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“I’m just kidding. And I don’t mean to sound like the buzzkill veteran teammate, but be careful, okay?”
“I am. Always.”
Alexei’s happily married with a baby on the way, but I’ve heard he used to be a big partier. A drunk driving accident brought all that to a halt, and he’s been sober for several years now. He ended up marrying the therapist he met in rehab.
He leans closer to me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Go get some eye drops from one of the trainers. You look like shit.”
I take his advice, with just enough time to spare afterward to get my skates and gear on, and hit the ice.
As soon as I skate onto the ice, my head feels a little better. The cool air of an ice rink always invigorates me. It’s the only constant in my life. I’ve lived in many places and had lots of different teammates, but for the past sixteen years, I’ve been a goalie.
After skating a few laps, I start my stretching routine. I don’t eat, drink, or sleep in ways that optimize my play, but I stretch thoroughly before every practice and every game. It’s not just a physical thing, though. Stretching also puts me in a good mental state for hockey. After all these years, my mind and body have learned to take cues from each other.
This isn’t the first time I’ve played while suffering a hangover, and luckily, it’s only practice. Drills are second nature to me, and my goaltending coach, Andy Katz, knows there’s no benefit to wearing out a starting goalie in practice. I always practice alone with Katz for twenty minutes each practice, and around half an hour with the team. Then one of our trainers, Rudy, spells me and takes rapid-fire shots for the rest of practice.
Rudy keeps me supplied with water bottles while I practice, and I drink a lot during my hour on the ice. I actually end up feeling better than before practice started.
I’m still going home to eat and sleep, though. I’m ravenous, and my eyes are burning with exhaustion.
When the rest of the team files into the locker room after practice, I approach Kingston.
“Hey, can I get a ride home?”
“Yep.”
We’re on the way to my house in his Jeep when I let out an excited whoop after checking my email on my phone.
“I got the baseball!”
“What baseball?” Kingston asks.
“One signed by Roger Maris when he was a Yankee. I’ve been trying to get my hands on one in good condition for years. A sports memorabilia auction place outside the city had one, and I offered them the asking price so it wouldn’t go to auction.”
“Nice.”
“It’s gonna look amazing in my display case.”
“You going out tonight?”
“I don’t think so. I want to chill and watch ESPN.”
“Want to watch it at my place?” Kingston asks. “We could order some pizza and wings.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” I say as he pulls up in front of my house. “Text me later.”
“Get some sleep, dude. You look like you need it.”
I grin at him as I get out of the car. “Worth it.”
I don’t really remember much from last night. I passed out right after getting off the fourth woman from the bachelorette party. Not that I’m admitting that to Kingston.
I’m living the dream. Right smack in the middle of the glory days. Someday, when I’m much older and settled down with a wife and kids, I want to look back on this time in my life and know I did it all.
Even if it’s fucking exhausting.
Chapter Three
Indie
* * *
“I found him.”
My sister Rue gives me a triumphant look and passes me a glass of wine as soon as I walk through the door after work.
“Hmm? How’s Nolan?” I ask as I kick my shoes off.
And damn, does it feel good. I had no idea how tiring it would be to spend all day on my feet and then try to pack in a few hours of quality time with Nolan when I got home.
“He’s good. We watched Finding Nemo twice and he’s been asleep for almost three hours.”
I set the wineglass down on the coffee table and flop down onto the couch. “He’s going to be up so late tonight.”
Rue puts her palms up. “Hey, you said if he wants to sleep, let him sleep.”
“I know. I’m not saying you did anything wrong, just that I’m dead on my feet and he’s going to be asking to play and read stories until like midnight.”
“I made him mac and cheese for dinner but he only ate one bite, so there are lots of leftovers. Or there’s some quinoa salad in the fridge, too.”
My sister is three years older than me, but she’s light-years ahead in terms of having her shit together. Not only is she a legal assistant with a fifteen-year mortgage on a three-bedroom bungalow, she looks put together even when she just rolled out of bed. She swears it’s Brazilian blowouts and a pricey skincare regimen, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t look like her if I did those things.
