Again, I wait for the inevitable follow-ups.You don’t seem like the type. Why did you quit? Was it because you’re a talent-less hack, or because you’re a raging homosexual?I’m mildly disappointed when that, too, fails to eventualize. When I follow his line of sight, I see why. His junior coach is skating on one foot and attempting to juggle four pucks.
“You’re supposed to be teaching them, Basse, not applying for head clown.” Ridiculously, I find myself chuckling again. It’s over suddenly though, when the mood shifts, and I sense a disturbance in the force.
“Oh, you’re here, Jamie.” Cool. Sterile. Monotone. My sister has arrived.
“As you see,” I reply flatly before leaning closer and whisper, “And it’s James, please and thank you.”
“Sorry Jamie. I mean James. I mean Jamie.”
“Really. Here? Aren’t we above this?”
“You’re a child.”
“I know I am, but what are you?”
Most of my free time is spent with Faith, who is the team’s psych consultant, and I do love her. I do. But as Mum always said, the only things we have in common is our surname, autism, and a severe superiority complex, which means much of that time is spent in conflict rather than comfort.
True to form, Faith merely scoffs, then turns and speaks to Coach Harris as though I’m not there. “Sinceheis my brother, and not my sister, I trust Jamie’s received a more … respectful reception than the one I was afforded?”
David stops scowling at his players, and joins me with a huffed laugh. “Well, we’ve had no wolf whistles, baying at the moon, or marriage proposals,butthe day is young.” Since we’re neck deep in the world of hockey, the day could be as long as time itself and I should think myself safe from unwanted advances.
In my experience, queer and hockey don’t mix.
Taking my iPad from the satchel I placed on the bench, I shift my focus back onto the ice, doing my best to forget my sibling’s presence, and the touch of melancholy slowly sinking in. Immediately, I note the goalies are sorely in need of core and hip strengthening. If Larsson is anything to go by, some basic breathing bio-mechanics wouldn’t hurt, either. I need to speak to this … Basse. My hockey history means I understand the propensity for sportsmen to refer to each other by their surnames, but as an independent thinker—not a sheep—I prefer to address others by their given names.
“Sorry to interrupt, David, but what is Basse’s first name?”
“Brady,” Coach and Faith answer in unison.
No way. I grip Faith’s arm and spin her to face me. “That’syourBrady?”
Eyes wide, Faith emits a pained peep, slaps her hand over mine, and drags me towards the players tunnel, not an easy task since I’m well over two hundred and fifty pounds of man-flesh. “David, excuse us for a minute.” Now just the two of us, the fancy accent we both adopted when we moved to the States is forgotten. “What the hell, Jamie? He is notmyBrady. I told you there was nothing going on between us and I meant it.”
“Relax, sis. I was just teasing. I know you’re not stupid enough to get involved with a student.” She nods, but it’s premature. “You were definitely close though.” I really shouldn’t tease her. Like me, Faith has obsessive behaviors, meaning once we care about someone we can easily become fixated and overly protective, which is exactly what happened with Brady. She also has a wickedly sharp sense of humor, and for those that don’t know how she ticks, that’s a lethal combination.
As is her right-left jab.
“Shut your face, Jamie.” She gives me a perfect one-two combo, then sashays back to the open rink. I follow, but decide it might be wise to give her some space. With a glance toward David, I motion towards my intended destination and head out to the goals, sliding to a halt alongside the trio, earning a dimple-popping smile from Brady.
“Nice moves, Doc.” Great, thirty minutes here and I have a nickname.
“Mr. Plum would suffice.”
“Plum!” he squawks. “Your last name is Plum? Plum as in Professor Plum? You’re related to Faith?”
“I am. She is my sister, and coincidentally, I am her brother. She never mentioned me? I thought you two were quite the bosom buddies.”
“Bosom.” Larsson and Nurse snort.
“We are mates, yeah,” Brady replies, eyes narrowing in warning towards his juniors. “But she never let slip that she had a bro. Actually, ‘part from growing up in Sydney, she’s never spoken about her family at all.”
This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but still, I’m slightly wounded. “Too busy regaling the world with stories of herself, I suspect.”
“No way.” He smiles. He seems to do that a lot. “Faith is amazing. She’s been great for the team. Kept our heads screwed on right throughout the finals, and kept the boys humble after the win. She was a great support when I had to quit, too.” The grin drops, and so does my stomach. The poor kid can’t be more than twenty-one or two, and he’s already lost his dream. Having endured a life filled with the same sharp pang of grief and regret, I fight the urge to engage in pointless trauma sharing.
Some may believe this appropriate, but some are also fools. I know myself, my list of flaws is as jam-packed as my Rolodex of annoying human traits. Having fallen victim to my own weaknesses one too many times, I can’t let myself again. I can’t get bogged down with other people’s business. I must control my emotions. There’s just too much at stake to let that happen now.
With that in mind, I move on, perhaps coldly.
