I’m about to answer when the déjà vu of this question strikes me. Why are you asking again? You said you talked to Jordan and got this settled.
Her eyes widen and she takes a deep breath before answering. Yeah, that’s the thing I lied about. You and I were just getting to know each other, and things were getting so good. And I have asked Jordan—many, many times—but he’s been pretty shifty. So, I still don’t know exactly what happened.
I’m lucky that I made no promises, because now I am getting upset. I pull my hands away from hers. When you said you had gotten over your anger about what went down between me and your brother—what actually happened?
She sits beside me and grabs at my hands, but I shake her off.
Please, Mats, don’t get mad, she pleads. Once I got to know you, I knew you were too good, too principled, to have done what Jordan said.
My voice is deadly calm as I ask, And what did he say I’d done?
She doesn’t hesitate, because she has no confidentiality agreements stopping her. He said you made up a bunch of racist bullshit and complained to the coach. Then you used your role on the Athletic Council to get him kicked off the team.
Finally, here’s the true reason that Cleo used to hate me, and I’m not even shocked. The fact that this piece of shit goes around telling everyone whatever he likes is infuriating, yet exactly what I would expect from him.
What does surprise me is how removed I feel from this conversation. I’m completely detached as I ask, And why would I go to all that trouble?
Because the two of you were in competition for ice time and you wanted to get rid of him, she recites, like a memorized poem from elementary school.
It’s like fighting with both hands tied behind my back. I can’t mention the incident with the player from another team, or the bullying Jordan did to his own teammates.
Cleo, you know hockey. Does that make sense to you?
I know Jordan can be an asshole. Sometimes it doesn’t take much for teammates or coaches to get ticked off at him, she says.
I have to cut through all the brainwashing her brother has done. Who’s a better hockey player? Me, or Jordan?
You, of course. She bites her lip. It’s like she’s fighting her own common sense. But you’ve gotten better since you got to Monarch. If Jordan got college-level coaching, he would have improved too, like I have.
If he’d listened to coaching, maybe. But what’s the point of arguing this? She must realize that no coach would take one player’s word over another’s without solid proof. And why would I deliberately weaken my team by getting rid of another good player? The best way to get noticed is to play for a winning team. All her common sense disappears when it comes to her family.
Then something else twigs. All the messages she exchanges with her dad, talking about her goals and her upcoming games. The guy lives an hour away, and as far as I know, he hasn’t come to a single game. Their relationship seems warped and one-sided.
I exhale with a growing sense of futility. Cleo has issues with her family that I’m never going to be able to overcome.
So, how does all this get resolved? I ask flatly.
It would be easy, if I knew what really happened. She looks up at me hopefully.
Do you think I’m not telling you because I don’t want to? Cleo, you know why I can’t.
Frustration boils up in me. One of the things I like best about Cleo is her straightforward nature. But our whole relationship has been built on a pretty shaky premise, that she believes in both me and her brother. That’s impossible.
I don’t want to come between you and your family, I state firmly.
You’re not, she insists. But it’s all more of her magical thinking. I feel like I’m in a car skidding out on ice, and there’s nothing I can do to avoid an accident.
Really? Because if we were a normal couple, I could drive you to your mom’s party. In fact, I could even go with you. Honestly, I don’t care if I go or not, but I don’t like the fact that it’s impossible. I’m Cleo’s dirty little secret, which feels gutting.
Her blue eyes are wide and glossy. I’ve never seen her cry before, but she’s close.
Fuck. I know. And I want that—so much. But it’s impossible, she says in a tiny voice.
It’s only impossible because she’s making it so. We’re inches apart, but there’s a chasm forming between us now. If both of us reach out, we could still touch each other—still save everything we have.
So, what’s your plan for Sunday, when you see your family? I ask coldly.
I think when I see Jordan in person, I can settle everything between us. Get to the bottom of what really happened, she begins.
