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“Yeah, isn’t he cute?” I ask, my voice higher-pitched and excited than I intended.
Swiping, I show Jensen a handful of photos, waiting for his reaction, which I expect to be joyful because how could you not love him?
“Is he missing a leg?” JD asks.
“Yeah, that’s why I named him Hatty, fucking obviously.” I chuckle. “Do you need me to spell it out for you, or can you figure it out from there?”
Hatty is a slang term for a hat trick, and a hat trick is when a player scores three goals in one game. Since my new baby only has three legs and his name was Harry, which I wasn’t fond of, it was easy to make a connection to rename him Hatty.
JD doesn’t dote on him as he should, which is disappointing. But I guess not everyone can be perfect.
“You are the proudest cat dad I’ve ever met, Goldy,” he teases me.
“Thank you,” I boast, puffing my chest at him.
He laughs and walks away, heading toward the locker room to get ready for practice. We have a quick skate this morning to street warm up our legs and prepare for tonight’s home game against the Vegas Venom.
They have one of the worst stats in the league right now with only two wins to thirteen losses this season and zero wins in overtime. Theoretically, tonight will be an easy win, and we shouldn’t have any problems. But thinking like that is how you lose those games. You get comfortable and cocky, leaving you to easily slip up. You should also never underestimate an underdog. They have some good players, balanced out by some less good players, and a good coach. They have the tools to be successful, but they’re not connecting somewhere along the way. Hopefully, we can lean into their weaknesses tonight and show off our strengths.
I follow JD into the locker room. We quickly get ready and take the ice minutes later. It feels good, stretching my legs out. It’s surreal sometimes that this is my life. I can’t believe I get paid millions of dollars to do exactly what I love. Not everyone gets to live that dream, and I know how lucky and fortunate I am, especially given my upbringing. Not that it was bad in any sense, but my mom worked paycheck to paycheck to provide for us. I know hockey isn’t a cheap sport to play, but she never expressed stress or concern, being able to provide that.
Looking back now, I see things differently. She wore the same pair of worn-down tennis shoes for five years. Instead of buying herself a new pair, she bought me a new stick or new skates. She gave Abby and me every piece of herself, and I have the best goddamn mom in the world.
Now, I get to take away any worries she has with money. She never has to want again for anything. Neither her nor Abby will ever struggle again, and that’s all thanks to my ability to play hockey.
The team and I scrimmage for about an hour before the coach wraps up practice and cuts us loose. When I’m heading out of the locker room, I see familiar, soft, flowing blonde hair. The hair that looks so perfect, wrapped around my fist and being gently tugged.
Fuck.
Don’t think that right now. Get it together.
She broke up with you. She used you, probably to get the job she has now. Then, she just discarded you.
Anger floods me at the thought, but rationality quickly cools me off. If anything, she would have used Laura to get the job; she didn’t need me to get a foot in the door.
I want to hate her, but no matter how many times my mind revisits the moment she destroyed us, I can’t help but picture the girl who would sleep, curled in my arms, who would fall apart at my words, tangled in the sheets of my bed, or who would make me sit on her balcony to look at the stars with her when she was feeling overwhelmed by life. How can I forget those beautiful moments? Genuinely, I would love an answer to that question so I can stop this constant roller coaster of love and hate.
She is sitting crisscrossed on the ground, getting some photos of the guys walking out of the locker room. I know the moment that I come across her lens because she drops the camera just slightly and looks away. She can’t even meet my eyes.
As I walk past her without looking at her, the hate is overpowering the love so strongly that I can’t stop the smart remark slipping past my lips. “Look away and pretend I don’t exist. Really nice, Charlotte.”
A whimper comes from her as I walk away, and I can’t help the sting of a thousand hornets that are attacking my heart.
I’m sorry, I want to say.
But I don’t. I remain silent because as much as I want to console her pain, she doesn’t deserve it. She threw us away. She deserves to feel just as bad as I do.
Catching Laura’s stare as I stroll past some of the offices, I stop, remembering I need to figure out how to rent the rink out for Abby’s party.
“Hey, I have a question,” I utter.
“If it’s about Charlotte, don’t bother.” She flicks her eyes down and warns me, and part of me is happy that Charlotte has her, a good friend who defends her.
“It’s not. I don’t care about Charlotte anymore,” I lie, and by the doubtful gaze that shoots back up at me, she isn’t buying it just as much as I’m not.
I have to get better at lying. It’s never been a strong suit of mine. But I guess that’s a good thing.
“Uh-huh…” She trails off. “What’s your question then?” she asks professionally, as if she were speaking with a random stranger.
