Is that how a team reacts when one of their own scores a goal?”
Oh, it’s going to be a sanctimonious speech. My favorite. He’s talking about the team’s lukewarm celebration with me on the ice.
“I thought the whole point of a hockey game is to win.” I shrug. “We won.”
Coach’s brown eyes narrow in anger, and I get the feeling that if he could, he would lean over the table and hit me square in the jaw.
“Let me spell it out clearly so you can get it through your thick skull. Your team doesn’t like you, and if I can’t trust you to play well with them, you’re not going to play at all. I don’t care what your contract says. I don’t have to let you play.”
I straighten in the chair and shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Shouldn’t you be having this talk with the team?”
Coach sighs, sitting back against his chair. He rests one hand on the armrest while the other remains by his side.
“Why will they celebrate with you or support you when you’ve spent the last eight months treating them like they don’t matter? This is a team, Roman, and as far as I’m concerned, all of you are equal. If you want your teammates to respect you and support you, give them that in return.”
I’ve had other coaches give me the same spiel at one time or another throughout the seasons. This is the only time I feel like I need to do something about it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why that is.
Lavinia is here, and I’ve gotten used to seeing her at home games. In my delusional dreams, I can even pretend she comes to see me, and not her twin brother. This proximity to her is too much, and at the same time, I can’t leave.
“What will you have me do?” I ask.
If he’s surprised by my acquiescence, Coach doesn’t show it. Instead, he shrugs.
“Try harder with them, off the ice. Make friends. Show them you want to be a real part of the team. The Titans are close, Roman. They’re friends, a family. If you want to be a part of that, you have to try a little harder.”
A family. I don’t know how to be a part of a family. I left mine at eighteen, and the only time I see my parents now is at NHL parties and awards, and even that’s too much.
Coach must see the reluctance on my face because he reaches for his computer and types something on it. He turns it in my direction and hits play on the video loaded on the screen. It’s the Titans sports correspondent, talking about the goal I took and comparing my career stats to my father’s.
“That was a really impressive goal, Maddox. If you play with the team, you can have the same career as your father’s, maybe better.”
I laugh, and there’s no hiding the bitterness.
Of course, he thinks I want to be like my father.
It’s a point of pride for Andrew Callahan to be playing for his father’s former team.
Me, not so much. We might be the same age and might have gone to the same training camps, that doesn’t mean I want the same things Drew does.
“Coach, I know you have two Titans legacies on your team, but that doesn’t mean we both want to follow our father’s careers. Now, if we’re done here, I have somewhere I need to be.”
I don’t wait for him to dismiss me. I stand up and leave his office, quickly walking through the change room and out the back door. I drop my gear in the back of my car—because I have a car now—and pull out of my parking spot.
I live in the building my agent picked out for me in Back Bay before I moved here. From what he told me, other Titans have lived in the building throughout their tenure or currently live here.
I know my fellow winger, Reese Miller and the defensemen, Holden Archer and Ford Everett all live in the building. Even being neighbors, I have never run into them.
Shit. Am I really going to lose my spot on the team because I can’t be friendly with them? I didn’t lie to Vin when I told her that I can’t be loyal to someone because it’s expected. Hockey fans think I’m loyal to my father when nothing could be farther from the truth.
I have no loyalty for that man.
My apartment is quiet when I unlock the door and I’m immediately suspicious. I live alone, if you don’t count my three cats and they’re rarely quiet. Just as I think of them, Salem chirps from the black leather chair he’s disappeared into.
Owning three black cats and all black furniture is a constant game of ‘is this a pillow or cushion or am I about to sit on my cat?’
“Where are your sisters?”
I drop my gear by the door and walk over to the chair to pick up Salem. I cradle him in my arms and give him much deserved chin scritches.
Buffy and Sabrina are curled into circles on my bed, fast asleep. I always leave the blinds open, so they get plenty of sunlight throughout the day.
“Hello, hello!”
Salem jumps from my arms, rushing out of my room as I follow him.
“Hey, Kita.”
My sixty-year-old neighbor is crouching down on my living room floor, scratching Salem’s belly. He’s flat on his back, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
“There he is, my precious angel. Yes, you are. I love you so much. Yes, I do.” She’s obviously talking to the cat.
“How was practice?” This she directs at me as she stands up.
I move to the kitchen, turning on the coffee maker. “It was fine.”
“Are those boys being nice to you?”
Kita’s one of those people it’s really hard to be mean to, and it has very little to do with her age. She’s nice, and she loves my cats, and they love her. Being rude to her makes me feel like an ass. It took her zero point five seconds after I moved in to tell me we’re going to be friends.
It’s strange to have someone take an interest in my life. I keep a distance from everyone for a reason.
“Practice was fine.” I hesitate. “My coach thinks I need to put more of an effort into making friends.”
“Is he wrong?”
Why am I talking to her about this? Oh, right, because it’s better than being lonely. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Kita’s eyebrows go up, and her brown eyes look at me like she knows I can do better than that.
“Yes, he’s right. But I don’t do that. What’s the point when I’m going to be traded next season?” I say.
“I’m going to ignore that comment because we’re friends,” Kita replies.
The kitchen fills with the scent of coffee and I turn to grab two cups out of the cupboard. I fill the cups and doctor Kita’s coffee as she takes it before sliding it across the counter to her.
