“I think the pneumonia isn’t the only thing that’s wrong. And I want you to talk to me about it.”
“I’m fine.”
You’re not. You’re depressed. The words are on the tip of my tongue. But I have him in my arms for the first time in weeks. And I can’t bring myself to mess it up with a Big Serious Talk.
I clear my throat and try another tactic. “What would be fun for you right now?”
“Rightnow?” he asks.
“No, um…” I choose my words carefully. “Just generally. What are you looking forward to?”
He stares at the ceiling. “Sunshine would be nice. I want to go to California.”
My heart shimmies. Jamie wants toleave. I heard him say “sunshine,” but I can’t help but hear it a different way. I take a half second to think through my travel schedule. We’re headed to Minnesota and Dallas. Nowhere near a beach. “Okay, uh, there’s eight weeks left in the season. Why don’t you look at some tickets for the summer? We could take a nice long trip out there to see your folks? You could teach me to surf.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ll do that.”
I bury my face in his neck. Maybe planning a vacation will perk Jamie up. Maybe the sex will help get his endorphins going again. Maybe the fact that he wanted me today means he’ll start feeling better. I hope it will.
Hope is all I’ve got.
TWENTY-THREE
JAMIE
The next day I’m lying on my back on our sofa, studying the ceiling. I’ve been here for a while now. Wes is at practice, and the apartment is so fucking quiet that every thought I have echoes too loudly in my head.
A couple hours ago I looked at some flights to California. But depending on whether Wes’s team makes the playoffs, that’s still two or three months away. I just couldn’t see the point of planning a trip now.
It’s like I’ve forgotten how to feel excitement. Or—the fever I had burned all the happiness out of me. Even the high I got yesterday from sex with Wes faded fast.
The day stretches out in front of me. I have nothing to do and nobody to talk to. Lunchtime comes and goes, but I’m not even hungry. It doesn’t take any energy to be a complete bum, so my stomach has forgotten how to crave food.
Disgust makes me get up and stroll over to our wall of windows facing the waterfront. The lake is a dark, cold color, and I get a chill just looking at it. But down below, I can seepeople bundled up and hurrying through the March afternoon. Cars stop and start on Lakeshore.
The whole world is busy except for me.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. It does that a lot. I walk over and study the incoming message, but it’s only an automated text reminding me that my team has a game starting in thirty minutes. Even though I’m on leave, those messages keep coming just to remind me of everything I was missing.
I wander into the kitchen, choose a carton of yogurt and eat it. Cooking seems like a lot of trouble lately.
That done, I throw away the container and confront the empty hours ahead of me. For once my stir-craziness actually overpowers my listlessness. If I don’t go somewhere right now, I will lose my mind.
Grabbing my phone, I shove it into my pocket. Then I find my coat, adding a hat and scarf just so Wes won’t get mad if he sees me out in the cold.
I don’t even know where I’m going until I get into the elevator. But then it hits me—I’m forbidden to work, but I’m not barred from the rink. I canwatchmy guys play, right? It’s a free country.
It takes me a half hour to get there, between the subway and a pretty long walk. My chest is rattling when I finally see the building ahead of me. I stop to cough, because I don’t want to be hacking like an idiot in the stands. I hate the sound of it, and the way my stomach muscles ache from the now familiar workout of clearing my lungs.
Laughing hurts worst of all. Good thing I don’t do that very often.
When I finally reach the rink, the game is already in progress. But that’s fine, because it allows me to sneak in unnoticed. My guys look sharp out there, too. I climb thebleachers and take a seat on the top row. The rink isn’t huge—it only seats a couple thousand people. But it’s weird to be so far away from my guys during a game. I should be down there behind the bench, where Danton’s pin-shaped head is weaving back and forth as he talks to the team and calls the lines.
I miss being involved. I feel like an outsider up here. And helpless. Another coach has taken my place. Gilles is working with Danton, coaching my defensemen.
Hell, it’s working, too. My guys are doing a good job of keeping their chins up, finding the pass before they’re beset by opponents on the back check. And my goalie looks alert and ready. His stance is more relaxed than the last time I saw him play, like he’s shaken off his fear.
The teams are well matched, and the game is scoreless through the first period. Dunlop makes a couple of beautiful saves, but he doesn’t have to work all that hard. Not yet.
