Ten minutes later I’ve written down a few bullet points and scribbled out plenty more. I’m telling myself not to do more than one draft, that any further editing is dishonest. As if I’ve been so honest these past few months.
Christos,
I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t have a choice. It’s unfair that we met now and not after I graduated. It wouldn’t have mattered then. We could have fucked and been done with it. But I liked having dinners with you. I was scared you’d like my achievements more than you liked me. At the same time, I didn’t pay nearly enough attention to your own achievements. Holy fuck the Dingbats didn’t lose a single game for a month! Two months! Maybe I am glad we met when we did because what if we never had those dinners? Or you never told me you like birdwatching? It was all worth it, to know you better.
To avoid trouble, I don’tsign my name. Christos will know, and that’s literally all that matters. I put on my hoodie, shoving the key and letter into my front pocket and head out. Hockey practice will be the perfect cover. I can get in, leave the key on Chris’ desk, and then it’s over. One less relationship to mourn over. Or maybestartmourning.
We haven’t seen each other since December. At least,hehasn’t seen me. I bail whenever I see his massive form enter the room, keeping my head down as I sneak out. It’s worked well enough so far, so I slink into the rink and upstairs to Chris’ office.
I’m not sure if this key opens that door as well, but thankfully he’s left it unlocked. I’ve turned the doorknob halfway turned when I stop, wondering a moment too late if he’s inside getting some work done while the team runs drills.
I peek through the crack in the door and find the desk chair facing forward and empty. I tiptoe to the desk, falling back on my heels when through the office windows, I spot Christos out on the rink. Even from the second floor, I can make out his stern expression and hear what he’s shouting when he calls out a player. Something about unnecessary roughness, our team’s specialty.
I set the letter with the key folded inside on his desk. Then take one last look at him, appreciating the curve of his horns and his fur so white he’s almost camouflaged against the ice. This quiet moment is interrupted by angry shouting. He rushes onto the ice.
I follow his trajectory and see two guys fighting. At practice.
With their helmets and practice jerseys on, it’s impossible to tellwhois fighting but I have my suspicions. I bolt downstairs but instead of running to the exit I run to the rink. All the other players are standing around, watching awkwardly as Christos tries to break up the fight.
“Take that shit back!” Terrence yells, one hand grabbing for the other guy’s jersey while pummeling the guy’s helmet with his fist.
Christos growls, “Knock it off!”
He gets between them, Terrence’s fist colliding with the flat of his nose.
“Oh my god!” I don’t hesitate to run onto the ice, every slip propelling me forward.
Christos holds his snout, blood dripping from between his fingers. Terrence has finally backed off, realizing what he’s done.
The other guy from the fight grabs Terrence’s jersey. “You son of a—”
“Are you serious?” I shriek. I grab a nearby player’s hockey stick and hurl it at the other player. He ducks out of the way, but is right in the crosshairs of my tirade. “Some team you assholes are!”
I shove him, but he just glides away slowly, like a glacier passing a ship.
“Hurffs—” Christos says, which I think is supposed to be proper words but between the blood and his hand covering his mouth it’s a garbled mess. Blood drips from his hand onto the ice.
“Can someone get fresh towels from the locker room?”
I usher Christos off the ice. He doesn’t put up a fight, plopping right down on the bench while I grab the first aid kit off the wall. Not that it will do a lot of good.
“Here coach!” A guy throws a towel over the plexiglass and I catch it right before it hits the floor.
“Lean forward,” I tell him before handing him the towel.
“I’m fine,” he says, like this is an argument.
“If the bleeding stops in 10 minutes you’re fine. And don’t tell me how many times you’ve been punched in the face before. I don’t care. Lean forward.”
Christos eyes go wide. It’s a bit hard to see past the towel, but I swear he smiles. He shouts to the team, “Someone seta timer for ten!”
“Heard!”
By now, Leroy and another senior player have taken over. Leroy has the guys practicing shots on one end of the rink while an assistant coach brings Terrence and the other guy to the locker room. As he’s escorted out, Terrence glances over his shoulder, looking like a dead row inmate taking his last walk. Apt, considering Terrence’s college hockey career is probably over.
“What are you doing here, Roderick?”
This space is far from private, but there’s a strange closeness. The clamoring Dingbats feel miles away. “I left you a note. In your office.”
