You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey)

by Kelly Jamieson

  She shows me into a curtained cubicle. Sara’s in a bed, now wearing a hospital gown, hooked up to the IV and another machine. I push aside thoughts of her sheer black lace bra. She doesn’t look much better, but she reaches for my hand again as I get near enough. “You’re still here.”

  “Yeah. Of course.” I won’t tell her I nearly puked on the sidewalk outside. My stomach still feels a little iffy.

  “Good thing she got here quickly,” the nurse says. “But the adrenaline and steroids are working.”

  “The steroids are making me feel weird,” Sara says. “I don’t like it.”

  “It’ll pass. That’s normal.” The nurse is calm and reassuring. I admire her, since I’m freaking the fuck out inside.

  “I’ll check back in a few minutes,” she says, leaving us alone.

  “I can’t believe this,” Sara whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize! This isn’t your fault. I feel responsible.”

  “It’s not your fault. I should have been more careful. It’s been years since anything happened, I just avoid chickpeas all the time. I guess I got a little careless.”

  “I feel like shit about this.”

  “It’s okay.” Her fingers squeeze mine. “I’m okay. How do my lips look? I’ve been thinking about getting them done with Juvéderm.”

  My lips twitch. She’s obviously feeling a little better. Also, she’s brave as hell. “Sexy,” I tell her.

  She makes a noise like a snort.

  “You don’t believe me?” I gently brush some hair back off her red face.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “Some water?” She gestures at the plastic cup with a straw in it.

  I grab it and hold it for her as she drinks.

  “Thanks. Can you take a picture of me?”

  “What?” I stare.

  She gives a tiny grimace and hitches one shoulder. “I might want to post it on Instagram.”

  I snap my mouth shut. “Uh, sure.” I pull out my phone and take a picture, then send it to her.

  “Thanks.”

  I pull up a chair and sit with her until the nurse comes back and checks things.

  “The swelling’s going down,” she says cheerfully. “And your blood pressure is back up to normal.”

  “They couldn’t even find my blood pressure at first,” Sara tells me.

  Christ.

  We spend a couple of hours here, and then they’re happy with how she’s doing and send her home. We have to take a taxi, but I find one outside the hospital and help Sara into the back of it.

  She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “It feels good to feel better. Does that sound stupid?”

  “No. I know what you mean.” I remember how good it felt to not be in pain. I get it.

  The taxi ride home is swifter, with lighter traffic at this time of night. I pay the driver and hold Sara’s arm as we walk into her building. She’s barefoot, carrying her shoes because her toes were too swollen to get them on. I’m afraid she’s freezing. She greets the doorman and we take the elevator up to her apartment.

  “I need to get warm,” she says. “Can you turn the fireplace on? I’m going to change.”

  “Sure.”

  She disappears through a door at the far end of the room.

  I cross over and flick the switch for the gas fireplace. It blazes to life. Turning, I look around. Her apartment is bigger than mine. City lights glitter outside the big window. The place is untidy, with a Mac laptop on the coffee table and papers and sticky notes spread across a desk in the corner, but it’s kind of glam—a huge gray sectional in the corner strewn with pink and dark gray cushions, a few pendant lights hanging above it, a funky round white coffee table topped with light wood that matches the floor, and a couple of white molded plastic chairs. Her desk and a low TV stand are both glossy white.

  I move over to two big framed pictures on the wall above the sectional. I’m not sure, but I think they’re images of her—black-and-white, one a partial image of her face, the other her from behind, sitting with her knees drawn up.

  “Okay,” Sara says, returning. She’s wearing a pair of soft-looking gray leggings with a matching loose top and thick socks on her feet. She’s washed her face and brushed her hair, and big pink tortoiseshell glasses perch on her nose. She collapses onto the sectional. “Wow. That was a crazy night.”

  “No kidding. Not at all what I planned.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I hate it when things don’t go according to plan. Like being traded to another city. That’s why I plan everything—so I know what’s going to happen. But it seems really goddamn selfish to be upset about that when she nearly died. “All that matters is that you’re okay.” I pause. “I guess I should go and let you rest. Or…do you want me to stay and make sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. But stay.” She holds out a hand, and I sit down next to her and curl my fingers around hers. “Maybe it would be good to have someone here just in case.”

  “Absolutely. I can stay as long as you want.”

  Again, not my plan. But I can deal with it.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks. “You didn’t get to eat your dinner.”

  “I kind of am.” I’m surprised by that. “And that pork chop was delicious.”

  She laugh-groans and leans back into the cushions. “I know. What a waste. We could order something in. Pizza?”

  “Sure. That sounds great. I’ll just make sure there’s no hummus on it.”

  She stands and pads across the room to where she dropped her small purse when we came in. She pulls out her phone and ambles back, looking at it. She drops back down onto the couch. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

  “Anything.”

  With a nod, she swipes and taps more and then sets down her phone. “Done.”

  “Do you want to lie down?”

