Chapter 5
CARSON
Why was I hanging around outside the ladies’ room like a creeper?
I was waiting for my wife.
Ex-wife. Almost.
She’s fidgety, blinking a lot, not looking right at me. It shouldn’t be this awkward between us. We were together for over seven years. But I guess this is what happens when you split up. We were a couple and now we’re just… two people.
“I, uh…” She pauses. “My nonna is turning ninety-nine this year.” She brushes her long bangs away from her eyes.
“Yeah. That’s amazing.” One corner of my mouth lifts as I think about Nonna and her give-no-fucks attitude.
“We’re having a birthday party for her,” Ayla goes on in a rush. “A family party. Big party.”
I nod.
“I… never told her we split up,” she says.
I cock my head, eyebrows pulling together. “Really? Why?”
“I just… I don’t… I knew it would make her unhappy. She really loved you.”
My mouth twists up a bit. “Yeah. I love her, too.”
She nods quickly. “Then maybe you’d be willing to… do something for her.”
“How so?”
She nibbles at her bottom lip and twists her fingers together. “Would you come to the party? And pretend we’re still together?”
My head jerks back. What?
“A lot of my family doesn’t even know,” she adds. “It would just be for, like a couple of days. And then… after her birthday, I’ll tell her.” She makes a face.
“That’s insane, Ayla.”
“I know! But I was hoping you would do it for her! I know you’re fond of her and this might be the last time you ever see her. Not to be morbid or anything, but she’s ninety-nine. She actually said she can’t wait to see you, and this might be her last birthday.”
I cross my arms and regard her, trying to appear unmoved. “I can’t… you know what my schedule is like.”
“Yes, but the party is happening during the All-Star break. Unless…” She hesitates, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “You have plans to go away. With Emma.”
I should have agreed to go to Aruba with the young guys. But I couldn’t handle spending a whole week with them while they discuss shrinking penises and who they want to smash or pass. And I obviously don’t have plans with Emma. Yet. Maybe. Whatever.
“I don’t have anything going on,” I say slowly. “But it’s still a bad idea. It’s lying.”
“It’s a white lie. It’s not hurting anyone. We’d be doing it for a good reason.”
She sounds anxious and beseeching and as usual, I’m finding it hard to say no to her. It was always that way. I’d give her whatever she wanted. Why do I still feel like I can’t deny her?
It’ll make her sad.
I’ve made her sad enough. I couldn’t fix her when she was broken and our marriage fell apart because of it. She lost everything she’d wanted and I’ll probably never forgive myself for that.
“Ayla. You’re a terrible liar. There’s no way you’re going to be able to pull that off.”
She tosses her head. “Sure, I could.”
I have to clench my jaw when I say, “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”
She swallows. “I understand.” She lifts her chin. “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about? Were you waiting for me here?”
“I…” Why was I waiting here? I don’t even know. “I just wanted to… you know. See how you’re doing.”
She gives me a narrow-eyed look. “That’s weird when you’re out with another woman.”
She’s not wrong.
We look at each other silently. The air vibrates around us.
“I’m doing great. Thanks.” She squeezes by me in the hall and I watch her walk away.
Shit. That was just weird. Why would she ask such a dumb thing? Christ. She has to tell her family we’re separated. Why hasn’t she? That’s just… batshit.
Ayla’s always been steady and competent, the one everyone relies on to take care of things.
She loves looking after people and making sure the people she loves are happy.
But this is too far, even for her. She’s never been batty; she’s sensible and optimistic and encouraging.
The idea that she’s lying to her family is mind-blowing.
I quickly use the men’s room then return to Emma. She’s now talking to a man and a woman I don’t know, and she introduces us. We spend the rest of the evening schmoozing with people she knows, looking at snooty paintings, and drinking red wine. And trying to avoid looking for Ayla.
“It’s alienation giving way to rage and grief,” one woman says as we observe a painting.
“I love how his process brings out the aesthetics of equal proportions on canvas,” someone else remarks.
I don’t know what that means.
