Ermington: Linwood.
Me: Ermington.
I stare at the screen. The dots come up one more time and stay for a long while.
Ermington: Okay. I’m coming over.
Me: No.
Ermington: Be there in a hop, skip, jump.
I look up. The pillow’s still on my floor, still holding the shape of him. I look around the room at the mess I’ve made, and then I glance down at my clothes.
Shit.
I rush around my bedroom and clean as much as possible, and then I open my closet to find something to wear. I have no idea what to put on, but he’s going to be here any second. I step in front of the mirror, and my hair is a wreck.
Today is Sunday.
It’s supposed to be my day of rest.
He’ll be here in two minutes.
Help me.
Chapter 13
Stanley
I come downstairs around noon in fresh sweats and a clean hoodie with my hair still wet, and the house is quiet in a way that Hawthorne House on a Sunday after a home game.
Gavin’s standing at the wall with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, reading the whiteboard like it’s a plaque in a museum.
The Hawthorne House Rules. Same five he remembers when he used to live here. He’s studying them.
“Rule One,” he says, out loud. “No falling in love before the draft.”
I walk past him to the coffee maker.
“Rule Two. No serious girlfriends in the house. Casual visitors fine. Anybody who knows the WiFi password is on thin ice.” He nods, approving of past-us. “Rule Three. No teammates’ sisters.” He glances over his shoulder. “Mickey’s sister still hot, by the way?”
“If you have the same taste as Donald Duck.”
He chuckles.
“Rule Four. No locker room romances. Rule Five.” He slows down on five. “What happens at Hawthorne stays at Hawthorne.” He smiles to himself. “Yeah. I lived by these.”
He turns away from the board and leans his back against the counter, mug in both hands.
“You remember Petey?”
I remember Petey. Gavin’s senior-year roommate, my freshman year. Left wing, quiet, a decent shot and a better release than anybody gave him credit for. Petey met a girl in February of his last year and told everybody he was just hanging out. By April, he was just dating. By May, he was just moving in, it’s cheaper. By the following winter, he was at her parents’ lake house in Vermont and not in a single NHL camp.
Petey sells commercial real estate now. He drives a nice car. He’s, by every account anybody’s got, deeply and genuinely in love. He posts pictures of his dog. The girl is, I’m sure, lovely. His name comes up in the group chat about twice a year, and the only thing anybody ever types back is miss you, brother, and then nothing.
“Yeah,” I say. “I remember Petey.”
“Saw him at a wedding last summer.”
