Fuck.
So I man up and do what is right. “Take care of yourself,” I whisper. “You’re really fucking important to me.”
He hugs me a little tighter and takes a shaky breath. “You too.”
Okay. I can do this. “I love you,” I say, taking half a step back.
“Love you, too,” he mutters.
He doesn’t look me in the eye.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He putters with the last few items on the bed, zipping them into wherever they go. The cab company texts him that the driver is downstairs ahead of schedule.
Awesome.
I walk him as far as the door of our apartment. I kiss him on the cheek and hug him one more time.
Then I let him walk into the hallway alone. If I go downstairs I’ll just make a fool of myself.
Instead, I put my forehead against the cool steel of our door and listen to the sound of his footsteps retreating.
One more time I go over it in my mind. A trip to Cali to see his parents. He can’t go to work anyway. He said we’re not breaking up. It’s a vacation.
So why does it all feel like I just let my heart leap out of my chest and take a cab to the airport?
TWENTY-FIVE
WES
After our 3-2 win over Minnesota, I heave myself into the first row of seats on the bus. I should be riding the same high as the guys around me, but I’m not. I’ve been a basket case for two days now. It showed on the ice tonight—I didn’t score a goal. Didn’t get an assist. I skated my ass off, but I couldn’t seem to summon up any magic.
Jamie took all the magic with him when he left me.
He didn’t leave you. He’s on vacation.
Bullshit. He left me.
Lemming boards the bus and accidentally locks eyes with me. I know it’s an accident because he quickly looks away again. He passes the open seat next to me and heads toward the back.
Yeah, not all of my teammates are psyched to sit next to the gay guy. It turns out that growing up in Beantown wasn’t enough of a common bond with Lemming after all.
Ten minutes later the bus pulls up in front of a five-star hotel in downtown Saint Paul, and my teammates and I trudge off the bus and into the lobby. I’m in a sour mood as I head upto my room. I change out of my suit and into sweats and a hoodie, but sitting around in the empty suite only bums me out, so I decide to go down to the hotel bar. Eriksson and some of the other guys planned on going to a strip club tonight. They invited me, but didn’t look surprised when I turned them down. They’ve come to accept my antisocial grumpiness, I guess.
I ride the elevator down to the lobby, and I don’t care that I look like a slob. The suit-and-tie routine is reserved for travel and after-game press, but the spotlight isn’t on me right now and if I want to have a goddamn drink in my sweats, then I damn well will.
I slide onto a tall stool at the long, shiny counter and order a whiskey, which the male bartender delivers in speedy fashion. Maybe he sees the desperation in my eyes. But he doesn’t try to go allCheerson me and initiate a heart-to-heart, which I appreciate.
Sipping my drink, I check my phone to see if Jamie has texted. He hasn’t. Frustration bubbles inside me, hotter than the burn of the alcohol as it slides down my throat. He called me when he landed in San Francisco, but other than a few “I’m fine, folks are doing great” messages, I haven’t talked to him.
I wonder if he’s rehearsing the breakup speech he’s going to give me when he gets home.
My heart cracks at the thought. I slug back the rest of the whiskey and order another. The bartender delivers it with sympathetic eyes.