  “Yeah.” She grabs a couple of cushions and stuffs them behind her head, then stretches her legs out across my lap. I pick up the pale pink blanket draped over one corner of the couch and spread it out over her. “Thanks. This is nice. I’m exhausted.”

  “I bet.”

  “If you want a drink, there’s stuff in the fridge.”

  “Do you want something?”

  “Mmm…maybe a green ice tea?”

  I get up and head to the kitchen and retrieve drinks from her fridge, which is nearly empty. After opening a couple of cabinets, I find glasses and use the ice maker on the fridge to dispense ice into them, then return to the living room.

  Her eyes are closed. Her face is still flushed but not nearly as puffy. Crap, her eyes were nearly swollen shut in the ambulance.

  I sit down gently so as not to disturb her if she’s asleep.

  “I’m not asleep.”

  “Okay.” I set her drink near her.

  “Have you ever had a near-death experience?” she asks.

  Jesus. “Yes.”

  Her eyes fly open. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I pause. “Do you think you were that close to dying?”

  “No. But it was scary.”

  “I know.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “When I was seventeen, playing major junior hockey, we were on our way to an away game when our bus crashed.”

  “Oh no.” Her eyes shadow behind her glasses. She pushes herself up a bit on the cushions, her attention focused on me.

  “Fourteen people died.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I had a bunch of injuries. Fractures. Concussion. I don’t remember some of what happened after, which is maybe a good thing, but I do have fuzzy memories of being in the first hospital and everyone rushing around like I was going to die and I…was okay
with that.”

  She covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh, Josh.”

  I attempt a smile. “I lived, obviously.”

  “That must have been so awful.”

  I nod. “The worst was when they told me about everyone else. The guys that didn’t make it. We were a team.”

  “Well, that makes my little anaphylactic reaction seem trivial. God.” She rolls her eyes.

  “It wasn’t trivial. Anaphylaxis can be a serious thing. My cousin has a peanut allergy.”

  “Well. I’m fine. You’re fine. And you were amazing—calling the ambulance and helping me. I was scared and you were so solid.”

  I didn’t feel very solid. I felt like I was going to come apart. But at least I put on a good act and made her feel safer.

  After drinking some of her ice tea, Sara dozes off. I pull out my phone and keep myself busy with a game until the pizza arrives. She tries to get up, but I tell her to stay put while I deal with the delivery guy and then bring some plates and paper napkins from her kitchen, along with the pizza.

  “God, that smells good.” She sits up, pushing her hair back.

  “Yeah. I’m starving.”

  It’s a loaded pie, with pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers, and olives, and it’s delicious. We devour it, then both stretch out on the couch. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Me too.” Sara sighs. Then she burps. She covers her mouth with her fingers. “Excuse me!”

  I chuckle. “That was barely a burp.”

  “What? You can do better?”

  “Hell yeah.” I swallow some air and force a big belch.

  “Oh, good one!”

  “I can’t believe we’re burping in front of each other.”

  “It’s natural.” She shrugs.

  “Yeah.” I pause. “I guess I should head home. It’s late.”

  “It’s really late. Just stay here. I have a guest room.”

  For a hot second, I thought she was inviting me to sleep with her, until she added the comment about the guest room. But even though I’m super attracted to her, this is so not the time for that. “Okay. We have a game tomorrow, but this team doesn’t do morning skates, so I have lots of time to get home.”

  * * *

  —

  “How was the date last night?” Brando asks me in the locker room as we change into shorts and T-shirts to warm up before the game.

  “Well. It’s definitely one we won’t forget.” Our goodbyes this morning were awkward and weird. I’m sure Sara never wants to see me again, and honestly, that might be for the best.

  “That good, huh?”

  “That bad.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “We ended up at the hospital.”

  All the other guys are now interested in the conversation, gathering around. Easton is on the periphery, clearly listening, and smirking. Great, he has to hear about my humiliation.

  “What the hell happened?” Cookie asks. “Sex injury?”

  The guys all make sympathetic noises of pain.

  “Ouch.” Nate winces. “Hope you didn’t break your wang.”

  “Jesus.” I shake my head. “No.”

  “Shit, that can’t happen.” Loco frowns. “Can it?”

  “Sure it can. Penile fracture.” Nate nods with authority.

  More guys wince.

  “I knew a guy that had to take his girlfriend to the hospital because he went down on her after eating Thai food. The hot spices actually burned her cooter.”

  “That’s not what happened.” I rub my face. “We ordered an appetizer that was really good, but just when we began eating our dinner, Sara started having an allergic reaction. Like a serious one—anaphylaxis.”

  “Ohhhh.” A bunch of guys all make appropriate noises of consternation.

  “Turns out she’s allergic to chickpeas and didn’t realize there was hummus in the appetizer. Had to call an ambulance.”

  “Holy shit,” Nate says, mouth gaping.

  They all stare at me.

  “Is she okay?” Brando asks.

  “Yeah. Now. They gave her a bunch of drugs and oxygen. Then I took her home.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t get some.”

