The message was sent.
I watched the screen for a second. There wasn’t any indication he’d seen it. Which wasn't surprising. He was working. Understanding it didn't stop me from glancing at my phone ten minutes later anyway. Or half an hour later when I was standing in the kitchen trying to decide what to make for lunch.
The afternoon passed slowly.
I managed to start a load of laundry and answer a handful of emails that had been sitting in my inbox longer than they should have. None of it required much concentration, which was probably a good thing because my attention wasn't exactly at its sharpest.
I was folding a stack of clean towels when my phone buzzed on the coffee table. This time, I didn't immediately assume it was Thane. I picked up the phone. A familiar name appeared on the screen.
Janelle: Thinking of you, kiddo. I hope you had a good Christmas.
I stared at the message for a few seconds. The corner of my mouth lifted despite myself. I typed a reply.
Me: I did. Hope you did too.
The response came back a minute later.
Janelle: We did. Quiet one this year. Glad to hear you had a good Christmas.
That was it. Just Janelle being Janelle.
I set the phone down and returned to folding laundry, but my thoughts had already drifted elsewhere. For a few years, Christmas had meant Janelle's house.
I remembered decorating sugar cookies at her kitchen table one December afternoon. I remembered falling asleep during a Christmas movie and waking up with a blanket tucked around me. I remembered how she never forgot things. Birthdays. School events. The name of a teacher I'd liked.
Janelle had a way of making people feel important. Not with grand gestures. Just a hundred small things that told you she was paying attention.
Looking back, I think that's what I remembered most.
I picked up the novel I had started reading a while back and tried to follow the storyline. Eventually, I gave up and got up to make lunch. All the while, I kept thinking that for years I'd done exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, without checking in with anyone. Now I kept catching myself reaching for my phone to tell Thane something. A joke. A random observation.
That should not have happened this fast. Yet, Thane had become woven into my routine.
The game started at seven o'clock. By six-thirty, I'd already given up pretending I was going to accomplish anything productive. I carried a blanket into the living room. Then I settled onto the couch and turned on the television.
Before meeting Thane, hockey was just another sport. If we'd never sat down together that night at the bar, I probably would have checked the final score online and called it a night. Instead, I found myself on the couch before the pregame coverage had even started, waiting for the players to take the ice.
Apparently, this was my life now.
The ridiculous part wasn't that I was watching hockey. The ridiculous part was that I was actually excited about it.
The broadcast opened with highlights from around the league before cutting to the arena. Players skated through warmups while commentators discussed standings, injuries, and playoff projections despite the fact that it was only December.
My attention immediately found number nineteen. Thane circled through a drill before gliding toward center ice. A few seconds later, the camera moved elsewhere.
I found myself waiting for it to come back to Thane. That realization was mildly embarrassing. The game started, and there wasn’t much that I missed about Thane. His positioning. The way he tapped his stick against the ice when calling for a pass. The way he leaned forward on the bench while listening to his coach. The way he immediately skated toward a teammate after a bad turnover.
I knew enough about hockey now to follow the game.
The game remained close all night. By the middle of the third period, I was sitting forward on the couch. LA scored with less than four minutes remaining. Seattle pushed hard after that. They pulled the goalie and spent the final minutes throwing everything they had at the net.
Twice, I thought they had it. Twice I was wrong. When the final horn sounded, I found myself letting out a disappointed breath. Apparently, losing bothered me now, too.
The camera lingered briefly on the Seattle bench before the players headed for the locker room. My attention found Thane immediately.
He sat for a moment with his elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the ice while the arena buzzed around him. He didn't look angry. Just disappointed. The kind of disappointment that came from knowing you could have played better.
The broadcast moved into its post-game coverage, but instead of reaching for the remote, I stayed where I was. A few minutes later, one of the reporters caught up with Thane near the tunnel.
