For the Win

by Kelly Jamieson

  I hear a thunk behind me, a muffled curse, then another thud.

  “Jesus Christ,” Russ mutters, followed by a loud “oof.”

  With a sigh, I give up the pose to see what’s going on. Three guys are lying on the floor all tangled up with each other. I move my head from side to side disapprovingly. “What the hell?”

  “He started it.” Russ points at Nicky.

  “I lost my balance.” Nicky tries to extricate himself. “Sorry.”

  “He knocked me over and I fell into Archie.” Russ shakes his head.

  Arya straightens to regard the mess. “It’s like dominoes,” she says calmly. “Are you all okay?”

  They’re lying on the floor laughing their asses off, so I think they’re okay.

  “This class is a little off the rails,” Arya says. “I’ll let it go this time, but next time, you’re going to have to be in the right headspace to prepare for playoffs.”

  I meet her eyes, which are dancing with amusement. Damn, she’s good.

  * * *

  —

  I get to the arena early for our Thursday night game and sneak into the visitors’ dressing room. My gaze roams over the cubbies until it lands on JP’s jersey. I grab his gloves and stuff them with the Dubble Bubble gums I have in my pocket, pushing the wrapped gum right down into the fingers. I startle and glance around when I hear a noise, but it’s out in the corridor. Quickly I finish up. I give the gloves a shake and nothing falls out. Perfect! I put them back just how I found them and slip out of the room, chuckling.

  I go through my pregame routine, dressing the way I always do. When I’m dressed, I head out into the hall before everyone else and do my moves—some stick handling with no puck, lunges, a few jumps. Then Teddy opens the door and the other guys start coming through. I slash Bergie’s knee, bump gloves with Scotty, bear-hug Bellsy, and hold my stick butt end to the floor while Jimmy uses it to practice a couple face-offs.

  The atmosphere in the building is electric; it always is when these two teams play each other. A lot of Eagles fans travel to their team’s away games here, so things can get a bit rowdy in the stands.

  Glen, our announcer, calls out the intro. “And nooooooow, here they aaaaare, your California Condooooooors!”

  Lights are flashing, and there’s smoke and deafening noise from the sound system and the cheering crowd as we all take the leap onto the ice and do a lap.

  Glen announces the starting lineup, we stand for the anthem, and then Jimmy takes the face-off. And wins it.

  Chapter 17

  Arya

  Janey and I arrive at the Coliseum. Harrison gave us directions yesterday about where to park and which entrance to use. I’m more familiar with the Coliseum since I’ve taught classes there, and I lead the way inside. Making our way through the crowded concourse, we find a small shop selling Condors clothing and memorabilia, and I purchase a Condors baseball cap. “In case someone gets a hat trick,” the guy behind the sales register says with a grin.

  I laugh. “Right!”

  “Don’t worry, if it happens, hats will be on sale after that so you can get another one.”

  “Good to know.”

  We pick up popcorn and beers and find our seats. They’re in a corner, about the middle of the lower bowl, so we have a pretty good view. The players are on the ice warming up.

  “Okay, where is he?” Janey asks, dipping her hand into the bucket of popcorn.

  I scan the ice. It’s hard to find him among all the Condors’ jerseys and helmets, but I know he’s number twenty. I spot him before I can see the number, though—I recognize the size and shape of him. “There. Number twenty.” I point.

  With “Jumpman” by Drake blasting through the arena, we watch the players skate around and shoot the puck at the goalie. It’s been a while since I went to a live hockey game and I forgot how electric and exciting the atmosphere is. My head bobs along with the beat of the music.

  I search out number thirteen for the Golden Eagles at the other end of the ice. “That’s JP, Harrison’s nephew,” I tell Janey, pointing. “He told me almost his whole family will be here tonight, since they’re playing each other. His half brother is the coach of the Eagles.” I look at the bench, but I wrinkle my nose, as I don’t know who he is.

  I’ve told Janey a few things about Harrison’s big, crazy family.

