Page 65 of Hockey Player Seeking Fan

“Yeah. Well, anyway. I have a friend, and she’d like to meet you. And this is someone I would want to meet because... well, because she’s cute, she’s not looking for anything serious, and... I thought maybe you'd like to have a nice night out.”

“I don’t know. I just?—”

“Come on. What do you have to lose?”

“I mean, I guess nothing. What’s her name?”

“Her name is Melanie.”

“Okay, and what exactly do you want me to do with Melanie?”

“I mean, what you do with Melanie is up to you. But I’m sure she’d be happy if you fucked her.”

“Really?”

“She likes to fuck hot sports stars. And you’re a hot sports star. I mean, I may be gay now, but it doesn’t mean I can’t recognize a hot body when I see one.”

“So you pimp me out to your friends now?”

“No, but I figured you might like hanging out with her. One evening, right? A drink?”

“Yeah, I guess. Tell her to meet me at the Old Seagrade Bar in the West Village around seven.”

“Sounds good. Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

I hang up the phone and wonder what I’ve just done, but I realize it’s for the best. It’s better than me just sitting at home, thinking about Erica, wondering what she’s doing. I have to get my shit together.

I look at my watch and realize I’ve got a couple of hours until I meet with Melanie. Then I realize I don’t even know what she looks like. I could be going to a bar for no reason. But then I figure Jennifer will likely show her a photo of me, so she can come up to me if she wants.

I go into my spare bedroom and stare at the canvas on the easel. I grab my paintbrush, press play on my phone, and start some music. I allow myself to just paint. I allow myself to think of all the things that have been weighing on my mind. I allow myself to just be.

I stare out the window for a couple of seconds to think about the city. I think about what it is to be on Earth in a city such as this. To be someone with money. To be someone withresponsibility. To be someone who seemingly has the world yet is not happy.

I hate admitting that to myself. I hate admitting that I am someone who should have everything, and I’m not happy with where my path is taking me. And when I think about being with Erica, I realize that moments with her were moments of bliss.

I want to call her again. Apologize. I’ve been thinking of her nonstop. But I also want to respect her.

I head back to feel free.

I feel like I felt as a young boy walking through the fields, staring at the sky, listening to the cows, feeling the fresh air on my skin, running and running and running, and hanging out with my friends, not worrying about anything—except when I needed a new pair of shoes or was crying.

I try to forget those moments when I can. I try to forget what it was to be a scared child.

Eventually, I grab my phone and decide to call my sister because I feel guilty. Guilty for making her feel like she was using me. Guilty for making her feel like she was taking something, for making her feel like I thought she didn’t care about me.

There were all these small things she does on a day-to-day basis that make me feel loved, and I don’t want her to think I don’t appreciate that.

She answers on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Muriel. It’s me.”

I know she’s pissed, and I understand why.

“You’re upset with me.”