Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Len
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He didn’t mean not to appreciate me. He’s excited. He’s overwhelmed. He—
He’s acting like a fucking jock.
I wear a path into the sidewalk outside the arena. Minutes tick by like time doesn’t exist. Sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow. How much time has passed out here waiting for him to come back is as elusive to me as trying to hold on to a cloud.
I should want to go out with him to celebrate, right? That’s what a hockey girlfriend does. Or any girlfriend supporting their man. It is exciting. I am excited.
Actually, that’s a lie. My enthusiasm died somewhere between seeing Trish throw herself at him to the women outside his bus screaming his name.
I can’t compete with hockey. I never could.
The world tilts. I root myself in place, my hands splaying out as if trying to grasp something to keep me steady.
I can’t compete with hockey.
Growing up under my father’s roof taught me that. My mom couldn’t either. That’s why she left. Though, that’s an assumption. She’s never been around to ask, but I’m sure that’s why. It became blatantly clear about the time I started to want my own life outside of hockey.
I’ve done nothing but try to get Zaiah here, to this point. With the video and the emails and the article I wrote. Now I feel like a complete ass. Heartache grips me. All I did was make sure hockey was his priority by helping give him everything he wanted.
I start biting my nails, a habit I thought I’d kicked that apparently rears its head in stressful situations. In the past, I’d bite my nails all the way down until my teeth gnashed against skin and bled. Only the first coppery taste would make me stop, then I’d move on to the next finger.
I force my hands to my side, gripping my leggings so I don’t put my nails in my mouth. I should be happy for him. I am happy for him.
My stomach squeezes. Going round and round with this isn’t helping. I wanted a simple thank you. Even an acknowledgment. The way he looked at me on the bus… I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t.
Am I being selfish? It’s his time. He played the game. All I did was put people in seats.
The doors behind me open, and I spin to find Coach stepping out of the building, a cigarette hanging lazily from one hand. He blocks the calm wind to light it while taking a big drag, leaving nothing but a puff of smoke in its wake.
He sees me, and I don’t need to be a nosy reporter to read him. Surprise hits first, then under the glow of the sidewalk lamps, his cheeks redden. “This is our little secret, okay? The way the boys would tease me.”
I walk forward. Over the last week, ever since I knew everything was a go with the paper, Coach and I have spoken numerous times on the phone. I even went to his office a few times to coordinate things. Of course, he helped me with Zaiah’s footage, too. He’s a good man. “Your business is your business.” I shrug.
He stares down at the cigarette. “I quit a few years ago, but every once in a while, I have to have one. Tonight was amazing and stressful at the same time. It was about the end of the first period when I was already picturing the pack I had in my desk. Don’t ever get addicted to anything, Miss Robertson. It’s terrible.”
I squeeze my leggings again, the urge to bite my nails rearing up. Fear slices through me and it isn’t because I’m hooked on gnawing on my fingers. It’s that maybe I’m addicted to Zaiah.
Maybe I’m obsessed with helping him. With making him happy. I’ve set my own wants and needs aside to focus on other people before…twice. One I grew up with, and one I finally told off tonight. In every relationship I’m in, I end up being the afterthought.
Graduation is coming soon. I should be focused on my own future instead of his. Truthfully, I let people disappoint me time and time again. He’s not the only one who’s had a win since we’ve been together, yet when I got a response from the editor, he barely said congratulations. We didn’t celebrate. I didn’t say, Hey, let’s go out to Bubbles with the drunk dudes who want to hang out with me.
I swallow the sudden dryness in my throat and give Coach a half-hearted grin. “I’ll keep that in mind. Great game tonight.”
He leans against the side of the building, smoking the cigarette like he’s a teen and his parents are about to come outside and catch him. “You did more for them than I could. They needed butts in seats.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Another trail of gray smoke clouds from his lips. “Someone to play for, or even show off in front of. Athletes aren’t complicated. They play for themselves, but they also feed off energy. The amount of electricity in that rink tonight couldn’t have been duplicated by my before-game speeches or any of their family members telling them to go out there and get ’em. Or Zaiah’s family acting like crazy fans. Those all help at first, but then the novelty wears off.”
“But won’t a screaming crowd eventually become white noise, too?”
