“Uh-huh.” I lowered my shoulders a touch. “Why would you want to talk to me?”
“Oh, well, I just… ” His exhalation was long. It clouded in front of him and, then, dissipated. “I wanted to let you know that I’m dropping the assault charges.” No shit. Okay. Well, that was good news. “I’ve been in rehab on and off. Just did anotherthirty days to kick ketamine. It sucked.” A sad laugh bubbled out of him. I said nothing. “We talked a lot.” He looked squeamish, nervous.
“Uh-huh. Yeah, I talked a lot to a counselor, too. Anger shit. Look.” I glanced skyward and, then, back at the skinny kid. And he was a kid. Maybe twenty if that. Pretty, even without the makeup, but washed out too, if that made sense. Addiction will do that to a person. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“No, hey, no, you should have. I mean, maybe not so many times, but yeah, I was asking for it. I stole your phone. I was going to get you alone and probably steal your wallet as well. For K. Ketamine.”
“Yeah, right, I know the slang.”
“Sure, yeah, well, therapy has these rules, and one of them is to apologize to someone that you’ve wronged, right?” I nodded. Dr. Quackers and I had discussed that a few times, and he had encouraged me to do just that if I ever got the chance. I’d assumed this guy would wring me out in court, and rightfully so, but now it looked like we both had some amends to make. “So, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for being such a little bitch. I shouldn’t have led you on or stolen your phone or planned to lift your wallet when we reached a motel.”
“Nah, hey, you were in a bad place. I was too. I shouldn’t have reacted like I did. With fists. That’s totally on me. I’d be happy to pay for your medical bills.”
“No, that’s fine. My father works at the rink too, so his insurance covered it. And since I got clean, he took me back and got me this job.”
“Cool, good, that’s good. I’m glad life is working out for you, Kyle.” He appeared surprised that I recalled his name. As if I could forget it splashed on all those court papers.
“Same. Same.” He offered me his hand. I took it. We shook, just once, then our hands fell back to our sides. “I’m going to callmy attorney today. I think we both need to just move past our dumb mistakes, yeah?”
“Yeah, I agree.”
“Cool. Okay, well, saw you in the media, that school stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, I better get to work. Those skates don’t sharpen themselves. I hope things go well for you. Thank you for accepting my apology.” He gave me a shy smile.
“Thanks for accepting mine.”
He nodded before jogging off toward the small rink. I stood there for a few minutes, then I unclenched my fingers from the brioche bag so that I could text my lawyer to fill him in on this random meeting with Kyle. My attorney was pleased to hear that things had sorted themselves out and ended our conversation with a plea to keep myself out of trouble. I was reasonably sure I could probably do that. With the help of a good therapist and the love of a good man.
I headed home to deliver brioche—and a few dozen kisses—to that good man still snoozing in my bed.
I was going to make the most of these last two cold February days.
March 4.A pretty common day. Nothing that would live in infamy unless you were a professional hockey player.
This year the trade deadline was March 4, and I awoke to pings on my phone. Rolling over to pat Finn’s side of the bed and finding it cold made me grumbly. Moving to my other side to find my phone to see that there were rumblings out of St. Louisthat Manny Milchan was on the block made me more grumbly. Rumors were saying that his wife, a model from Queens, was desperate to move back into the five boroughs. Lying on my back watching the pundits making educated—and sometimes not educated at all—guesses about whether one of the league’s best defensemen would be coming to the Vipers was icky.
Seriously, I could not think of a better word. It was icky, and it left a bad taste in my mouth that was even worse than my garlic morning breath. If they bought out Milchan, I was for sure on the next plane back to Rochester or, even worse, headed further from Finn.
Eyes bleary with sleep still, I dug around inside my chest to see if I could find some disappointment. Oh yeah, there it was, right under my heart. It sucked monkey testes that a guy who had worked so fucking hard to figure himself out, and had given 100 percent to the team, would be tossed out the window like a mismatched sock. But that was professional sports. One day you were the golden child, and the next you were a tarnished tin can being kicked down the road. And while I was feeling a little hurt over being mentioned repeatedly as said tin can, on the other hand, being sent back down meant being sent back to Finn’s arms.
Reading over the tidbits as I knocked back a power shake before my morning run, the initial upset was slowly fading into acceptance mixed with some real joy. Not at all what a pro player should be feeling at the moment his career takes yet another nose dive, but there it was.
Sipping my shake, I rang Finn, not texted, because I needed to hear his voice.
“Hey, you,” he said after picking up on the second ring. Teachers did have to get up and at them early after all.
“Hey back,” I said, leaning on the counter, phone to one ear, my shake in the other. I began swirling the thick chocolate protein shake. “So, there are rumors… ”
I heard him exhale softly. “Bad rumors or good rumors?”
“Depends on your perspective.” I took a swig, swallowed, and walked to my slider glass door. The patio was bare of any kind of outdoor furniture. Far below, taxis slipped in and out of traffic. People were filling the sidewalks. Charter buses were already squeezing through side streets to drop off tourists. “I think they’re going to cut a deal with Milchan. He’s a big name in the league, won the Norris Trophy four times.”
