Page 14 of Blueline Baby

“I like doors.”

He laughs and keeps moving. I go back to thinking about Chloe. It's basically all I’ve done all week. She only ever came to these things to keep Britt alive but right now, Britt is across the room in Smitty’s lap doing just fine. Somebody’s keeping Britt alive tonight, and it isn’t Chloe.

The one place I could count on running into her, and she’s cut it entirely out of her life.

It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out why. When I finally do, I put my beer down on the counter and go home.

She’s not avoiding parties. She’s avoiding me.

It’s been nineteen days since I drove her home from her exam. I know it’s nineteen because I counted. I have never counted days over a girl in my life. Not once.

She talked the entire drive home. Mostly about hockey. She talked about it way more eloquently than half the guys on my actual team. We argued about our power play like she had it figured out and I didn’t. I made her laugh for real. I’ve replayed that sound in my head more than any goal I’ve ever scored.

Thursday, I have the worst practice of my season. I gap up wrong twice in the exact same drill. I force a stretch pass that gets picked. Then I force the exact same pass again, like I’m aggressively trying to prove the first one wasn’t a fluke.

Coach watches all of it with his arms crossed. When we’re done, he waves me over to the boards.

“Whatever it is,” he says, “figure it out or leave it in the parking lot. I don’t care which.”

“There’s no it.”

“Son, I’ve been coaching guys your age for twenty years. There’s always an it. And it’s usually a woman. Fix it.”

And now, I can’t even bring myself to text her. I knew she wouldn’t text me first. But so much time has passed that reaching out now feels like I forgot about her. I haven’t. I just don’t know how to explain any of it to her.

I’m the guy who’s good at texting women. Light. Easy. A little funny. That’s the entire problem. Every light, easy, funny thing I type reads back exactly like the guy she’s already decided I am.

Hey stranger. Delete.

Miss me yet? Delete.

How’s the car? Delete. That one wasn’t even a line, just boring.

Last week at one in the morning, I typed out a whole paragraph. I read it twice then deleted it so hard I almost threw my phone across the room. I’ve actually thought about calling her. Calling. Out loud. Like it’s the nineteen-nineties. That’s where I’m at.

Smitty catches me at it in the locker room after practice. Phone out, thumb hovering.

“So you caught it for Toronto girl,” he says. “The one who wouldn’t even wear your jersey to the game you got her tickets for.”

“She’ll wear mine eventually.”

“You sound pretty sure for a guy who hasn’t gotten a date yet.”

“I’m working on it.”

“You want my advice? Treat her like one of the usual girls.”

“She’s not a usual girl.”

“They’re never a usual girl until they are.” He pulls his jersey over his head. “Give it two weeks. You’ve never once wanted the same one two weeks running.”

“It’s been almost three.”

That shuts him up for a second. Then he just shrugs because he’s got years of evidence on his side.

We walk out of the arena together and there’s a girl waiting by the players’ exit. She’s wearing a massive smile aimed right at me. The kind of smile that means we definitely know each other. Probably a lot more than just know each other.

“Jack,” she says, like seeing me is a nice surprise.