* * *
After two terrible games back,you have to wonder if Jack Parker has it this year or if the injury and suspension were too much to overcome.
If you’re Coach Tidwell, you can’t be happy about him running around in those tights during his suspension. You’d want him training or watching game tape or something.
Do you think his sudden engagement has anything to do with it? The girl’s cute, but when you have Veronica Burke as an option, I don’t know how you could let that go.
Be honest, do you think a guy like Jack Parker can’t have both? He probably has his cake and is eating it too.
Whatever’s going on, he needs to figure his shit out soon, or the team isn’t even going to make the playoffs this year.
“They aren’t tights!They’re breeches! And we’re not engaged!” My head falls to the steering wheel with a dramatic sigh. I need to stop listening to this stuff. I thought it would help me stay connected to Jack while he’s away, but I was mistaken.
All I feel is a continued well of guilt. His job performance is suffering because of me.
This is why he doesn’t date during the season. Because the Cup is and should be his priority, not some soft girl from a small town in New Hampshire.
A little voice that’s never been kind to me scolds. I turn the off radio and cut the engine, making my way into the house with takeout from Chez LaBranche.
Since my surgery, I’ve had issues with anemia, so this burger isn’t just a want. It’s a need.
After listening to way too much sports radio, so is a beer.
I dip into the fridge, grab a bottle of pumpkin beer that Jack left for me, and pop the cap. Wisps of cold air spiral from the top, and I bring the bottle to my lips, savoring the cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with the hops.
“Game out back?” Gus peeks out of his office, the sound of a beer opening apparently his call to arms.
“That sounds perfect!” I happily sigh. “I’m just going to change into my game day sweater, but I’ll meet you out there?”
“Sure, I’ll go start the fire.”
“I got you both food in here, too.” I motion to the giant bag of stuff.
Emy stretches her arms, walking down the stairs from a mid-afternoon nap. “Oh, is that Chez LaBranche I smell?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Yes!” she says, shooting her fist in the air. “Have I told you how much I love you lately!”
“Not nearly enough.” I bat my eyelashes and feign a wounded countenance.
“You’re right. Five times a day isn’t enough. I’ll work on getting it up to the twenty you deserve.” Emy pulls plates down from the cabinet. “I’ll plate. You go change into your cute Parker jersey—”
“Sweater.” I correct. My Uncle Claude was very particular about me using the correct terminology when referring to parts of the hockey uniform.
Emy waves me off. “Yes, yes. You’re a dying breed, my dear. I hate to tell you, but I’ve even heard the hockey players refer to it as a jersey online.”
The fire is already roaring when I meet Emy and Gus out back in my green and goldsweater.
Nervously, I settle into my seat, pull a blanket over my lap and sip my beer. Jack hasn’t just played poorly his last few games. He’s been nearly killed in each of them. Every time he’s slammed against the glass, the impact reverberates through my body.
“He’s going to have a better game tonight. All the rust will be knocked off. I can feel it,” Emy says as if she can sense the nervous energy humming along my skin.
“He better, or Coach is going to have to drop him down the line soon,” Gus says in his signature matter-of-fact manner, making me want to throw something at him.
I toss him a look instead. “No way, he’s better than anyone on that line, even on one foot.”
“Aww, such a good fiancée,” Emy teases, wiping at a glob of ketchup on her cheek.