“Ahh,” he says, pausing to take another drag. “But it’s always different. Different opponent, different audience, different noise, different signs in the crowd, and it gets more addictive the higher you go.”
I scruff my shoe against the sidewalk. “You think Zaiah can make it?”
“Oh yeah. He’s got the goods. Did you see the way he played tonight when he had an audience? When he had the cheers? You did that.”
I almost wish I didn’t.
The moment I think it, I crumple the thought up and throw it away, but the echo of it is still there. The selfish thought bleeds through my body until I feel dead inside.
What if I do only want him to see me? The crowd didn’t make the video for him. The people at the game tonight only supported him once. I’ve been by his side longer.
Maybe that’s the difference between Zaiah and me. I want to be seen by one person, and he wants the whole world to see him.
Coach puts out his cigarette against the side of the building, smoking all of it right down in the short time we’ve been talking.
He winks at me, spraying a mist of cologne over himself and throwing a mint in his mouth before he walks back inside.
What we’ll do to hide our defects from people when we should be throwing them out there and letting people choose. Take me or leave me. I am who I am, and I’m not changing.
So what if Coach wants to smoke from time to time? Or if I feel neglected? Right or wrong, it’s who we are.
I turn to walk away, heading toward Knightley. Pulling out my phone, I start a text to Zaiah telling him to go without me. I only get two words in when I stop, my feet hitting the pavement reluctantly. Is it duty that makes me want to turn back? To be the good girlfriend? Or maybe I want to leave because subconsciously, I want to punish him because he never celebrated my win with me.
“Len!”
Zaiah runs the few hundred feet I’d crossed within seconds. My name on his lips makes my eyes itch. Anger and jealousy rear up, and it’s not a good mix. Battling myself every step of the way twists my stomach, leaving me a confused mess.
“Hey.” He reaches for me, moving his fingers up my forearm. “I thought you were waiting for me? I’m going to drive, but if you don’t mind, can you drive back? I might want to drink.”
“Coach said not to.”
He shrugs. “I won’t have a lot.”
His business is his business. That’s the same thing I said to Coach.
A small grin crosses Zaiah’s face, and he moves a strand of my hair away from my cheek. When I don’t react, he tilts his head. “Something wrong?”
So many things. So many complicated things. It would be near impossible and exhausting to tell him every little thing I’m thinking right now. I’m even annoyed with myself, but I’m right about this. I don’t want to be anyone’s afterthought. “You never said anything about the article.”
Yes, he had a huge win tonight, but so did I. Is this how it’s always going to be? I can’t celebrate my wins because he’s too in his own head about his?
It shouldn’t be like that.
“The article was amazing. Look what it did!” He grabs my hands, face lighting up. “I think we made everyone hockey fans tonight.”
“We?”
“The team.”
I nod slowly. That they did. I got them there, but they pulled off an exciting one-sided win. Suddenly, I’m that little girl again, vying for my father’s attention. My nemesis was always hockey. Always.
“What if I told you that one of my articles went viral?”
“That’s amazing.” The smile stays on his face, but he isn’t buzzing like he is with hockey.
“Social media picked it up, and it’s been reposted a few hundred times.”
“Wow, Len. That’s great.”
“It’s spawned so many reactions.”
“Of course it did. Because you’re awesome.”
I bite my lip. “Zaiah, I’m talking about the article that came out tonight. You already knew it went viral.”
He narrows his gaze. “I’m not following, sweetheart.”
“I wrote an article that a lot of people read. It’s getting a lot of attention. But you’re only excited about the consequences of that.” Before he can say anything, I keep going. “Which you should be. It’s what you wanted to happen. It’s what I wanted to happen. Lots of fans. Celebrating, I guess. Throw your name out there more. Right? We wanted all that.”
“It could change Warner hockey going forward.”
“Exactly!”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I—” One of his teammates calls his name, and he looks behind him, waving and telling them to give him another minute. “They want to leave.”
I stand my ground. “Zaiah, I’m not trying to take anything away from you. You played amazing. You always play amazing, and yeah, there was a different player out on the ice tonight with everyone watching, but… You never said anything to me about the article. Look what happened because of it. You’re living it. It took a lot of time and effort to arrange everything so you could have this night. Did you read the article when you were in the locker room?”
“No, I was making plans.” He pauses. “Are you mad at me?”
