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“Yeah, but don’t animals have, like, super senses to danger? The Coen Highsmith I knew was more apt to shoot the chipmunk than feed him.”
I bark out a laugh, because it’s funny.
Also true.
“Maybe I’m finding the softer, gentler side of myself.”
He chuckles. “I’ll drink to that.”
When Chip is done and back under his bush, I fire up the grill. Gage heads inside with me while I wrap potatoes in foil, and we crack a third round. I steer the conversation to safe topics—meaning, not about hockey—and things that interest me.
I actually start to relax, due in part to the beers, but mainly because Gage isn’t pushing me to discuss my career.
Or lack thereof.
As the sun sets, we grill and we drink, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve done something like this. Sure, before the crash, I went out with my teammates a lot. But that was to party, hook up with women, and generally bask in the limelight of being a professional hockey player who was a pretty big deal in the city of Pittsburgh.
But just hanging out to talk?
Maybe I’ve never done it.
We’re back in the Adirondack chairs, bellies full and beer number six going down. I lit some citronella torches attached to the decking to keep mosquitoes away, and the softest breeze cools the air.
Gage leans his head back and looks up at the starlit sky. “This is the life.”
“Yup.”
“You’re so mellow, man. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d gotten laid or something.”
“I suppose that’s part of it.” The admission is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Gage’s head whips my way. “Really?”
I nod toward the trees, which are nothing more than dark shadows now. “Neighbor just over that way.”
He sits up in his chair and angles toward me. “Okay… start at the beginning.”
It’s a testament to how much I’ve changed. And maybe to the beers. I tell him most everything, from the moment I met Tilden on the trails until our last meeting in the grocery store three days ago.
I leave out a few things. Like the intimate details of our times together. I’ve never been a kiss-and-tell kind of guy.
I also don’t tell him that I’ve gone over to her house every night around ten o’clock to see if her porch light is on.
It hasn’t been, and that bugs the shit out of me.
“Wow,” he says, settling into his chair. “A neighbor who pisses you off but you’re attracted to.”
“And we’re embroiled in a legal battle,” I remind him.
“You sure like to complicate your life.” He chuckles and then sips his beer.
He doesn’t ask any more questions. Shows no more curiosity. He’s being respectful of my boundaries, and it makes me squirm because I feel like there’s more to discuss regarding Tilden, and he’s going to make me ask him for advice.
Scraping at the label on my bottle, I say, “She’s a complicated woman.”
“I bet,” he replies.
I wait, but he’s content to enjoy the silence if I’m not filling it.