Even though I’m trying to ignore Ayla, I can’t help but notice that Rachel has attached herself to the artist and Ayla’s in a far corner studying the art by herself.
The urge to fix things for her mounts inside me. I couldn’t fix things before. Why would I think I could fix things now?
* * *
We leave the next morning on a road trip to Vancouver and then Seattle.
I want to focus on hockey, but the flight to Vancouver is long, six hours, giving me way too much time to think.
I try to read a book I picked up about the Pyramids.
I got interested when I watched a TV show about a guy who investigates unsolved mysteries around the world, and he talked about all the conspiracy theories about how the Pyramids were built.
But my mind keeps wandering. Running into Ayla and hearing her crazy proposition sticks in my mind, despite my best efforts to push it away. It’s not my problem anymore.
Keep telling yourself that, bud.
I attempt a card game with Crusher, Trev, and Mack, but I end up folding in record time and I bow out. Then I pretend to have a nap.
Ayla can’t keep lying to her family. That makes me nuts.
Family is so important to her. I get it; family is important to me, too.
When my dad passed away when I was sixteen, I knew I had to be the one to look after my mom and two sisters.
Sometimes, I may have overdone it… been a little overprotective, a little too bossy.
Ayla called me on that shit. I’m almost amused remembering when she flipped out because I always had to know where she was.
When I tried to fix every little problem she had, but she only wanted someone to vent to.
I’m less amused when I remember arguing with her about how she spent too much time sitting in Kane’s bedroom after he was gone, and telling her how to get over it.
Guilt is like a skate blade digging into my ribs as I remember the things I said to her.
The throb spreads through my torso. Which is why it’s for the best that we’re apart.
And I need to butt out. Not my farm, not my pig shit.
We check in at the hotel located on the waterfront in Vancouver, which is a streamlined process for us; we just have to pick up envelopes laid out for us which have our room keys and also cash for our per diem for traveling.
Everything in our rooms is ready for us as Miles, our operations guy, has checked them all ahead of our arrival, making sure the blackout curtains are closed, the room temperature is good, as in cold, and there are snacks and water ready.
There are no other guests staying on the floor we’ve booked so things are quiet.
We all go out for a team dinner at a steakhouse that’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from the hotel. We’ve got a big, long table with bench seating on one side that looks out over the harbor through floor-to-ceiling windows. Nice.
I skip the beer and just drink a Coke while I look over the menu. I think every single one of us orders a steak, but we also get a bunch of appetizers for the table: mushroom and goat cheese dip, crab cakes, ahi tuna tataki.
“I’m telling you,” Crusher says while dunking grilled garlic bread into the mushroom dip. “The Wild Robot is the best movie I’ve seen in a long time.”
He hands me the plate and I take a slice of bread.
“Isn’t that a kids’ movie?”
“Nah.”
“Yeah, it is,” Mack says. “It’s animated.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s just for kids,” Crusher says. “Animation is just a different way of telling a story. It doesn’t have anything to do with the content of the story.”
“Hmmm.” I nod. “I guess that’s true.”
“I’ve always liked Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Smitty says with a grin.
“Hey, I watched The Lion King with my kids,” Turks says. “I got choked up when Mufasa died. That’s a good story.”
“It’s based on Shakespeare,” Crusher replies. “Hamlet.”
“Well, maybe inspired by,” Archie says, “but yeah.”
“Shut up.” Trev stares at Crusher. “I never knew that.”
“No lie. They’re both about a young prince—Hamlet and Simba—and his uncle kills his father and steals the throne.”
“Then the prince gets the throne back,” Turks adds. “Cool.”
“I don’t think I ever read Hamlet,” Smitty says. “I probably skipped school that day.”
“Fucking hockey players,” I say dryly. “Skipping school all the time and getting away with it.”
Everyone makes a face that confirms the truth of that and also a little guilt.
Most of us know we got a lot of special treatment as hockey players…
and still do. Conversation moves on to whether cats are better than dogs (I’m a dog person) and what you put first in your cereal bowl: milk or cereal.
Except none of us eats much cereal these days, and we start sharing smoothie recipes.