  Harrison takes a lap around behind the goal, and as he does so, he looks up, right at me. A smile breaks across his face, a smile large enough for me to see behind his visor, and he lifts a big gloved hand as he glides around the curve of the boards.

  “He saw you,” Janey says. She bumps me with her shoulder.

  “Yes.” I tamp down my urge to squeal.

  The horn sounds to end the warm-up and the players slowly start leaving the ice. Harrison takes one more shot at the now empty net, hitting the back of it with the puck, then hops off the ice. I think he glances my way before he disappears.

  I shove popcorn in my mouth and look around the arena as we wait for the game to start. “I wonder where the rest of Harrison’s family is. Probably Everly is here. Oh, her boyfriend was out there too. I completely forgot about that. We have to watch for him when the game starts.”

  “I know nothing about hockey,” Janey says. “You’ll have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t know that much either. I went to games in college, but that was a few years ago.”

  I flip through the game-day program we were handed as we entered the section where we’re sitting. There’s Harrison, an unsmiling, official photo. He looks…fierce.

  The game gets off to a fast and physical start, both teams immediately slamming each other into the boards. My eyes pop open wide when I see it’s JP hitting Harrison. “Whoa.”

  Janey and I exchange looks of alarm.

  They rough each other up a little bit, but it looks like…they’re smiling. Then they slap each other’s backs and skate toward their own bench.

  “What was that?” I wonder aloud.

  The play resumes, fierce and heated. The Condors are heading down the ice toward the Eagles’ net when two players collide. It happens so quickly, I’m not really sure who hit whom, but a Condor player is lying facedown on the ice. The whistle blows and every Condor on the ice converges around the Eagles player involved in the hit. There’s a lot of pushing and shoving. The refs jump in and start separating people, and a guy from the Condors bench runs over to the player on the ice.

  The fans behind us are shouting to “take that motherfucker out,” I guess referring to the player who hit the Condors guy. Eeep. Bloodthirsty.

  I watch, my breathing suspended, my attention darting from the guy on the ice (who I quickly determine is Scotty—dammit, I hope he’s okay) and the mêlée of players near the net. Harrison is in that mêlée, and I chomp on my lip as I observe the scuffle. Eventually things settle down, Scotty gets up and skates off, and the coach of the Condors is standing on the bench, shouting.

  The ref goes over to talk to him. I have no idea what they’re saying but it’s certainly a heated discussion. On the scoreboard, a video of the hit is playing, slowed down, and the crowd roars in disapproval as we all see the hit in slow motion. The Eagles get a penalty, which makes the crowd happy, but I’m still anxious about Scotty. He’s on the bench, bent over, shaking his head.

  “I hope he’s okay.”

  “I forget that you know all those guys now.” Janey leans into me.

  “I know. I’m not sure this is good. I might have a heart attack before the game is over.”

  “It’s really physical,” Janey says. “I love it!”

  The Condors score a goal on that power play, so yay! It’s a goal by the young kid, Edvin Rintala, assisted by Harrison and Olle Larsson. Janey and I high-five each other as the fans cheer around us, nearly blowing
the roof off the Coliseum.

  I’m watching Harrison more than I’m watching the game. Even when he’s on the bench, I’m fascinated, seeing him wipe down the inside of his visor after one of the trainers hands him a towel, lean into the guy next to him—Nicky, I think—and gesture as they talk intently, then leap to his feet when his team gets control of the puck and flies toward the Eagles’ goal.

  The red light goes on, the horn blasts, the crowd cheers, and Harrison is celebrating with his teammate on the bench.

  Seeing him like this reminds me of the day I watched him practice and decided I’d go out with him. He’s so engaged in everything that’s happening, so focused, and clearly very damn talented when he’s on the ice.

  And yet, off the ice…he’s kind. Gentle. Thoughtful. Maybe a little overeager in some respects, but not aggressive. I want to believe that. I want to trust my instincts about him.

