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I know all this because one night I snuck down to watch him come home. I’d finished my book and I was bored. So I sat on the stair that gave the best view of the kitchen and watched the back of my mom’s head as she waited, too.
I don’t know how long it took for him to walk in. But I do remember the tightness of his face, the narrowness of his eyes and the way he held his body.
Anger radiated off him. And for a moment I was scared.
But then mom stood and walked over to him, not saying a word. He closed the door behind him and watched her with wary eyes. And though I couldn’t see her face, I could see her hands as they reached up to cup his jaw. Something in his eyes flashed.
And then he kissed her. Hard and desperate. At that moment I knew I should go. This was private stuff. Mom and Dad stuff.
I was eight then. I didn’t know exactly what was going on. By the time I was twelve, I knew and I was embarrassed.
She soothed him the only way she knew how. And in the morning he’d be okay. He’d eat breakfast with us, talk about the game, about our day ahead.
Because Mom always knew exactly how to deal with him.
For some reason I’m thinking about those nights as I watch Max let the golden goal in and throw his stick down in disgust onto the ice.
Everybody in the staff box lets out a groan. And I’m groaning internally too because I’m going to have to tell Gramps that we lost.
The other team celebrates to muted applause – this is the AHL and there’s not a huge contingent of away fans who’ve come to support them – as our own team bump their fists half-heartedly and head to the tunnel.
The last one to leave the ice is Eli. And though I’m too far away to see his expression, even though he’s taken his helmet off – I know exactly what it looks like.
Because I know how important it is to win.
From that early age I learned that nothing else matters. Coming second is for saps. There are no awards for taking part or even for doing your best.
You win or die.
That’s it.
Brian and the rest of the office staff say their goodbyes and leave. I’m the last one sitting here, staring out at the ice.
And I know it’s because I don’t want to go to my office and phone Gramps. I don’t want to go downstairs either. I’d forgotten how much I hate it when a team loses. The atmosphere makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t know what to say.
It isn’t until the stadium is empty that I finally stand and walk back to my office. There are emails to send and invoices to pay, and I have to review this week’s staff payroll to make sure they will all get some money in their banks. It’s almost ten-thirty by the time I pick up the phone and tap out the number for Gramps’ nursing home.
When I speak to the nurse in charge she tells me that he’s already asleep but she’ll let him know in the morning. I let out a huge breath of relief. There’s nothing more for me to do but to go home, go to sleep, and face this all again in the morning.
The arena is in darkness as I make my way down the stairs to the staff exit that leads out to the parking lot. It’s only when I hear a thud of something against the floor that I turn around.
And see Eli Salinger walking out of the locker room, wearing jeans and a hoodie. His hair is dry but it looks fluffy, like he showered an hour ago and didn’t bother doing anything with it.
I wonder if he’s been sitting there alone in the locker room, the same way I’ve been sitting in my office. I feel a weird pull to him. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch.
He doesn’t notice me standing there. His jaw is so tight I’m wondering if it’s wired shut. I hold my breath as he presses his lips together then shakes his head, stalking with intent toward the door.
And toward me.
He stops short when he finally realizes he’s not alone. His eyes look so dark as they reach mine. I part my lips but really, I can’t think of a word to say.
Nothing that makes losing feel better. Because nothing can. Dad taught me that.
I step toward him, and he doesn’t move. His gaze is wary but still on me. My heart hammers against my ribcage as I lift my hands and press my palms softly to his bearded cheeks.
This is all kinds of messed up. I’m so aware that I barely know him. And apart from knowing what my panties look like when I’m laying prone on the locker room floor, he doesn’t know me either.
And yet touching him feels natural. It feels good.
