You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey)

by Kelly Jamieson

  My throat thickens. I keep my face sternly impassive, my body tense. My thoughts bounce around in my head. He just said he’s sorry. All these years I’ve nursed the bitterness inside me, blaming him and Hunter for abandoning me when I was so low. Nobody can change what happened. But…hearing him acknowledge that he hadn’t been there for me and that he was sorry…and knowing he couldn’t be there…makes me feel like shit.

  I thought I’d feel better if I heard that from him.

  Instead, he’s making me look inside myself and see that I was selfish too. I never thought much about what he or Hunter were going through. I just wallowed in self-pity.

  I nod, trying to swallow. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry too.” That’s all I can get out for a moment, so it’s good that our lunches arrive. I pretend I’m fine, arranging my cutlery, letting the waitress refill my water glass. I stare down at the bowl in front of me, not even sure what I’m looking at.

  Then I lift my eyes and try again. “I was selfish,” I admit. “At first I was too out of it from the head injury and the surgeries. I knew Bryce and your dad had died. I didn’t know about your mom. I’m sorry.”

  He nods. “We were kids. Teenagers.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you either,” I add quietly.

  “You were in the hospital.”

  “I could have done something. I could have tried to call you. I thought of it, a few times, but…I felt like, what was the point. I was messed up. I didn’t have the energy.”

  “I get it. I do.”

  Our eyes meet. And I know…he does get it. I’ve been so fucking pissed at him for years, and yet he’s the only other person in my life who truly knows.

  “All I had left was hockey,” he says. “I felt like my mom didn’t care enough about me to even try to cope. It took me a long time to learn that she couldn’t help it. She has to be on medication all the time now. She just couldn’t do it. Same as you couldn’t get out of your hospital bed and drive to Regina.”

  I nod. “Fuck. That really sucks.” It sinks in that he’s gone through his own hell, thinking his mom didn’t even care. “But I get it, about hockey being all there is. It’s been more than a game. It helps me forget the world, all the real-life pain and problems.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  There’s another moment of shared understanding as we both nod. A connection I haven’t felt with anyone else since before the accident. And the last time I felt this, it was with him and Hunter.

  Okay, anyone else except Sara. But the connection I feel with her is different. It’s not based on a shared passion for hockey or a shared painful past. It’s based on something else…she gets me on a different level, knowing that I feel different from other people because of what happened to me…because she feels different too. And yet, we match…perfectly.

  Fuck. I close my eyes. I have to shove those kinds of thoughts away, especially right now, talking to Easton.

  “I was selfish, too,” Easton continues. “I just wanted to get drafted. My whole life at that point was focused on that day. Then…it wasn’t how I’d imagined it…with my parents there, even Bryce, celebrating with them and with my friends. Nobody was there. It was…hollow. It was so important to me, but it felt like a joke without them there. I was just relieved that I’d made it.”

  “I was…jealous,” I admit in a rusty voice. “When you got drafted, I still didn’t know if I’d be able to play again. I was so fucking bitter.”

  Easton closes his eyes and nods. “I felt guilty. That I could play when others couldn’t. When I got drafted, I told myself I was playing for them too.”

  I stick my fork into the mix of grains in my bowl and scoop up some. It tastes like chalk, but I chew and swallow. “I’m ashamed of myself,” I confess.

  “Me too.” He sighs, holding his burger. “But like I said, we were kids. It’s in the past. It’ll always be part of us, but maybe what happened…what we went through…it made us stronger.”

  “I don’t feel strong. Ever since the accident, I’ve been…afraid.”

  “I know.”

  Our eyes meet again.

  “I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” I say roughly.

  “We’ve got this. Look what we’ve accomplished. I even got brave enough to take a chance with Lilly.” He pauses. “Speaking of Lilly…and Sara…you fucked up the other night, bro.”

  My chin jerks back. “What?”

  “At the Fine Fox. When you told her it was none of her business. She looked like you just slapped her in the face. That was harsh, man.”

  I stare at him. Then I slump. “Yeah. I’m an asshole.”

  “Have you talked to her? Apologized?”

  “No.” I cough. “She texted me, apologizing. She said I was right, it was none of her business, and she basically told me to fuck off and have a nice life.”

  His eyes bulge. “You broke up?”

  “Appears so. But it’s just as well. Going out with her was…” I stop.

  “What?”

  I still don’t know what to say. She messed up my orderly life, but I just told Easton I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Afraid of change, afraid of doing something that’s not carefully planned…afraid of caring too much. Afraid of caring too much for her.

  Clearly, since I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her and missing her, and not giving a shit about anything else…it’s too late for that. I do care for her.

  “Shit,” I mutter. I rub my eyes. “You’re right. I fucked up.”

  “So fix it.”

  I nod. Is it too late, though? I don’t blame her for not wanting to see me ever again.

  We finish our lunch and talk shop for a while, discussing our power play unit, what’s been going right, what’s been going wrong. As we talk, it gets easier. Lighter.

