Page 5
I can’t face my teammates and their questions. They mean well, but I accosted Skylar. I owe them an explanation, and if I figure one out, I’ll tell them.
Liska’s doorman hails me a cab, and the ride home is a blur.
Confusion and anger course through my veins in equal measure. Skylar left, but he never gave me the opportunity to make it right.
The silence in my apartment depresses me even more. I thought I’d love having my space and not worrying if someone ate my food, but today, I need someone with me to debrief that I didn’t hallucinate Skylar.
It’s common for rookies to live with veteran families, but since I was in the AHL for two years, I figured it’d be great not having a roommate banging around or worrying that I’m an awful influence on their kids.
Instead, my parents helped me find this apartment and hauled some of our old furniture from Illinois so it’s homey. I scowl at the couch as I walk by. It’s too small and as uncomfortable as fuck. Not one positive memory. In the offseason, I’ll get something that doesn’t scream my parents’ hand-me-downs.
The place has no character, the equivalent of beige and neutral having a baby. It’s a box with a small kitchenette and living room combo, with the bedroom and bathroom in the rear. It’s a starter New York apartment. No amenities, and I’ve done nothing to decorate the place. I’m not sure if it’s because I hate it or because I’m never here.
In bed, I scroll my favorite social media app. My teammates don’t announce where they go and what they do, but the occasional nondescript picture will appear. I’m rewarded by Benz posting a pic of Skylar instructing Liska and Trevor. They’re laughing, and Trevor is mid-spin.
Sky’s so beautiful. His teeth sink into his plump lower lip, showing off the slightly crooked tooth. He hates it, but it gives him character. I should’ve removed his headband to see how long his hair is and find out if his curls are as soft as I remember.
He smells the same. I breathe deeply in a misguided effort to inhale him again. Skylar smells like home and safety and comfort.
I empty my mind and picture us lying between rows of corn in the field near my house. It offered cover for kissing and other things where no one could see us, but we’d hear them coming. We left a blanket in our favorite spot as the corn grew, before it was harvested.
His angelic voice is the same, soft and sweet, consistent with the rest of him. He’d trace my face or chest with his finger, always touching me. I remember dreaming of a life where we could touch openly without fear and not hide in a field.
We were so young and stupid, and I thought love lasted forever. No one can help you recover from losing your first love. Part of me has been missing for four years, seven months and five—no, six days.
Has he been avoiding me? He must’ve known I moved to the city. Unless he had forgotten me and stopped following hockey news. It’s not my fault when he was right here and could find me in seconds. He could show up at a game, or send fan mail, or drop something off at the front office with my name.
A name I didn’t change.
My phone rings, but I’ve face-planted in my pillow. Irrationally, I reach for it, thinking it could be Skylar. It’s my mom. If I don’t answer, she’ll worry.
“Hey.” I shake off my despair.
“Hi, honey. How was your little party?” she asks because I’d mentioned it days ago.
“It… I… Honestly, Mom, I had too much to drink,” I admit, and close my eyes, waiting for the lecture.
“That’s not you. Is everything all right?”
Part of me wishes I could tell her everything, but she never approved of Sky as my friend, let alone my boyfriend. My first love.
“The craziest thing happened on the way there. I swear I saw Skylar walking on a side street. Wild, huh?” I refrain from telling her the truth. None of it matters anymore. Obviously.
“You didn’t talk to him, did you?” she asks urgently. “I haven’t heard that name in years. I’d forgotten him. Have you been in contact with him?”
“No, it brought up a bunch of memories and things.” That’s the truth. “His parents expected him to become a plumber or an electrician.” I bark a laugh. “He’d hate both. Thanks for letting me pursue my dream, even if it was a long shot.”
She sighs. “Honey, sometimes we’re not meant to understand why things happen, but have faith that everything works out for the best. You’re a hard worker, and that made it easy to support you. We’re so proud of you. Don’t let the past drag you down.”
It’s strange that it’s the first time she’s said she’s proud of me. Arguably, I’ve accomplished a lot for a twenty-two-year-old. I’m in the NHL playing on a great team that hopes to win The Cup this year. But her praise is a drop of water on a sheet of ice.
“You’re right,” I placate her. “I’m gonna sleep this off and talk to you tomorrow.”
“Enjoy your day off. You should drink lots of water and sweat out any remaining alcohol tomorrow. Love you, honey.”
The phone on my chest beeps when she hangs up. The conversation replays in my head, and something bothers me. Skylar didn’t make the honor roll, but he got the lead in all our plays and was voted Most Likely To Be On Broadway. He worked really hard, but in a different way.
But I take her advice and drink a bottle of water.