My hands turn to fists at my side, my fingernails digging into the skin. “Zaiah, I want to be celebrated. I want your support. I want you to call out my name and tell me how proud you are of me. The past two times I’ve had good news, where I’ve inched closer to my goals, I’ve gotten nothing from you. Nothing.”
He steps back, brow furrowing, scrunching up his face until he doesn’t look like himself. “I’m sorry. I’m— I’m sure I said something.”
“You didn’t, and I don’t want to have to tell you to do it. It should be something you just do, Zaiah. Look.” I take out my phone, bring up my text thread with Flora, and scroll, showing him all the messages she’s sent me with how many views my article has. How many reposts. Nearly every business in town has posted it, too.
“I didn’t know. I was playing a game when all this happened. You didn’t even tell me you were doing this.”
“You’ve been out of the game for over an hour. You were too focused on puck bunnies waiting for you guys on campus. Why would you think I’d care where they wanted to celebrate? I’m not your wingman, Zaiah.”
“Woah,” he spits. “Don’t insinuate that. I was surprised to see them. That doesn’t happen to us.”
“So surprised that they’re more important than me?”
“You’re it for me, Len. You’re being jealous. And ridiculous.”
His angry words sit like an anvil on my chest. I step back.
He shakes his head. “Not like that. I mean about the girls.”
“Well, when you were so busy telling me they were drunk and listening to where they were going out, you could’ve been thanking me for writing the article. You could have been reading the article. Without the article, you wouldn’t have known you had groupies.”
“Why are you doing this tonight? I want to go out and celebrate with everyone, and you’re—” He waves in my general vicinity.
“Telling you about something that’s hurting me? Sorry to be the issue on your grand night.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean? Why do we only celebrate you, Zaiah? That’s the problem I’m having. I’ve helped and helped. I got the footage. I wrote the emails. I did the research to even know that we should do that. I wrote the article that’s bringing you and your team all of this tonight. You’ve been waiting for life to happen to you, and congratulations, I guess that’s what happened tonight. All of this…” I throw my arms out wide. Even though the crowd is gone, their ghosts still mock me. “This just happened to you. No one helped you achieve it.”
“Thank you,” he yells. “You’re right, okay? I don’t need my incompetence thrown in my face. Fucking thank you. For everything.”
“If you don’t want it thrown in your face, do better.”
His nostrils flare. It kills me to see him angry. He’s a good person. I know it. Zaiah would do anything for others, but for some reason, this is his hiccup point.
It’s mine, too.
My voice quiets to a whisper. “Why do you think I support you like this? Because I want the same in return. I can’t live hockey all the time. I’m not a rink wife, Zaiah. I’ll support you and support you and support you, but it can’t be one-sided.”
His teammates call his name again. He turns, but then stops himself. Swallowing, his Adam’s apple moves at a glacial pace.
I don’t know what I want him to say or do right now. I’m mad I’m ruining his night, but at the same time, I can’t let this go unsaid.
“Look, I’m sorry, Len. I’ve been selfish. I guess. I don’t know what to say to make this better.”
“Me neither,” I tell him. His teammates call again, and guilt rises up. “Look, you should go.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
I shake my head. “Not tonight, Zaiah. I’m proud of you, though.” My voice catches. “I’m really proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you,” he echoes, eagerness lacing his voice, but I can’t shake the thought that I had to wrangle the compliment out of him. It’s as if I had to tie a rope around his focus and pull it toward me to draw it out of him.
“See you later,” I tell him.
“Hey, Len. We’re good, right?”
“I… I think so,” I answer honestly. The area behind my eyes heats, and I have to get out of here before he sees me cry. I can’t take him away from celebrating tonight. That wouldn’t be cool. No matter how much I want him to come back and hold me all night, I can’t keep him away from this moment. “Have fun, okay?”
Turning, I walk away. His teammates call again, angrier this time. The first tear falls, wetting my cheek in a trail that leads all the way past my chin, clinging to my throat.
It hits me how wrong this is. Everything about it. I had a win tonight, too. Instead of going out with my friends, though, I’ll spend it crying into my pillow.
And the one person who could make it right went off to celebrate his win. A fact I can’t even get mad about.
Maybe I need a real dating coach because this shit is confusing.