  “Remember the time we filled Hunter’s gloves with pink glitter?” he asks as we’re paying the bill.

  I laugh. “Oh yeah. Every time he opened his bag after that, the glitter was still there.”

  “The prank that keeps on giving.”

  After lunch, I sit in my car for a few minutes before heading home. I need to see Sara.

  But then my phone rings. It’s Carter’s mom, Laura.

  “Hey, Laura, what’s up? I was going to call about coming to see Carter this week.”

  There’s a short silence, then she says, “Josh.”

  I wait. “Yeah?”

  “Carter’s not doing well. He’s at home now…they think he only has a day or two left.”

  I shake my head, not understanding. “He’s home?” That should be a good thing. A day or two left? Slowly, it clicks into place. “No…”

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice is thick. “If you want to see him one more time, you should come today.”

  I stare out my windshield but see nothing. “Yeah,” I finally say. “I’ll be there.”

  I have their address in Brooklyn, but I need to use my map app on my phone to figure out how to get there. It’s probably going to take me all day, for Chrissake.

  By the time I get there, I’m frazzled from driving in New York traffic and terrified of what I’m going to find. Laura opens their front door with a sad smile and lets me in.

  “Thank you for coming,” she says. “Your visits have meant so much to him.”

  “They’ve meant a lot to me too,” I choke out.

  She leads me into the living room. Carter’s lying on the couch. For the first time since I met him, he looks…broken. Sick. He never seemed sick before.

  My chest tightens as I walk over. He sees me and holds out his fist for a fist bump, but then his arm drops and he closes his eyes. I sit in the nearby armchair and meet Laura’s eyes. She sits on the couch and rubs Carter’s legs through a blanket.

  “Just came from
practice,” I tell Carter, with no clue what else to say. “Then Easton and I had lunch and talked about our power play.”

  Carter’s eyes flicker open and he nods.

  “Our coach gave us both a lecture,” I continue. “About communicating better on the ice. You were right about that. So we’re going to work on it. Playoffs start in a couple of weeks…” I keep talking and every once in a while I get a reaction, so I know he hears me.

  After about an hour, I sit there silent for a moment. I can’t stay forever, but I can’t say goodbye. I’m so fucking choked up I can barely talk because I know this is…goodbye. Then Carter reaches over to the end table and picks up some cards. He hands them to me.

  “He wants you to have those,” Laura says.

  I take them and look down at a set of hockey cards…four of them…one with my dad, the others Uncle Jase, Uncle Logan, and Uncle Matt. My cheekbones hurt with the pressure that builds behind them, my eyes stinging.

  I have to swallow hard a few times before I can speak. “Thanks, buddy,” I manage to say. “I love these. This means the world to me.”

  I give his skinny body a hug and…his little arms hug me back.

  I’m blind as I walk down their sidewalk. The tears in my eyes are blurring everything, and my chest aches so bad I can hardly breathe. I somehow unlock my car and get inside. Then I sit there. With my forehead on the steering wheel, I cry.

  * * *

  —

  When I get home, I get a glass and the bottle of tequila and sit on my couch with my feet on the coffee table. But I don’t get drunk again. I just think a lot.

  I think about Carter.

  I think about Easton.

  And I think about Sara.

  I also think about myself and what everything means, and how can I be better. How can I live up to Carter’s admiration for me? I want to be like him—going through the worst hell possible and still being cheerful and positive. How can I be a man who deserves Easton’s friendship again? Can I ever be good enough to deserve Sara’s love?

  I sip the glass of tequila as I consider these questions, and other questions, like, what if I’d never been traded to New York? What if the worst thing that could happen to me turned out to be the best thing? What does that mean for all the other things I don’t want to change? What if change makes things…better?

  Sara told me how important honesty is to her. She lives her life so honestly. I need to do the same.

  I remember her reading me that poem, “To a Mouse.” And what she’d said after, about reflecting on the past when things didn’t go as planned…which is what I’ve spent the last eight years doing. And anticipating the future…except I didn’t anticipate the future…I planned it, and hated it unless I knew exactly what was going to happen.

  But we’re all vulnerable to forces beyond our control. Seeing Carter with his illness, something he sure as hell never expected, refusing to let it limit him…Sara dealing with depression and not letting it stop her from being who she wants to be…they faced things they couldn’t plan for.

  I need to be a warrior.

  Chapter 26

  Sara

  Hello darkness, my old friend.

  I’ve been watching Dr. Pimple Popper videos and eating Jacques Torres bonbons since Sunday morning. It’s Tuesday now. I think.

  I had the idea of going out to Ignite Cycle, but that seemed like too much trouble. I should be editing the video I made with Layla last week, where we talked about body positivity and the progress the fashion industry has made, but also how there’s still work to do. That also seems like too much trouble. I haven’t checked my emails or social media since Saturday, other than watching for a reply from Josh to the text I sent him.

  I don’t get a reply.

  My eyes are gritty from all the tears I’ve cried. My chest aches and my whole body feels weighed down.