  “Ha ha. Nope. I did sleep at her place last night, but in the guest room.”

  “Damn.” Cookie shakes his head.

  “Dude. You should have seen her. She was in no mood for action. Actually, neither was I. I was just glad she was alive.” I shake my head.

  Some of us move to the workout room. I hop on a bike.

  “That’s definitely a memorable first date,” Nate says.

  “Probably our only date.” I grimace. “As if she’s going to want to see me again, after that.”

  “It’s not like you poisoned her.”

  “That’s how I felt. Jesus. What a disaster.” But even as I say that, I have to admit I still had a good time. Not so sure about Sara. “Although she did ask me to teach her to skate. For one of her videos.”

  “There you go. A perfect excuse to see her again.”

  “Not super thrilled about being in a video.” I drag the back of my hand across my now-sweaty forehead. “And I’m not sure I want to see her after that, anyway. It might be best if we never see each other again and forget it happened.”

  Nate shrugs. “I guess.”

  I do the same things every game day, the same things I did in Dallas. The Bears players quickly learned that I don’t like my routine interfered with. I don’t like surprises. I like knowing what game day looks like, where I’m going to be, what I’m going to do. When we’re on the road, I adapt my routine because we don’t have access to the gym like we do here at home, but I still have a routine.

  I’ve already gotten my sticks ready and made sure my equipment is all good. We’ve had a quick team meeting to talk about our power play. Once I’m warmed up, I join the guys who are kicking a soccer ball around, for three minutes exactly. Then I move on to the rest of my routine, which I learned from my uncle Matt after my accident. He runs a big fitness facility in Los Angeles and works with a bunch of pro hockey players. He came to Winnipeg when I was strong enough in my rehab and started working with me to get me even stronger and back to being able to play. I still work with him, consulting with him once a month during the season and more during the off-season. I give him a lot of credit in my return to playing. There were some pretty dark days when I thought I wouldn’t be able to.

  I head into the dressing room to get my equipment on. Easton’s already there and our eyes meet then bounce away from each other.

  Yeah, things are still awkward between us.

  I can’t stop the burst of bitterness that I taste every time I see him, remembering how alone I felt after the accident. I had family in Winnipeg and some old friends, and they were great, but Easton and Hunter Morrissette were my two best buddies. We were the leaders on the Warriors, the ones who had a chance at playing pro hockey. We were teammates on the ice but also off the ice, hanging out to study, play videogames, go to parties. We got each other—we all came from hockey families. We shared the same talent level, the same drive, the same goals.

  It fucking burned that neither of my friends ever bothered to come see me when I needed them the most. They both walked away from the crash with barely a scratch, and that made it even worse.

  I need to focus.

  One thing I haven’t gotten used to here is where my stall is in the dressing room. I know I’m the new guy, but I have the shittiest stall in the room. The goalies have the spots closest to the door, obviously—they’re the first onto the ice—on the right of the door, and next to them, in the corner, beside shelves of spare helmets and extra laces and big goalie pads, is me. This spot literally stinks.

  In Dallas, I sat with the other D-men along one wall. That wa
s how our equipment manager arranged things. Here it’s similar. I know there’s some strategy to where guys sit, with rookies in the corners, veterans in the middle, quiet guys near ones who talk a lot. The first game I played when I had to sit here, it threw me off. The whole room was different, and yet the thing that bugged me the most was being stuck in this corner stall. I’m still not used to it, but I have to focus on the rest of my routine, the things I can control. How I get dressed, what I think about before it’s time to hit the ice for warm-up.

  I have to be a warrior.

  Chapter 9

  Sara

  I’m talking to Kaylee via video chat. She’s been my best friend since high school. We started college together too, but then I dropped out and moved to New York. I miss her so much. She graduated and now works in Washington for the federal government. She still helps me with my videos, giving me feedback and ideas even though she’s not here to physically help me shoot them anymore.

  “So it definitely goes down as the worst first date in the history of first dates,” I finish, having heard all her news and then related my abysmal evening with Josh Heller.

  “Wow. Well, it’s not the worst. The worst would be if you had actually died.”

  “I guess. Although then I wouldn’t care.”

  “One day it will be a funny story,” she says. “You and Josh can tell your kids about it.”

  “Ha ha. He’s never going to want to see me again. And I don’t blame him.” I sigh. “You know I’m too much for some people.”

  “People who can’t handle you aren’t worth it.”

  One corner of my mouth lifts. “Thanks.”

  Her face on the computer screen smiles. She’s so pretty—light red hair, freckles, green eyes. We were both kind of uncool in high school, but her “Carrot Top” nickname became “Ginger Ninja” as we bonded and our confidence grew. “Ask him out,” she says.

  “I can’t handle rejection.”

  “Yes, you can. You don’t like it, but you can handle it. You’ll live through it.”

  “I want him to do a video with me. I want him to teach me to skate.”

  “Oh, that would be fantastic! A hockey player teaching you to skate—perfection!”