I'm sittingon the couch in Avery's apartment, two days after flying back home. After forty-eight hours spent sleeping and being coddled by Mom, I finally dragged myself onto campus tonight. I thought Avery would be dragging me out to a frat party, but he seems content to stay in, leg propped up with ice on his knee.
“So, how are things going with the married guy?”
His eyes are on me, and I'm guessing he can see that not all is well. The shadows under my eyes and my shitty play over the past two weeks say more than I'm willing to.
Avery heaves a mighty sigh, then pushes himself up and out of the chair. He walks toward the kitchen, limping a bit as he goes. I knew he'd had a tough year, but I was surprised to see the injury still affecting him so badly.
He goes to the fridge first, looking at the beer supply there, then seems to think better of it. After a minute or two, he limps back into the living room, a handle of Jack Daniels and two red Solo cups in his hands.
He pours a shot into each cup, then takes his quickly and fills it again.
“Let me rephrase that. Are we ever gonna talk about the fact that you've been fucking Ethan Tremblay?”
Shit.
It's my turn to throw back the fiery liquor, then refill the cup.
“I never said that.”
I meet his stare head on, hoping he'll back down from this.
“Of course not. You wouldn't.”
I'm not sure what he means by that, and I'm a little afraid to ask.
I lick my lips, trying to think of what to say next.
“Are we...are we still friends, Jamie?”
That pulls me up short. I move forward on the couch, putting my hand on his good knee.
“Dude.Yes. Of course we're still friends. What...what makes you even have to ask?”
Avery puts his face in his hands, and I sit there, still, trying to give him the space he needs. After a few minutes, he lifts his head, his eyes red and watery.
“It's just been a really shitty year, you know? I mean, I was supposed to be there with you at the draft, and then fighting for my own spot on a major league roster. Instead, I'm still here, and now I'm fighting for a spot on myownroster. And for a while it was ok, because I knew you were fighting, too. But then...I don't even know what changed. But suddenly it felt like you had no time for me, no time for our friendship anymore. You'd call me when you needed to vent, but otherwise it would be weeks without hearing from you. And then you wouldn't even call me to vent, wouldn't even share what you were really going through. I was actually shocked you were coming home for the break, and even more surprised you wanted to see me.”
He says this all in one breath, as though he's worried he'll lose his nerve if he doesn't. I look down at my hands and realize how much I've fucked this all up. I know my intentions were good – keepingEthan's secrets, not burdening Avery with what I've been dealing with while he fights for his very life.
But it seems like good intentions weren't enough.
I open the bottle and pour even more into both of our cups, holding Avery's out to him. He pushes his loose brown curls off his forehead and reaches for it, taking a long swig.
“I should have said something sooner.”
“No. You shouldn't have had to.”
For the first time in my friendship with Avery, an awkward silence stretches between us. I know I need to fill it, but I'm not sure what to say to make this right. So instead, I just tell the truth.
“Hewasa total dickwad at the beginning, and more than a little homophobic. And I was sure every day that I'd be sent to Des Moines because our passes just wouldn't connect and obviously that was gonna be onme, not on him.”
“That's bullshit.”
“That's the NHL. But there were good bits, too. Kovalenko has been amazing from the very beginning, and so has Lindy. And I know I probably didn't say enough about the good stuff to you, because...”
Here I trail off, uncertain how to say what comes next.
“Because I had nothing good going. I was still rehabbing and unsure if I would play and I wasn't ready to hear that the NHL wasn't all we had hoped. I wasn't.”
