The Calgary Chill is one of our main rivals. We play them pretty frequently, and as good of a player Eloise is— I loathe to admit how good she really is– she’s nearly skated through us a few times. She was their backbone in their backline since she was drafted. She’s a nightmare of a player and a defensive monster. I’m sure that she’s got the most penalty minutes in the league the last few years. She’s definitely high up there forfights too, after those Boston and Ottawa players. She’s a bruiser.Fuck, I hate her so much. I hate playing against her, and I’m going to hate playing with her even more.
This week feels like one from hell, and I can’t imagine what I’m supposed to do with myself.
Brynn hasn’t prodded much, just nodding along when I rant and rubbing my back when I sob, but I know that this isn’t what she was expecting when she got voted in as captain right at the start.
“You’re going to have to freshen up for training camp soon,” she says.
I shake my head. “I can’t; I’ve lost my partner,” I moan into the couch cushions.
“You knowwhereshe is,” she says exasperatedly. I bite back a retort, trying not to bristle at her dismissiveness. She doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a defensive partner. Losing Rosie means meeting someone new and learning how they play, having to synchronize with them so we’re breathing the same pattern. We need to be lethal and learning a new person’s skating habits takes up a lot of energy, especially if we don’t connect, like I’m sure Eloise and I won’t. Brynn’s always been a centre, and she’s always been the coaches’ favourite to put with new players. She doesn’t have a set lineup. She’s too good at making others look good to click with them.
“Not on the ice,” I whine, “And they’re going to partner me with that monster,Eloise,” I hiss her name. The last time we played her, she nearly took my ACL out—I was on the LTIR list for a month to heal up my knee.
“She’s a tough player, but just think, she’s ours now. No need to worry about her injuring us,” Brynn says from behind me. “She’s going to play her heart out the same way you or I play our hearts out.”
“She’s going to kill us,” I whine, “I hate her.”
Brynn sighs, plopping a glass of water beside my head on the table. “You’re being melodramatic.”
“Rosie and I were magic on ice,” I say and as she sits down, she nods. “How am I going to get that magic back?”
“Practice.” She’s blunt.
I roll my eyes before turning over, my face buried in the soft cushions in the back of the sofa.
We’re silent for a few minutes. I can hear her fingers twiddling, the soft hitch in her breath as she tries to say something, but there’s nothing that can be said. I’m trapped in this swirling negative thought pattern. Everything is crumbling around me, and I’ll have to face it sooner rather than later.
“Your apartment is too white,” I mutter, turning back over. The sun has sunk further into the horizon than I thought it would have.
“You’re one to talk. I saw your wardrobe. You didn’t have a single colour in there unless it was part of our team merch.”
“It’s easier to match things.”
She tuts, “I mean, you got me there.”
“It wasn’t a gotcha moment,” I mutter, stretchingmy neck to look at her. She looks at me, brown eyes wide and framed with the longest lashes ever. I’m jealous of them. I wish I had the same. “What am I going to do, Brynn?” I whisper. “I’m a failure. My fiancé cheated on me, my defence partner has left me—”
“You have the rest of the team, and your ex is a dickhead. There’s no way that woman knew he was engaged from what you told me,” she takes a deep breath, “And with you moving out of that place, you’re more than welcome to stay with me. I know what it’s like trying to find a place to live on our salaries, and this is way easier than trying to room with a rando, or God forbid, a rookie.”
She teases, and my heart aches. “I was a rookie once.”
“You’re ancient now, all old and decrepit at the age of 27,” she teases.
“You’re nearly thirty,” I throw out, trying not to feel embarrassed at my age. A failure at 27.What am I supposed to do?“You’re more of a mommy than I am.”
She hums in agreement but doesn’t say anything. “You’re not a failure for going through something hard.”
“I feel like it.”
“Everything that’s happened has not been because of you. Frank made that choice, and the GM made the decision to trade Rosie. You’re just the unfortunate victim of those decisions,” she says. “There’s no shame in taking time to lick your wounds, but you have to remember that you’re going to get through it.”
I bite my lip. “You may not believe it,” she says, “but there are more single people at 27 than you’d expect.”
I snort, wiping furiously at my eyes; they’re itching with tears ready to be shed. “Can we watch the reality show you were telling me about? Knotty Sailors or Set Sail—whatever it is?” I beg, trying to push down the emotions that are bubbling up in my chest.
She sighs, nodding, turning on the TV. She’s got the whole thing DVR’d, so she doesn’t miss it during the season. She throws on a random episode and makes me scooch over on the couch so that she can sit down beside me. I’m suddenly plunging into the sunny, tanned paradise of a yacht on the Mediterranean.
It’s a companionable silence, with her waiting patiently for me to make the first move and talk to her during the ad breaks, but she still lets me curl into her.
