Craig gave a small smile, and he didn’t seem sad, or angry. “It’s just who I am. I know my strengths, Jamie, and that…” he gestured vaguely back toward the room, “that’s not one of them.”
“I can make it accessible.”
“I know you can, but maybe that’s not what I need from you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t need you to make allowances for me, I need to be…” He seemed frustrated. “I’ve been in a situation like this before…”
“In a scientific study?”
He snorted a laugh. “No, with a guy who made me think less of myself. I won’t let it happen again, however much I want to kiss you.”
“I didn’t mean to… shit… Craig?”
“Bye.”
Watching him walk away, I felt a profound respect mixed with my confusion. He was right; he knew his strengths and wasn’t afraid to acknowledge his limitations. But had I inadvertently pushed him into a situation that made him uncomfortable? This question gnawed at me as I stood in the hallway, the echo of the closing door at the end of the corridor ringing softly in the background.
It hadn’t even crossed my mind to consider accessibility, and as a consequence, I’d made him think less of himself.
Talk about a mess.
Bloody hell.
Chapter Eight
Craig
“Hé!Hé! Hé! I am on your team, yes?!” Pierre shouted from the net. I lowered my stick as the irritated yell cut through the fog in my head. “What are you doing?! Trying to take off my head from my shoulders?” Our morning practice on Calgary ice fell into a stilted silence. I blinked at my teammate in the net and felt my face flame. “You head, eez vinegar there!”
I had no idea what that meant, but then Pierre had an interesting turn of phrase that not everyone followed.
“Sorry, I was… I don’t know what you said there at the end,” I replied, shamefaced, as Pierre whipped his mask off to glower at me. His face was so pretty that even a dark look seemed less of a glare and more of a pout, but those eyes of his were intense.
He skated out of his crease to get sweaty nose to sweaty nose with me. Not a soul on skates said a word but I could feel every eye on the two of us. Man, this Canadian road trip was not going well at all for me.
“Your head fills with pickle juice. Whatever eez inside your skull making you fuck up is needing to be dumped into the sink. I am done!”
With that he stormed off the ice, leaving his mask, paddle, and blocker lying at his net. I shrunk into my jersey, wishing I could pull all the way in to hide like a turtle. Pierre was right. I’d been off for a solid week now, scattered and unable to focus, my play sloppy. My plus/minus had taken a nose dive over the past three games. I’d been solely responsible for a turnover that had led to a goal in our last game in Edmonton. If not for a squeaker goal from Cam in overtime we would have lost that game, and the tightness in our division meant every point counted.
“He’ll cool off. You know his temper flares hot then dies off just as fast,” Oli said from my right.
I bobbed my head, unable to speak, and worked up enough dignity to finish practice. Coach pretty much just sent us to the showers, his gaze on me as I slunk off like a dog caught with the Easter ham in his mouth. I picked up Pierre’s equipment before heading to the locker room. I found our goalie standing in the corridor in only his hockey pants. He’d been staring at a mural on the wall while holding a can of grape soda. His dark eyes narrowed as I lumbered to him, goalie gear held out in front of me like a gift from a visiting dignitary trying to appease an upset king.
“Why is this coming to me from you?” He popped the tab on his soda, sending fizz and purple foam over his fingers. “Putain!”
“I wanted to bring them in and apologize.”
He glanced up, thick lashes framing dark chocolate eyes, as he licked grape soda from his fingers. “And why is this?” He lowered his hand from his lips as his sharp stare sliced into me. “Is there a bomb inside my blocker that will BOOM to take off my head since your practice shooting failed to decapitate me?”
“What? No, of course not. I felt bad for being distracted and wanted to bring you your paddle and stuff.” I shoved the mound of gear at his chest. He sipped his soda, a standard refueling drink for him after every practice or game. The man had a thing for grape soda. Not that I was judging. Cheesy doodles called to me from my hotel room. I had purchased the party-size bag at a Safeway five minutes from where we were staying. “Look, I know I’ve been a putz of late.”
“Explains what is this ‘putz’.” He let me stand there, stinky goalie gear in my arms, while he sipped soda like some sort of hockey emperor looking down upon a poor subject begging for forgiveness for a heinous crime.
“Oh, uhm, a putz is a Yiddish term for someone who’s stupid.”
His eyebrows knitted. “Non, you are not stupid.” He knew all about my dyslexia. I’d never hidden it from the team. “Usually. Hmm, no, that is not what I meant. I mean your brain is not stupid because of the learning disability.”
