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There is one thing I’m looking forward to, though—Micky will be moving to Minneapolis in four days. Four! I can’t believe she kept it from me for so long. I wish she had told me before I signed my lease; we could have gotten an apartment together. Unfortunately for me, her new one-bedroom is above Top Shelf, the hockey bar where the guys hang out. I could have sworn those apartments were reserved for Lakes rookies, but somehow she snagged one. What are the odds? My mouth has stayed shut about it; there’s no way I can burst her bubble. She’s beyond thrilled to have an entire team of hot-as-hell hockey players practically hanging out on her doorstep night after night.
LONAN
The familiar beep of swiping my ID card sounds as I pass through the turnstile at the arena. My footsteps are the only sound as I stride through the empty walkways. Most days I enter through the back, but I like to walk through the arena when it’s empty every now and then. One of those things I miss from before joining the NHL. I see one of the janitorial staff ahead pushing a broom.
“Hey, Earl.” I nod at him. “How’s Janice?”
“Oh, you know, same old. Good days and bad. Just celebrated fifty years, though.”
“Shit. Congratulations, man.”
“Thank you. You decide to settle down yet, hot shot?”
I laugh and spin around, walking backward.
“Working on it.” He’s always busting my balls about finding a ‘good woman.’ “Any advice?”
“Yeah, quit dicking around. You’re burning daylight, son.”
“Noted. Send Janice my love.”
“Will do, will do. You take care now.”
“Stay out of trouble, Earl,” I say, turning back around.
I’ve watched every interview she’s done, and she hasn’t mentioned me—or us—once. Her story is dying down, and I’m thankful. Not only does seeing her on TV every day torment me, but I know how much she hates being the center of attention. At least from the media. She loves it when she’s the one holding my attention. I’m sick of missing her. But she needs time to figure out her feelings, and I have to respect that. For now.
My patience with her won’t last forever. It also won’t keep me from stalking her Instagram. I keep telling myself I’m just checking in on her, but it’s more than that. Shit, it’s not even conscious anymore. Half the time, my fingers open the app and type in her name before I realize what’s happening.
I push open the door to the locker room as my phone dings. There’s an email about the annual Children’s Hospital gala and the expectations for our behavior during the event. As if we’re a bunch of rowdy frat boys that can’t get our shit together. Every year I buy a table and invite the Hayeses. They’re my family and support the cause as much as I do. I suppose that means she’ll be there too. As much as I want to see her again, it scares me. This gala will only end in one of two ways: really good or really bad. I’ll finally see firsthand whether there’s a chance for us. I can’t make her choose me, and I wouldn’t want to. I want to get back together becauseshewants to. Becauseshesees a future with me and realizesshecan’t live without me as much as I can’t live without her. And she needs to come to that conclusion all on her own.
Just as I always do, I absentmindedly find myself on Instagram. When I search her name, her profile is gone. I double-check my spelling and try again; this time, I notice a new account listed, B. Hayes. The profile picture is a woman facing away from the camera, only the back of her head shows. It’s her. It’s the same view I had every time I took her from behind. No question, that’s Bridget. I had that hair wrapped around my fist enough to memorize the exact shade of chestnut brown.
I click on the account. Private. Her 432.8K followers are now down to 39. For the last few weeks, she’s been a bigger celebrity than me. Her social media accounts exploded overnight. I suspect this is her attempt to regain some solitude from the media spotlight. But she can’t hide from me. My thumb hovers over theFollowbutton. What the hell do I care? I click it. She already knows I’m keeping an eye on her. Locking my phone, I stuff it into my gym bag and finish lacing up my skates.
As I hit the ice of the empty rink, my mind drifts to what I want for us. Without thinking, I begin a bag skating. Why does our relationship have to be so hard? I don’t realize how mad I am until I’m sprinting back and forth, barely able to catch my breath. My college coach used to make us bag skate until we puked. It was a punishment for playing shitty. Part of me questions whether I’m trying to punish myself for losing her.
No. We both made mistakes. She’s it for me. I know the only reason she tries to push me away is because she’s scared. It doesn’t matter how many times she tells me to see other people. It’s futile. That woman has ruined all other women for me. Sure, they hang on me like they do every other player, but outside of getting too drunk and letting them sit on my lap, the only thing I’ve fucked is my fist. And it’s her face I picture when I come all over my hand. I skate for an hour. Not running defensive drills or shooting at the net, just bombing up and down the ice.
My legs feel like anvils, and it takes me tripping on the ice to see that it’s time to go home. When I get back to the locker room and shower, I meditate and let the high of the endorphin rush wash over me. I think of how she used to look at me and how her eyes drank me in when I was buried inside her. That was love. It can’t be washed away so easily. It’s going to be okay.
After wrapping the towel around my waist, I head back to my locker and fish my phone out of the bag to check for any calls, specifically from Bridget. The only notification I have is from Instagram—she’s accepted my request to follow. She still wants my attention.
Careful not to double-tap any photos or click any hearts, I scroll through to see what she’s been up to. I zoom in on the last one she posted. It’s a selfie of her standing on a cliff overlooking a lake. I know that spot well. It’s on the north shore. It’s where I used to go to think when I was in my twenties before fame and game schedules ruled my life. It’s not an easy hike, but the view is rewarding. In the photo, she’s surrounded by pine trees and huge boulders. Her hair is tangled, whipped from the wind. Her forehead is glistening with sweat from climbing over all the rocks. She’s not done up by makeup teams or put into dramatic lighting for one of her interviews. Nope, this is the real Bridget. Her eyes are sparkling, and the sense of accomplishment on her face is evident. She’s a knockout.
I’m about to comment on it when I see another person has beaten me to it.
Looking forward to the gala, cutie. I hope you wear something a little more formal for me than your hiking gear, just kidding.
Seriously?Nate, the piece-of-shit nutritionist, is her date? There’s no way she’s going out with him. That guy’s a douchebag; I’ve heard the way he talks about women—he’s not as nice a guy as he pretends to be. She’s gotta be messing with me. That comment is probably the reason she accepted my request to follow her in the first place. Shewantsme to see it, payback for how much I’ve been in the spotlight lately at bars.
A sarcastic laugh rips from my throat.
“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t even know what I’m going to do to you now.”
I finish getting dressed and grin as I toss my bag over my shoulder. If she wants to play games and trifle with me, that’s fine. But she should know it’s a two-person sport. I shoot off a quick text to Micky because I know they’re grabbing drinks tonight, it might be fun to show up and remind her who she’s dealing with.
Next, I open my contacts and scroll until I find what I’m looking for and pause. Perhaps this is taking things too far, but I enjoy seeing her riled up. Besides, I plan to make it up to her by the night’s end. I unblock the phone number and type out a message.