  * * *

  —

  After the game, which the Condors win following an overtime shoot-out, I’m exhausted.

  Janey and I stop by the Golden Fish. We hang out with Taj and Ziggy, Arlo and Indigo, and have a drink. “I didn’t even play the game,” I say, laughing at how stressful it was.

  “Imagine how the players feel,” Taj says.

  “Wow, no kidding. They work so hard.” I’m in awe of their fitness and stamina, their toughness, both mental and physical. Can I really teach them anything? I’m questioning that now.

  Taj is going to Ziggy’s place tonight, so Janey drives me home.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” she says, her voice alive with enthusiasm. “I think I’m a new hockey fan!”

  “Well, good. I’m glad it wasn’t too boring for you.”

  “Not at all! We should go to the playoff games.”

  “Okay, great!”

  Inside, I lock the door, turn on the lights, and pull my phone out of my small purse.

  I send Harrison a text congratulating him on the overtime goal he scored. It didn’t win the game, that was Rintala’s goal, but still, he scored, and I’m happy for him. I don’t know where he is; he probably had to do stuff after the game. Maybe he’s out with his friends. It’s a Friday night.

  He texts me back to say thanks.

  Then I ask, Are you coming to SUP yoga tomorrow? He’s done a couple of water classes when he can.

  Sorry, can’t. We have a team meeting.

  Okay, no worries.

  I’ll have a busy day tomorrow. Maybe we can have dinner?

  Sure, sounds good.

  * * *

  —

  After my Saturday classes, which end at two o’clock, I decide to ride down to the beach. It’s definitely spring now, the sun stronger and warmer, the air soft. I pedal along the path, gazing across the wide expanse of pale sand toward the glistening ocean. Lots of other people are enjoying the warm weather too, sitting on the sand, walking, biking.

  A vast feeling of well-being expands inside me and I smile as I ride. At this moment, I feel so lucky. Yeah, I’ve had some shitty shit happen in my life, but right now, I feel good. I have friends, I have—I guess—a new boyfriend who I really like, I have work that I love. And how can you be down when the sun is blazing in a clear blue sky and I’m at the frickin’ beach?

  I ride all the way to Santa Monica Pier and decide to stop at a little ice cream place for a treat. It’s not as good as Leo’s Creamery, but I basically love any kind of ice cream.

  I study the menu, trying to decide between a waffle cone with toasted almond ice cream, or a s’mores sundae. Gah! Finally, I place my order for the cone.

  Holding it, I wheel my bike over to a picnic table, where I take a seat facing the sun and turn my face up to the sky, before licking the ice cream. Absolute deliciousness—cold, creamy, sweet.

  I enjoy people watching, especially at the pier, so as I eat my cone, I take in my surroundings, watching a teenage couple flirt, a family try to soothe a crying baby, and a girl with the cutest dog ever that I really, really want to pet.

  Then I do a double take.

  I stare at the couple standing across the wooden deck near the railing of the pier. I’m not that close, but…that looks like Harrison.

  My stomach clenches as he laughs and leans in closer to the woman. She’s pretty—long shiny, dark hair, wow, killer long legs in a pair of short shorts.

  He nuzzles her hair and…oh my God…kisses her cheek.

  My mouth falls open and my head jerks back. Suddenly I feel cold.

  Smiling, she turns her face to him so their mouths meet.

  A rock lodges in my chest. It can’t be him.

  I lick my bottom lip, then bite it. I slowly stand and make my way toward the building that houses the ice cream shop. Staying close to the wall, I approach the corner.

  Neither of them is paying attention to me, but still, I hug the corner of the building and peer around it.

  Fuckety fucking fuck.

  It is Harrison!

  My skin tingles everywhere, and my head goes fuzzy. I can’t think. What the fuck?

  He had a team meeting…then said he’d be busy.

  Oh yeah…he’s getting busy all right.

  I back up around the corner and lean my head against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. My stomach is a mass of knots and tears burn my eyes. I don’t understand this.

