I don’t know how to make things better. I love this guy, I really do. But I didn’t anticipate how hard this would be.
I’m still agonizing about it during the coaches’ meeting, and I desperately hope my colleagues don’t notice how distracted I am as our boss, Bill Braddock, drones on about ordering new equipment and the summer clinic the organization will be running. An hour later, the meeting blessedly comes to its conclusion, and I scrape back my chair, eager to get home. It’s a bit ridiculous of me to go back to the condo right now, but practice isn’t for another three hours, and the last thing I feel like doing is hanging around the arena.
“Jamie.” Braddock’s voice stops me before I can dart out the door.
I swallow a sigh, and slowly turn around. “Yeah, Coach?”
“Everything all right?” His tone is light, but there’s concern in his eyes.
“Everything’s great,” I lie.
“You looked a bit distracted this morning.” Shit. I guess someone did notice. Bill’s gaze sharpens. “I know your goalie is struggling, but I wouldn’t want you to take it personally.”
I don’t. It’s just one more thing going sideways in my life. “He’ll pull through,” I tell Bill. “He has the skills, but the kid is just having a rough patch. Every goalie goes through ’em.”
Bill nods thoughtfully. “True. But maybe we need to offer him some more support. I could ask Hessey to spend some time with the kid. Try to help him find his confidence. We don’t just breed champions here. We shape young men and women. Luckily, we have all the resources we need to shower on those who are struggling.”
A zing of panic shoots up my spine. “Give me a couple of weeks with him,” I say more calmly than I feel. I can’t have Bill thinking that my coaching isn’t enough. What the hell am I here for, then? “If Dunlop gets the impression that he’s a problem child, that won’t do a thing for his confidence.”
Braddock rubs a hand over his chin. “If that’s how you want to play it. But your team’s morale is low, so the Dunlop kid’s psyche isn’t the only one that needs massaging. I think a little extra love and attention from the coaching staff might be just the thing they need to pull together.”
My heart sinks into my shoes. I don’t want a more senior coach to solve Dunlop’s problem when I can help him myself. And Braddock is a smart man, but if there’s a coach on our team who needs some extra support, it’s Danton and his big fucking mouth. I can’t believe he doesn’t see that. “I’ll check in with you next week,” I promise.
Bill claps a hand onto my shoulder. “We’ll talk soon. I look forward to it.” Then he leaves me there to stew in my own aggravation.
I feel like all I’ve done these past couple months is lose. Lose patience, lose the ability to talk to my boyfriend, lose that indescribable ease that always existed between me and Wes.
But have we really lost it, or just misplaced it? I agonize about it some more as I hop on the subway and head home. Wes has surely left for his morning skate, and I’m relieved at the timing. Then I’m guilty for feeling relieved. And angry for feeling guilty. And annoyed for feeling angry. My emotions don’t like me today.
The first thing I notice when I enter the living room is the chair. Or lack thereof. The death chair is gone.
My jaw falls open. I stalk toward the brand new chair that is taking the place of the armchair that’s haunted mynightmares for months. Wes must have ordered this yesterday, because I’m now staring at a big, black, cushy contraption that seems to have more knobs and dials than any chair has a right to have.
There’s a post-it note stuck on one of the padded arms. I snatch it up and skim Wes’s familiar chicken-scratch scrawl.
Dude at the store said this one will be better for our backs. Ten different massage settings.We should use it on our balls and see if it doubles as a sex toy. Fingers crossed.
I read the note again. I look at the chair again. I’m torn between laughing and cursing.
My humor fades fast, though, because...damn it, this is classic Wes, thinking a piece of furniture will erase the tension between us.
I crumple the note between my fingers. Wes is fooling himself if he thinks bruised feelings and growing resentment can be smoothed over by a chair.
ELEVEN
JAMIE
When Friday comes, Wes leaves for a game in New York, and, frankly, I’m relieved again. I hate myself for feeling this way, but I’ve had a bitch of a time pasting on a happy face this week. I’m not having success with that now either, because my team’s scrimmage today is a total disaster.
While Wes’s team had won both of their home games this week, mine is on a four-game losing streak since our tourney in Montreal. Morale is low. The boys are angry and frustrated, and it’s showing in their game play.
I blow the whistle for the third time in ten minutes, skating toward the two red-faced teenagers who are exchanging not-so-pleasant words in the faceoff. “Cool it,” I snap when one of them hurls a rather nasty insult about his teammate’s mother.
Barrie doesn’t even look repentant. “He started it.”
Taylor protests. “Bullshit!”
They break out in another round of heated bickering, and it takes a few seconds for me to figure out what they’re bitching about. Apparently Barrie had accused Taylor of being thereason we lost our last game, since Taylor is the one who drew a completely unnecessary penalty that resulted in the other team scoring on the power play. Taylor refused to accept the blame (and why should he? It takes a lot more than one player’s error to lose a game) and started chirping that Barrie’s single mom is a cougar.
