“Your knee?”
He shrugs, and for a moment I think that’s all I’ll get. I wait, hoping he’ll fill the awkward silence. It only takes a minute before he does just that.
“At first, yeah.”
“Did you re-injure it?” I hope the explicit question will be easier for him to answer.
“No. It still swells up from time to time but the doctors assure me it’s completely sound.”
If that’s true, I wonder why he’s spending so little time on the ice.
“Does it…hurt?” I remember the pills at his house last night, searching my memory for the names on the bottles. Has he been struggling with that on his own?
“I mean, sometimes. But not bad, not more than your average check against the boards. Hell, you’ve definitely had worse this year.”
A sense of shame drips down my spine, knowing that he’s been keeping track of me even as I’ve been ignoring him.
“So if it’s not your knee, what’s up?”
“It’s just…I can’t trust myself anymore. I worry that one wrong move and my knee will go. And then I realized – I have no idea what Plan B is. I’m 80% through a degree I couldn’t care less about. I’ve never done an internship. I don’t want to go to grad school. If I’m not playing hockey…whatamI doing?”
The thing that hurts most is knowing that he’s been going through this alone. Carefully, I reach out for his hand, happily surprised when he grabs mine.
“So now I’m playing scared, and you can’tdothat. But I can’t get the fear out of my head and now I’m in this constant cycle of self-sabotage…which I imagine you know something about.”
“Self-sabotage?”
He pins me with a look.
“I mean, isn’t that what you psych types would call it? This thing where you make a relationship not work so you can’t get hurt when it doesn’t work? Where you refuse to admit you’re breaking your own heart to keep from giving him a chance to do it?”
I’m stunned at his insight.
“But…what if…what if I love him and it isn’t enough?” The tears start to fall in earnest now.
Avery stands up, moving to my side of the table. He sits in the chair next to me, his body radiating warmth as he throws an arm over the back of my chair.
“Well, then we can be sad and pathetic together.”
After another roundof coffee and several large pastries, we decide to go out together that night. I promise to turn off my phone, avoiding any news of Ethan or the All Star Game. Avery promises to remember what it’s like to have fun, promising me dinner and a trip to a club we used to frequent.
At home, I start to get ready for my night out. Digging through my childhood closet, I find an outfit that should be passable for the club – tight jeans, a form-fitting white tank and a sheer top. The tank is tighter than I remember it being thanks to the work I've put in this year in the gym – I doubt I'll hear anyone complain.
Avery has promised to pick a dinner spot that won't have the game on a TV, but as I grab my phone from the drawer, I think aboutchecking it, just once. Before I can even power it on, I hear the knock on my door. Shoving it in my back pocket, I put on my shoes and open the door to Avery.
Well, if I was worried about how tight my shirt is, I guess I can stop worrying. Avery is wearing a cropped t-shirt with the words “Equal Opportunity Fuckboy” stretched across his pecs. At the hemline, his abs peek out. I almost swallow my tongue.
“Is that outfit...legal?”
“Boo boo, this is West Hollywood, not Minneapolis.”
He has a point.
He's chosen a queer-owned gastropub for dinner, and I'm happy to see the TV over the bar is playing reruns of Drag Race All Stars, rather than the actual All Star Game. I look over the menu and order a West Coast IPA to go with my salmon caesar salad; with only three days left before I return to the rink, it's time to be a little more attentive to my macros. I head to the restroom during a commercial break, hoping to get back in time to watch the queens lip sync for their lives.
As I walk back from the restroom, I see Avery focused on his phone, so focused he doesn't even seem to notice when I sit down. I clear my throat and he nearly jumps out of his seat.
“Uh...hey. Jamie. Good to see you.”
