January eleventh is always hard. I know that’s not going to change. But sometimes there are moments… Moments where I forget for just a second that my mom is gone. And the tidal wave of fresh grief that follows when I remember is always crushing.
So pair that with today’s dateanda delusional moment of thinking I might hear my mom’s voice one more time? Absolutely debilitating.
Feeling my chest tighten and a lump form in my throat, I shove a mental block in place as fast as I can. Almost there, just have to close my tab and hightail it out of here.
I open my eyes to a very concerned-looking Nate. He’s tracking something on my face, and to my extreme embarrassment I feel a tear rolling down my cheek.Goddammit.I wipe it away and force a smile.
“Can I close out, please?” I say as cheerily as I can manage, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.
Nate nods and heads to the far end of the bar, passing Clark Kent on the way. Again he makes eye contact with him and I almost ask if they’re friends before I realize I don’t really want to initiate any more conversation today. As Nate prints and brings over the check, I grab my jacket from the back of my chair andslide off to stand and slip it on. I sign and then go to grab my keys, accidentally knocking them off the bar instead.
“You’re not driving, right?” Nate asks with far more genuine concern than I would expect from a random bartender.
I bend to pick up the keys and give him a quick, reassuring smile. “Nope, wouldn’t do that. Just walking home.” I angle my head in the general direction of my apartment and hope the bitterness in my voice wasn’t noticeable.
I’m about to turn and leave when Nate glances at Clarkagain. I’ve decidedonequestion won’t hurt and open my mouth to ask how they know each other when Clark surprises me for the second time.
“Want me to walk you home?”
There’s no suggestive look or anything really that gives me creeper vibes. But you can never be too safe and I’m fresh off a true crime documentary binge.
“Oh, thanks. But I’m okay. It’s pretty close and, you know, not trying to get Ted Bundy’d or anything like that.” I let out a low laugh and replay that in my head.Ted Bundy’d?Now he thinks I think he’s a serial killer. And a hot one at that. I feel a blush heat my cheeks for the millionth time and tighten my purse on my shoulder.
Nate and Clark Kent—I wonder what his real name is—share a long look and I catch Nate raising his eyebrows. I think I’d normally feel embarrassed over the idea of them silently communicating about me, but the Fuzzy Haze has started to seep into my body and I just need to focus on getting home.
“All right, well, bye, and thanks again.” I smile tightly, glancing between the two of them, and then turn to head out.
I try not to think about what they will say about me once I’m gone. Time to succumb to the Haze and forget this fucking day.
CHAPTER TWO
MATT
I thinkI just got compared to a serial killer.
In my own bar.
By areallypretty girl.
“Dude,” Nate laughs, “cute as hell and didn’t even know she was talking to Matt Anderson. You should see your face. What a goner.”
I swallow and try to wipe whatever expression he’s referring to off my face. “Like you weren’t trying to flirt when you asked if she wasvisiting from out of town,” I scoff at him.
“Hey that was for you, man,” he huffs and points at me, but I catch his face getting a little red before he turns and grabs her empty shot glass.
Thirty years as friends means shit like that doesn’t go unnoticed. In either direction.
Nate finishes putting the shot glass in the bin and turns back to me. “Too bad she seemed to be having a rough time. Wonder what happened today,” he muses with a frown, grabbing a rag to wipe the bar top.
“Yeah,” I mumble and glance at the door where she walked out a few minutes ago. Whywasshe sad? I don’t even know her, and the grief that took over her face during our minimalconversation set me on edge. Nate’s wrong though; no way it was just something that happened today. That look did not scream bad hair day or flat tire. Or “it’s too cold.” I cringe at the reminder of my stupid comment. Her rambling response was pretty cute though.
Maybe she’s lonely? She did say she was new to town. Shit, I didn’t even get her name. Those honey-brown eyes and freckles are going to haunt my dreams. She seemed young, though, maybe even too young for me.
The reminder of my age is not what I want to be thinking about. It doesn’t carry quite the grief I felt on Pretty Girl’s face, but thinking of my inevitable decision regarding retiring puts a heavy weight on my shoulders I could live without. Hockey is a brutal sport and I feel every single one of my thirty-six years these days. But it’s also my whole life, so how am I supposed to decide when to give that up?
That’s not even an exaggeration. I’ve been playing since I was five years old and was getting scouted early in high school. By the time I was fourteen I had my own agent, and by seventeen I knew I was likely to be an early round pick for the draft. Over thirty years I’ve played and loved this sport. It’s pretty much all I know. Thinking about being done sends a sharp pain through my chest—both at the idea of not playing professionally for the team I’ve been on my whole career, and at the unknown of what to do next.
One could argue that now’s the time to retire. I’m still putting up big numbers and living up to the hype that’s surrounded my career since the beginning. Going out while still on top certainly has some appeal. But what if I have more to give? What if I can continue to lead this team and, selfishly, set some more records? I could definitely go for another Cup too.
