“Every time I say something to her now, I feel like I’m putting my foot in my mouth. In my head I’m just trying to go back to the times where we would bicker and tease each other, but knew that it was all innocent.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’re too focused on trying to talk to the old Violet that you’re not hearing what current Violet is saying.”
What the fuck Mikey?Now it was my turn to look at him like he had grown a second head. “That is awfully profound. When did you learn so much about human relationships?”
“When I decided to grow out my hair. Puts me in touch with my feminine side. The beer also helps.” He holds up his empty pint glass and waves it in front of my face.
“I’m pretty sure current Violet wants absolutely nothing to do with me.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” Mikey waves over the bartender, “we’re gonna need a lot more drinks.”
The rest of my night at Cornwhall’s is spent catching up on the things going on in Mikey’s life that I’d missed out on. He is still very single— hence the hickey— and hellbent on staying that way. Mikey claims he’s too busy to really settle down, especially now that his parents are retiring, leaving their restaurant in his hands. For as long as I’ve known Mikey, he’s always floatedaround finding new jobs, hobbies, or even girls every couple of months. I got the sense he has commitment issues. The only thing he ever stuck with for long was hockey, and a part of me always wondered if he stuck that out for me more than himself.
He brings up Castle Harbor, and he’s generous enough not to mention my parents. Though it was hard not to think about them whenever I heard about the town I grew up in. Maybe that’s yet another reason I avoided speaking to Mikey. He knew so much about me and my past that he served as a permanent reminder of my failings as a son.
He was a model child — making his parents proud with his immense physical talent and endless potential but dropping everything to return home and run the family business when they needed him. Me? I had slowly started shutting people out of my life the moment I landed in New York. It wasn’t something I had done intentionally; I just took so many people in my life for granted and assumed they would always be there for me regardless of my actions. And though I know my parents still love me, I hate the idea that they might be disappointed in me or, worse, ashamed of who I had become. I still check in with my mom here and there, but my dad and I still haven’t spoken since our fight. ‘You moved to New York and turned your back on us.’
It had been a while since I relived those words, and when they came back into my head last night, I immediately ordered our third, and then fourth round of drinks. I was so exhausted — and inebriated — by the time I got back to my apartment I fell asleep on my couch. In addition to the pounding headache I woke up with, I also couldn’t seem to get Violet’s face out of my head. It’s like the more I wanted to forget her the more I couldn’t let her go. After trying to force myself back to sleep, I decided to carpe diem this shit. I chug three cups of coffee and head to the one place I know will quiet my mind.
Unsurprisingly the arena is pitch black and dead empty on a Sunday morning. It feels strange getting dressed again in my oldlocker room, seeing it decorated now with pictures of the current players and their loved ones. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the feelings of this place both belonging to me, but also moving on from me. I take a deep breath before stepping onto the ice, bringing a few pucks along with me. Though this isn’t my first time running drills mildly hungover, I am grateful to be alone as I settle into my skates. I set a pace for myself, circling around the boards a few times.
Eventually, I’m warmed up enough to switch to shooting drills. My first few wrist shots either bounce off the post or go completely wide. I repeat my movements over and over again until I get into a rhythm and the pucks start hitting the back of the net. Entering a meditative state, I lose track of the number of pucks I line up and send flying into the net. It’s not until I begin to feel my soreness turn into a more painful sensation that I decide to take a break.
I reach over the bench for my water bottle, splashing some water on my face before chugging the remaining contents when the sound of footsteps catches my attention.
“Your slapshot was always a thing of beauty.” Coach Jameson stands a few rows behind, now walking down the steps toward me. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“Guess I could say the same about you.”
“I like coming in when I know no one else will be here. Something about the stillness of this place when it’s empty. It…”
“Clears your mind?” I offer.
“Exactly.” He gestures to the bench next to him and we sit. “You’ve done good with these boys so far Mason.”
“I’m trying, Coach.”
“I can’t believe you convinced Jake to get a tutor.”
“It was more of an ultimatum. Also, more of his teaching assistant’s call than mine.” Violet made it clear Jake could start attending tutoring and work to bring his grades up or he could spend the rest of the season on the bench.
“Fair enough.” He lets out a small chuckle. “Listen, I need a favor.”
“Of course. Anything you need.”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
fourteen
. . .
Violet
I have always loved wintertime.If I could start decorating for Christmas in October without being judged, I would. To me, there is nothing more magical than going to bed and waking up the next morning and seeing the entire street covered in a soft layer of snow. When I was a kid, my mom would often scold me for staying out too late making snow angels and haphazardly building snowmen that fell as soon as a mild breeze blew. My love for winter remained even as I got older and was forced to help shovel the driveway every morning before school.
After spending most of my life in Massachusetts, I was almost certain there was nothing that could make me hate winter — until today. I’m woken up in the middle of the night by an awful noise, like violent teeth chattering. My own teeth, apparently. I am a New Englander — raised to have iced coffee evenwhen the high outside is 20 degrees and feels like 10 with the wind chill— and I refuse to set the thermostat higher than 70 in November. Growing up we’d do anything to save a few extra bucks on the monthly utility bill, including sleeping with mittens on. But I can currently see my own breath, so I concede and get out of bed to turn the heat on. Or at least that is my plan until I see the thermostat is broken.
Maintenance can’t help me at this hour, so I pull my winter gear out of my closet and dress for the Arctic. I wake up in a sweat the next morning, curled up in a blanket while wearing my winter coat, an extra pair of sweats, and thermal socks. I call maintenance and they promise it will be fixed before I get home today. Though no one is surprised when I get home from the lab and find the thermostat still broken.