It wouldn’t be our team, though, without a detour into some bizarre topic.
“I’ve been doing pelvic-floor exercises,” Crusher shares.
We all gaze at him.
“What? It’s great for your sex life.”
“I thought only women had to do those,” Benny says, cutting a piece of steak.
“Do we even have a pelvic floor?” Smitty asks.
“Yeah, we do.” Crusher shakes his head. “Same as women. But men also have a set of pelvic floor muscles called the urogenital triangle. Those muscles are important for erections and ejaculation.”
I glance around the restaurant. Luckily, we’re pretty much on our own in this section. I meet our captain, Benny’s eyes and we both shrug.
“When you get older, your pelvic floor muscles can get tight or weak, and you can’t get it up,” Crusher adds.
“That’s bad,” Archie says, and everyone else nods in agreement.
“Man’s best friend,” Dilly says.
“Nobody wants a broken arrow,” Archie adds gravely.
“A limp bizket,” I add, getting a burst of laughter.
“A gummy worm,” Turks says.
“Speak for yourself.” Smitty looks affronted. “Mine would be a sleeping giant.”
That gets an explosion of guffaws.
“There are little blue pills for that,” Turks says, then adds quickly, “I hear.”
“Okay, so how do you exercise your pelvic floor?” Benny asks.
“Some of them you’re already doing.” Crushers grins. “Squats. Some yoga poses. And some breathing exercises. I can show you.”
“You are not showing us your pelvic floor,” Benny says.
“Not here,” I say at the same time.
Crusher sighs. “Of course not here.”
Their lunacy makes me roll my eyes sometimes, but the truth is, I love these guys. We have such great chemistry even off the ice, and it’s always fun to hang out with them.
When it comes time to take care of the check, Benny tells us tonight, we’re doing the check number game.
We all nod. We never bother asking for separate checks, or trying to figure out who owes what; one of us takes care of it, and we have different ways to decide who that is.
Last year, the team-dinner gods were not on my side and I ended up paying the tab three times.
Benny takes the check when our server brings it and finds the number on it.
“Okay, gentlemen, make your guesses.” We go around the table while each of us guesses and he tells us higher or lower.
Things get a little rowdy with whoops and laughter at each guess, until finally, Smitty says, “Four twenty-two.”
Benny laughs and tosses the bill to him. “You win.”
“Or lose,” Smitty mutters, pulling out his credit card.
The rest of us cheer.
Some of the guys go back to the hotel, but Smitty, Benny and I take a walk. There’s a huge cruise ship docked at Canada Place.
“Those boats are massive,” I comment.
“Have you ever been on a cruise?” Benny asks.
“Nope. Not sure I want to.” I remember talking to Ayla about going on a cruise. In the end, we just went to Aruba. Memories of those trips flood back: all the fun we had, Ayla in a tiny bikini, under the sun…
“I went on one once,” Smitty says, bringing me back to reality. “Years ago. It was fun. There’s lots to do.”
The lights of Vancouver glow across the harbor, reflecting in the water, but the chill wind has us soon turning back to the hotel.
Coach doesn’t set a specific curfew but we all know he expects us back in our rooms by ten o’clock.
Fine with me. I’m not into the club scene or bar hopping anymore.
Maybe tomorrow night after the game, since we don’t fly to Seattle until the next morning.
When I’m in bed, I pick up my phone and find a text message from Emma.
Emma
I had fun last night.
I hesitate over how to reply.
Carson
Me too.
Emma
When do you get back from your road trip?
Carson
Tuesday.
Emma
Maybe we could get dinner next week.
I hesitate again. I don’t know why. Emma’s cool and pretty. Nothing to object to. No “ick,” as the kids say.
Carson
Yeah, sure. Wednesday?
Emma
That sounds great
Okay. I have another date.
But now I’m thinking about Ayla again and her ridiculous plan to pretend we’re still married for her family.
She has a great family. I love her parents—I still talk to her dad occasionally—and her nonna, Gia, and Uncle Ernie, who’s actually Grandpa to Ayla.
It’s good that I said no.