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“Just Gabriel making things difficult.”
“Did he stop by here or something?”
“No. I think he enjoys making this divorce cost more than it needs to.” She sets the wooden spoon on the counter and turns around, sliding her hands up my chest and hooking them behind my neck. “But I don’t want to talk about that. It puts me in a mood.” She tugs, and I drop my head so she can reach my lips. After a few minutes, she pulls back. “How hungry are you? Can you wait on dinner for a bit?”
“Sure, why?”
“I want you to take me to bed, make me feel good.”
“I can do that.” I reach behind her and turn the burner off, then grab her ass and hoist her up. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I carry her down the hall to the bedroom.
We spend the rest of the night not talking about Gabriel and whatever happened. We eat a late dinner, and I study for my exams—my grades are a lot better this semester, thanks to all the time I spend with Clover—while she grades papers.
We might spend a lot of our time together naked, but we spend just as much time talking. We make meals, hang out, watch TV, read, play Scrabble, and I teach Clover how to make origami cranes. I’ve made so many this year that I’ve filled an entire tote bin. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt like I’m in a real relationship. And the closer we get to the end of the semester, the more I struggle with what’s likely the inevitable end. I don’t know how I’d deal with being halfway across the country and in a relationship. And she’s still fighting her way out of a bad marriage. I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on her.
Clover is sitting between my legs, the most recent issue ofPsychology Todayopen to an article on the psychology of deepfake. I’m only half paying attention, my mind wandering to tomorrow’s game.
“Mav?” She pats my cheek. “You still with me?”
“Huh?”
“Are you done with this page?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
She gives me a doubtful look. “What’s up? What’s going on in your head?”
“We have a big game tomorrow night, exams are coming up—just a lot on my mind.” I take her hand in mine and kiss each knuckle.
“What are you worried most about?”
“In the immediate future? Losing the game. After that? Exam stress, which I’m not as worried about because I have this professor girlfriend who keeps me on the straight and narrow, and I’ve been way more diligent about my studies this semester.”
She smiles up at me. “You have proven to be very studious. It’s impressive. But is there anything besides the game and exams? Is this related to the nightmares you’ve been having lately?”
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been waking up from dreams that leave me with cold sweats and the shakes. I’m locked in a small room that smells like gasoline, and all I have with me is a dead cell phone. I can hear someone calling for help, but I can’t find a way out of the room. I also have one where I’m trying to skate, but I can’t get my feet to move on the ice, and I end up missing all the important shots. Then I end up on camera for an interview and everyone keeps telling me how I let my team down.
“I’m just thinking about contract talks, and convocation,” I tell her. “Not necessarily in that order.”
Clover shifts so she can look at my face. “Are you worried about not getting called up?” Over the past couple of months, I’ve taught Clover a lot about hockey—what the stats mean, how Nashville has my rights, that Vancouver picked up Kody, but there are other teams who have eyes on him.
“I don’t know. The closer I get to contract talks, the worse the anxiety gets.”
“The anxiety about what, exactly?”
“A lot of things. This thing between us ending, having to pick up and move across the country, starting a career with guys I’ve never played with before. Or worse, they could release my rights and I could end up in Europe if they don’t see me as NHL ready. What if I’m not good enough? What if I can’t keep up with my teammates?”
“Well, logically speaking, you wouldn’t get called up if you weren’t good enough.”
“Sometimes I think the only reason I got drafted when I did was because of my last name. I’m never going to be as good as my dad was.”
“You’ve said that before. Why do you feel that way?”
“I have to work my ass off and run extra drills, work out harder, watch more videos, and practice a ton more to be even a fraction as good as he is. It doesn’t help that my best friend is basically a hockey savant. Kody works hard, but he’s a natural on the ice. He skates circles around me. And I’m not jealous of how good he is. He lives and breathes the sport, and he loves it. It’s more that he’s so certain of his future, and I’m not.”
“But you’re at practice and on the ice every day,” she says gently.
“Yeah, but if someone told me I couldn’t play hockey again? I’d be sad, but I wouldn’t be devastated the way Kody and a lot of my teammates would. Honestly, the reason I’m worried about contract talks not going well isn’t because of me; it’s because I don’t want to disappoint my dad. I’ve trained my entire life for this, and if I don’t make it . . . I don’t want to see that disappointment on his face. But the possibility of having to spend the next half decade or more being compared to him?” I twirl a lock of her hair around my finger and watch it unfurl, trying to find the words. “I don’t know . . . Half of me almost hopes I won’t get called up, even if I do have to face his disappointment. In some ways, that would be better than never being able to live up to his legacy.”