  I should have known that I would screw things up somehow. Most guys figure out how weird I am early on. It just took Josh longer. I also should have known better than to think he could love me. I’ve always known I’m so messed up no one will ever love me.

  I’d been cruising along happily focused on my career, growing my viewership and listeners and followers, and everything was great. What on earth made me think I could have any kind of relationship, never mind with someone like Josh—talented, dedicated to his sport, smart, and funny, but also wounded, still carrying scars of a tragedy that happened years ago?

  Which is what got us into this mess.

  I pluck another chocolate from the box and take a bite.

  I thought I was learning to slow down and analyze things better before acting. I shouldn’t have assumed that Josh and I had the kind of relationship where I could get all up in his business.

  I realize that I’m beating myself up over this and that’s not going to help. I’ll just let myself stay immersed in this misery for, oh…a year or so. Ha ha, kidding—just for a couple of days. Then I’ll get back on my stationary bike and pedal hard and work hard and just be happy with what I’ve got.

  Suuuuuure.

  I can’t help but relive so many Josh moments—our dirty hockey talk recording my podcast, making him go on the bumper cars, him teaching me to skate with so much patience. Him finding out I was a virgin and being so gentle and thoughtful.

  My insides go all soft and mushy again, even as my heart cracks open wider. Telling yourself you shouldn’t have fallen in love is easy, but getting over it doesn’t happen just like that. Especially when I’m pretty sure I found my guy. My person. And that’s so, so sad.

  The hockey game starts at seven. They’re in Columbus tonight. Maybe I’ll watch it. I probably shouldn’t. Nah, I won’t. I’ll watch more Dr. Pimple Popper videos, although I think I’ve now seen them all. More than once.

  I know I’m going to watch the game.

  I drag myself off the couch and make popcorn, just to change things up from chocolate and rosé wine. Then I snuggle back into my fluffy blanket, wearing the same PJs I put on Saturday night. I should probably shower at some point.

  That seems like a lot of trouble, too.

  The game is nuts. I mean, in a good way. The Bears score twenty-six seconds into the game. Then again about five minutes later. And again near the end of the first period. They’re on fucking fire.

  This kind of cheers me up.

  Things get heated as the first period ends. It seems that Columbus is frustrated. The Bears are just shutting them right down. This results in a roughing penalty that gives the Bears a power play for the first one minute and forty-four seconds of the second period. Excellent!

  Josh scores a goal right away on the power play, with a blistering shot from the point. I laugh out loud and clap my hands.

  I still care.

  I watch him and Easton hug after, then skate back to the bench laughing. My heart bumps in my chest and I stare at the TV screen. “Oh,” I say out loud. “Oh yes…” And a smile tugs at my lips.

  I don’t know what happened between them after Josh stormed out Saturday night. But it looks like I at least didn’t make things worse. God, I hope, I so hope, they’ve talked about stuff and worked their shit out. That would be wonderful. And would make me feel better, knowing that they’re okay, even if Josh and I aren’t. I want so much for Josh—everything. I want him to be happy.

  I brush away one lone tear. I’m not going to cry again.

  The game ends up in a six–nothing win for the Bears, a shutout for Colton. I’m beaming and cheering out loud as they all bump helmets with Colton.

  I fall back into the couch cushions. I’m sad and heartbroken for myself, but I’m happy for Josh and the team.

  * * *

  —

  Wednesday morning. This should be the end of my allowed wallowing. I lie in bed debating whether to get up, or nah.<
br />
  Okay, I have to do this. I can’t live my life like this. This is different than when I was depressed in college. Now I have a passion that requires focus and commitment. I don’t have Josh. But I’m alive. So I drag my ass out of my lovely, comfy bed and change into workout clothes.

  At Ignite, I’m nearly whining out loud, “I don’t want to do this. I don’t waaaaant to do this.”

  But I climb on the cycle for the class and once my legs are moving and I’m into it, it’s one of the best classes I’ve had. And I feel better after. I may not be able to walk tomorrow, but right now I feel good.

  I pick up a breakfast bagel sandwich and a coffee on my way home, where I shower for the first time in days. And with shampooed hair and my Flowerbomb lotion rubbed into my skin, smelling of jasmine, roses, orchids, and freesia, I feel even better. Not great, but better.

  Since I have no intention of leaving my condo again for the foreseeable future, I dress in my softest black leggings and a big gray hoodie. I’m about to bite into my sandwich when my phone buzzes. It’s the doorman downstairs, Bowen. He’s bringing up a delivery.

  Huh. Okay.

  I open the door and I can’t even see him behind the enormous bouquet of pale pink roses.

  “Whoa.” I step aside and let him carry them in. “Just set them on the counter. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiles. “They’re beautiful.”

  They are. I stare at them for a moment and then notice the small envelope. I pluck it out of the greenery and open it.

  Roses are red, violets are blue.

  I screwed up and without you I’m poo.

  I have to read it again. I crack up laughing, but my laughter is almost a sob. I don’t even need to see the name beneath the bad poem: Josh.