  We agreed we’re dating.

  But I guess we never talked about being exclusive. Am I an idiot for assuming that?

  Yes, apparently I am. Once again.

  Fuck, I should have known better! I can’t rely on my own instincts when it comes to judging character.

  I need to get out of here. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  I toss my cone into a trash bin, grab my bike and jump onto it. Pedaling away, I blink back tears and grit my teeth.

  Do I have the right to be hurt and angry? We just started seeing each other.

  We had sex. That should mean something. Shouldn’t it?

  Maybe I’m a naïve little girl from the north, thinking that. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything to him. Maybe he’s seeing lots of other women. He never promised me anything.

  But the things he said…how hard he tried to get me to go out with him. Why would he do that if he was still seeing other women?

  My head is spinning faster than the tires on my bike. Legs pumping furiously, I turn away from the beach and head up Rose Avenue toward Taj’s house.

  Fuck Harrison Wynn.

  Of course I have the right to be angry and hurt. I have the right to feel however I feel. And I’m fucking pissed.

  I zig-zag through the residential streets till I’m home. I lock up my bike, stride into the house, and slam the door shut.

  I’m not sure who I’m angrier at—Harrison or me, for being so stupid.

  I retrieve my chunk of rose quartz from my bedroom, then sit on the living room floor in Lotus Position, palms in Jnana Mudra, a position known for its calming nature. The rose quartz will help with the negativity.

  I close my eyes.

  I use my failures as a stepping-stone.

  I’ve learned from past mistakes. That doesn’t mean I’ll never screw up again. And I’ll learn from this screw-up too.

  Somehow.

  No, I will. I can do this.

  I focus on my breathing, still too fast. I try to observe thoughts as they drift through my mind without getting involved with them or judging them, trying to just be aware of each mental note as it arises. I know I’ve tended to quickly judge experiences as good or bad. I need to balance my thoughts.

  Thoughts of Harrison. His smile. His words. The fun I had with him. That’s a good thing.

  We can learn from everything.

  I sit like that for about twenty minutes, I think. Then I open my eyes.
My mouth droops glumly. I feel better, but truthfully, I’m still hurt.

  I could beat myself up over letting my guard down and getting hurt, but I knew what I was doing. I was nervous about it. Okay, terrified. I convinced myself to go out with Harrison because I had to move forward with my life. I knew there was risk involved. I accepted the risk.

  I am capable of anything.

  Now regretting the ice cream I didn’t eat, I rise to my feet and head to the kitchen. In the freezer I find a tub of Cherry Garcia. When I pry the lid off, I’m disappointed to see it’s nearly empty. Oh well. I grab a spoon and dig into the ice cream. When it’s gone, I open the cupboard, hoping for a can of sweetened condensed milk. Score!

  I eat that too.

  What am I going to say to Harrison? What am I going to do?

  He said maybe we’d go out for dinner tonight.

  When the can is empty, I set it on the counter and go get my phone from my yoga bag.

  There’s a text from Harrison. What time should I pick you up for dinner? Anywhere you want to go?

  My bottom lip pushes out sadly. Ending things by text is shitty. On the other hand, I don’t really want to go for dinner with him.

  We need to talk.

  Good, good. I’m a breakup cliché. I wait for his response.

  Okaaaay…

  I don’t feel up for dinner, but maybe you could come by for a few minutes?

  My phone rings.

  I scrunch up my face, then answer it. “Hi.”

  “Hi, beautiful.”

  My heart bumps.

  “What’s going on?”

  I don’t answer right away. I haven’t had time to figure out exactly what I’m going to say. I want to be honest, but it’s hard to admit how hurt I am. Finally, I say, “I think we may have had a misunderstanding about this dating thing.”

  Silence.

  Then, “I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

  I swallow. “Okay.”

  I’m still in my leggings and tank top from my classes earlier. I look down at myself. I should change. But it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing.