I laugh, but it's more from embarrassment than amusement. All this time, I thought I was the one watching, unnoticed. She knew I was here the whole time. I feel like an idiot. “I didn't think you could see me.”
“I couldn't.” She turns her head in my direction and smiles. “But I could hear you breathing.”
“That's a little creepy.”
“Says the man who was sitting in the dark watching me exercise.”
I chuckle. Fair point. “To answer your question, no, I've never done yoga. Not really my thing.”
“You should try it. It's good for flexibility and mental clarity. Might help with your recovery.”
“That's what Hillary said. She also said I should try meditation and journaling and something called breath work.”
Natalie laughs. “Hillary is enthusiastic.”
“That's one word for it.”
The next few minutes pass in comfortable silence. A railing separates us, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like she's right here next to me.
“Can I ask you something?” The words are out before I can stop them. The question has been gnawing at me for days, and I need to know the answer. Fuck what she thinks of it. She can answer or not, but I have to ask.
“Sure.”
“What happened with the boyfriend in Charlotte. Is he still in the picture?”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if she’ll tell me to mind my own fucking business. After all, we're not friends. We're not anything, and I have no right to ask about her personal life.
“We broke up a few months before I moved here,” she says.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. It was the right decision.” There's something in her voice that tells me there's more to the story, but she doesn't offer it, and I don't push. “What about you? Are you dating?”
“No. Hockey doesn't leave much room for relationships.” It's true, but it's also an excuse.
Like most hockey players, I've had my share of women. Puck bunnies who hang around after games, models at charity events, friends of friends who want a taste of the NHL lifestyle. I indulged for a while when I was younger, but it got exhausting fast.
The same conversations, the same empty nights, and the realization that they wanted the jersey more than the man wearing it.
My longest relationship lasted a year. Her name was Megan, and she was beautiful, fun, and completely wrong for me. She wanted the glitz that came with dating a professional athlete. The VIP sections, the red carpet, and the photos at exclusive clubs.
I wanted dinner at home and maybe a quiet restaurant once in a while. She got bored, and I got tired of pretending to be someone I wasn't. We ended things amicably, but it confirmed what I already suspected. I'm not built for the kind of relationship most women want.
“That's a convenient excuse.”
I smile. “It’s not an excuse. Most women get tired of coming second to the sport, with the travel and the constant focus on the game.”
There’s a pause. The she says, “The right woman wouldn't see it that way.”
“Yeah.” Except I’ve never found her or even looked to be honest. I have enough on my plate with my father’s illness and hockey.
The breeze picks up, and Natalie pulls her knees to her chest. “Are you ready for the Skills Showcase?”
I sigh. I've been trying not to think about it. “Do you mean if I’m ready to stand on the sidelines and watch my teammates do what I can't? Sure. Can't wait.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I know.” I run my hand through my hair and let out a breath. “It's going to be hard. The showcase is all about skating and shooting and showing off what you can do. I used to love it. Now I'll just be the guy with the cane, smiling for the cameras and pretending I'm fine.”