“It’s decaf,” I say. “And we’re friends because you don’t take no for an answer, and I don’t think me being in another state is going to stop you from demanding I send you updates on the cats.”
“That is true, I need updates on my babies. I let them live with you because your apartment is bigger than mine.”
Of course. I got the cats after I moved to Boston, and only because a family in the building was moving out and couldn’t take them. My intention was to give them away, but one week turned into two, two into three, and I found myself a proud cat father.
I have to admit, I like the thought of having someone waiting for me. Having Kita means I always have someone who can cat sit and Kita is more than happy to do it.
“Have you ever considered if you make friends with your teammates, it’’ll help you play better and you won’t be traded? They’ll always have your back.”
I sip my coffee. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
I’m not like Kita. I can’t show up at my teammates' apartments and demand to be friends. I’ve alienated myself so much there’s no coming back from it.
On the days we don’t have a game, I like to go to the local community center because they have a hockey rink.
The best part is that you can book a time slot, and I usually book it for an hour or two.
It’s me, practicing slap shots, skating up and down the rink without any pressure to be good or part of a team.
It’s not that I enjoy being alone. I don’t know anything else. It’s a habit that’s been taught to me and from what I’ve seen of my parents, it’s better off that I’m alone.
If you can be by yourself, you can do anything. That’s what I used to think until I made the brilliant decision to accept the trade instead of retiring. Now I get to watch the Titans be a happy little family while I’m on the outside looking in.
I take a shot, and the puck goes soaring into the net. Behind me, I hear applause, and I whip around, annoyed that someone came in when I have the rink booked. My annoyance dissipates as soon as I see who’s standing on the inside of the door.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” I ask the kid.
He shrugs. “Had a half day.”
“Did you really?” I raise an eyebrow.
Tyler shrugs again and it’s a damn good thing he’s not my kid because the shrug is annoying as fuck. Even if I was this annoying as a teenager, no one was around to tell me.
“Alright, fine. I had a doctor’s appointment. My mom knows about it.” He holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
There’s no way he was ever a scout. But he’s a good kid, so I let it go. His mother will discipline him if he’s lying. She’s a librarian here at the community center and Tyler usually comes in the evening to spend time with her.
“Put on your skates.” I’m already setting my shot with the other puck I have lined up. Behind me, I hear Tyler shuffling around as he puts on his skates.
As a high school senior, he’s the captain of his hockey team and already has a full ride to Mercer University to play D1 hockey. One day, he’s going to be a Titan, of that I’m sure.
“I watched the game against the Toronto Knights,” Tyler says, skating onto the rink and coming up next to me. “That shot Reese Miller took was a thing of beauty.”
I hand him my hockey stick. “That’s all talent, and lucky for you, you already have it.”
He’s a little shorter than me, with curly dark hair that is falling all over his forehead and into his eyes.
“Get yourself a haircut, kid,” I say. “How are you going to take shots if you can’t even see the puck?”
His bright eyes meet mine. “Girls happen to like my hair.”
“You can get girls when you’re a Titan. You still want that, don’t you?”
The determination in his eyes is all the confirmation I need.
For the next forty-five minutes, we play hockey, and I teach him how to take a couple of tricky shots and get himself out if his opponent has him trapped.
Playing with him is the most fun I’ve had in a while.
He’s just as good as any opponent I’ve ever faced.
“You need to bulk up,” I tell him after.
“I’ve gained five pounds!”
I scoff. “Where? Have you ever seen a bean pole hockey player?”
He sniffs, taking a sip of his water. “I’ve got weight where it matters.”
I roll my eyes. “What am I? A teenage girl? Not even a teenage girl will be impressed because they are smarter than that.”
It’s been a long time since I was a teenager, and I try to recall if I was as obsessed with girls and sex. My mind immediately conjures up an image of a red head, sweaty after a game, pale skin flushed from exertion, green eyes bright and shining with victory.
Tyler and I part ways in front of the library, and I walk out to my car.
I never bring my phone inside with me, so I check it now to make sure I didn’t miss any calls.
There are messages waiting for me. The first is from my cousin, Elena.
She’s sent me an article about our game against the Toronto Knights which mentions me getting into a fight with their player.
Elena
Why are you like this? I swear sports are just a reason for boys to get into fights without getting into trouble.
Roman
We get into plenty of trouble on the ice as well. Are you telling me the world of professional ballet isn’t full of psychological terror?
The second text is from Lavinia.
Lavinia
Tell me it’s not weird to eat a pint of ice cream for lunch.
The message was sent an hour ago.
Roman
Are you looking for validation for something you already did or making lunch plans for tomorrow?
Her reply comes right away.
Lavinia
Neither, just curious. What are you up to?
Roman
Nothing right now. What about you?
Lavinia
I’m on a date.
I blink down at the words on my phone. How the fuck did this keep happening? Every time I think this woman is single, some asshole comes and takes his shot while I am still waiting to take mine.
Roman
Is it going well?
Lavinia: Well enough. The food is great.
Roman
Which restaurant?
Lavinia
Daphne’s
Roman
If you’re texting me, the date can’t be going that well.
Lavinia
He’s in the restroom. Oh, he’s coming back. Gotta go.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. My phone goes dark, and I throw it onto the passenger seat. All I can picture is some other man leading Lavinia up to her apartment, telling her good night, kissing her like she belongs to him. I need to fucking fix this and now.