She pulls out her phone. You still have a few minutes to go.
I turn around and sit beside Knudy. She smiles, but it’s a Cheshire-cat grin that puts my guard up.
What’s up? I ask.
I have a question. How come you don’t hate me? she asks.
I squint at her. What the fuck? Why would I hate you?
Isn’t the reason you hate Mats because he had a role in getting Jordan kicked off the Mustangs? Her voice is calm and detached, like this isn’t a huge conflict that I wrestle with constantly. How can I enjoy my time with Mats after what he did to my brother?
Did Becks tell you? And after bragging that she was such a vault of secrets. Fuck.
Knudy smirks. That’s as good as a yes. Nobody told me. Not Becks or Mats. I figured it out all by my lonesome.
I groan. I fucking hate goalies. You guys are always smarter than regular hockey players.
There’s a hum outside, and I see Mats’s car. I wave at him, then stand up.
Gotta go. I’m happy to end this conversation, since I’m trying hard to keep my Jordan thoughts and my Mats thoughts completely separate.
Knudy follows me as I put on my boots.
Realistically, I’m as much to blame as Mats is. I don’t understand why you only hate him. She bends down so she can really look at my face. If you even hate him anymore…
I straighten. Do you know the reason my brother got cut?
She nods, which makes no sense at all. Then she must realize that Mats is the reason why Jordan is gone.
I zip up my jacket. Can you tell me exactly why?
Knudy shakes her head. Stupid confidentiality agreements.
Maybe you don’t have all the information, I call back over my shoulder.
Unfortunately, this conversation doesn’t put me in the best mood to face Mats. I’ve been looking forward to tonight. Marjorie is outspoken and hilarious; Geraldine is scary yet nurturing. And Mats is the centre of everything—tolerating our teasing, insults, and invasive questions with good humour. He’s the straight man, and without him none of the comedy would work.
I don’t even know how to categorize our relationship. We’re not really friends who would hang out at any other time, yet we’re bonded by this fundraising thing. I like his bluntness, the way he calls me on all my shit, because that’s how I roll too. And of course I find him attractive. Anyone spending more than five minutes in his company could see that he’s that perfect combination of hot yet not conceited.
But the more I like Mats, the guiltier I feel about my brother. The only way to enjoy my time with Mats is to lock all the shit with my brother in a tiny box and shove it into the back of my mental closet.
Everything okay? Mats asks, probably because I’m so quiet.
Yeah, just got a lot going on, I reply.
I debate asking him about Jordan again, now that we know each other better, but I suspect that the answer isn’t going to change. And it’ll definitely piss Mats off.
When we arrive at Marjorie’s place, she too is a little out of sorts. She and Geraldine are sniping about some earlier argument. When I was a kid and found my parents in a mood like this, I would back right out the door. But I can’t do that here.
Still, I can’t generate my usual bubbly chat. Luckily, Mats carries the conversation tonight. He’s been doing research into the Schultz transportation dynasty, and he asks Marjorie about some historic mergers and takeovers. Marjorie lights up whenever she gets to discuss business, so I can tune out and relax. I look around the upholstered living room and realize that I was wrong about rich people. Sure, Marjorie lives in a mansion, but so many things are familiar, like the Midwestern menu and the frank way she talks.
Once we’re seated for dinner, Geraldine brings out the soup course. I’m pretty sure it’s Campbell’s tomato, which I used to make when I was in charge of dinner back home.
Marjorie has a few mouthfuls, then puts down her spoon. She looks grumpy again.
So, tell me, how did the two of you first meet? she demands.
Someone inhales sharply. Was it me, or Mats? Or was it Geraldine, who spilled the crescent rolls across the table and is now cramming them back into their basket?
