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Sleep.
Skate.
Repeat.
It’s a solid plan. At least it seems that way until I come out of the tunnel the next night. Wagner Arena is packed. Lights flashing, music blaring. My eyes zero in on Baxter’s seats.
Natalie ought to be filling one. Smiling wide while she waits for her favorite fucking game to start. She ought to be laughing, looking carefree, so I can see for myself that this was the right thing. That she’s better off. And then maybe I can let her go.
Only that can’t happen because there are a couple of balding, middle-aged fucks occupying the space where she’s supposed to be.
* * *
Natalie
I’m perchedat the very edge of my chair, remote clutched against my chest, still barely able to breathe as the commentators continue to discuss Vaughn’s game tonight using words likeastounding,unprecedented, andterrifying.
The last, in my opinion, being the most accurate.
He was like a man on fire. Relentless. Laser sharp. Almost unnatural.
And with every goal he scored, the look he leveled at the camera following him past the bench was downright chilling. I didn’t need the announcer comparing it to the almost playful winks he was throwing out a few weeks prior. I couldn’t miss the difference if I tried, and something tells me he knew I wouldn’t.
A text alert comes up and I know it’s him.
Vaughn: I’m a big fucking boy. Don’t skip the games.
I stare at my phone, waiting to see if he’ll send anything else. And when it’s clear he isn’t going to, all that held breath leaks out on a cold laugh as I slump back into the overstuffed chair behind me.
He thinks I didn’t go to the game because I was worriedhecouldn’t handle it?
I laugh again. And then the tears start to fall, and I turn off the TV and lock up the house because no one is coming over.
* * *
Two weeks later,I’ve made it to four of the five home games. There haven’t been any more texts. The only communication between us comes in that first lap when he skates out onto the ice. His eyes flick to mine as he skates by, and he gives me the slightest nod.
And with Helene holding my hand, I smile like my heart isn’t breaking a little more every time I see him. Like I don’t think about him every night when I’m going to bed and he isn’t on my mind before I even open my eyes in the morning. Like I don’t spend half my days wondering when it will stop feeling like this and the other half asking myself if I’ve made the worst decision of my life.
After the third week, I’ve stopped crying. Mostly.
I signed up to do a fall-prevention class for the elderly at the community center and picked up a few hours as a trainer for a girls varsity hockey team. I’m staying busy.
Sean is off injured reserve. The guys have one of their longest road trips of the season, so at least I’m not counting down the minutes to some abbreviated head nod wondering if this will be the night I don’t get it. Vaughn’s game is as intense as ever, smart and focused. And the reporters haven’t asked about the rift between him and Greg in weeks. All they want to know is what he’s thinking about their chances at the Cup.
By the end of the fourth week, the guys are back. They’ve had the last two days off and everyone is talking about tonight’s game against the Epics. Last time Vaughn faced off against his old team, it was clear there wasn’t any love lost between them and there had been a revolving door on the penalty box for both teams.
Vaughn can handle himself, but this game’s got me anxious. And to make matters worse, there was some production emergency that had Julia flying out to LA an hour ago, and Helene is babysitting for her cousin. So unless I can find someone to come with me I’ll be watching alone. Which is why I’m cutting down the DePaul University neighborhood sidewalk congested with students and early commuters, crossing my fingers that George has a free night. Or at least a night she might be able to free up for me. She’s on a very short list of people who understand why I might be particularly invested in a certain grouchy player when I shouldn’t be paying attention to him at all.
An old-fashioned bell rings overhead when I walk through The Bike Shop’s front door. The walls are exposed brick lined with oversized shelves to accommodate rows of bikes ranging from something a kid would get for her birthday to racing bikes that cost more than George’s car. It’s early March but there are still a few customers waiting up at the front counter, one with a frame over his shoulder and a wheel that’s nearly bent in half in his left hand. Ouch.
George’s middle brother, Eli, glances up from the register as his customer signs for his purchase with his finger. “Yo, sis, gonna need you to cover the front.” His eyes twinkle with mischief as they meet mine. “My date just got here.”
This guy.
“How’s it going, Eli?” I ask as George pops up from the bike she’s working on in the back. While the front of the store is bright with a clean, sleek style—light pine floors with a dark weather runner leading from the door to the modern counter, high ceilings with recessed lighting—the service area is old-school concrete, bulbs hanging from wires and walls so thick with equipment, I couldn’t tell you if they’re brick or not. And of course, Awolnation blasting out of a portable speaker with as much grease on it as its owner.
“You wish.” George laughs, throwing an elbow into her brother’s ribs as she rounds the counter, pulling a dirty rag from her back pocket to wipe her hands.
