Must Love Dogs...and Hockey

by Kelly Jamieson

  I sit heavily on the side of the bed and close my eyes. “I still miss you, Bryce, buddy.” I rub my chest. The ache that usually materializes there when I think of him is smaller than it used to be. I guess it’ll always be there. That’s okay. “I’m not forgetting about you,” I promise him.

  Maybe I was just talking to him and Otis. Yeah.

  Sometimes I think I’m crazy. Mostly I don’t care.

  Anyway, I’m fighting the urge to get Otis’s leash and walk over to Lilly’s place. I fought it last night, even after she texted me to ask how my meeting with Coach went.

  It didn’t go well.

  Fuck, he’s an asshole.

  I wish I could tell him that. But I kept my mouth shut, nodded, and agreed with him, told him I’ll do better. I won’t try for the fancy stuff, I’ll get the puck to the net, blah, blah, blah. I know that stuff, but he talks to me like I’m an imbecile.

  Hockey’s too important to me to spout off at him, though. I have to make this work.

  I ended up calling her to talk about it, and we stayed on the phone for nearly an hour. I don’t talk to anyone on the phone, never mind for a fucking hour.

  Today was another shitty day. Apparently to punish me for my mistake the other night, Coach has taken me off the power play number one unit.

  I have the second-highest goals on the team. It’s bullshit. But what am I gonna do? Throw a tantrum? Yeah, that’ll go over well. A string of curse words runs through my head, remembering the practice and team meeting earlier today.

  “We’re gonna change things up,” Coach said. “Jay’s got the speed to get the puck established in the offensive zone, and we can use him down low after we get set up.”

  My eyes met JBo’s and he gave the tiniest apologetic shrug. I mean, it’s not a bad plan. Coach is right about JBo’s speed.

  I pile the towels up and carry them into the bathroom. It doesn’t matter. I’m still playing. That’s the important thing. I can’t let Coach’s mind games get to me; if I do, I’ll make even more mistakes out on the ice.

  Fuck it. I’m going to see Lilly.

  No. I can’t. I’m grouchy and pissed.

  But somehow seeing her always changes that.

  Oh man, I’m so screwed. I can’t get involved with her. She’s sweet and believes things are always going to work out, and I’m bitter and know things never work out. I can’t inflict my negativity on her adorable optimism. And I can’t let myself care about her, because when she disappears, she’ll be one more thing that’s taken away from me. I can’t handle that again.

  I glance at my watch. Nearly five o’clock.

  “Fine,” I say on a long sigh. “I’m going to text her. Maybe she’s not even home.”

  I grab my phone and fire off a quick message. I busy myself with the rest of my laundry while I wait for her reply, which takes about ten minutes.

  I’m just dropping off Apollo, then heading home.

  I hold my phone, feeling its small weight in my palm. Then I tap in another message. How about dinner?

  We’ve gone out on what I guess could be called dates, but after we had sex that first time, we basically agreed that’s what we were doing—having sex. She doesn’t want a relationship as much as I don’t, so that’s great.

  Maybe I should have just asked for a booty call.

  I roll my eyes. That’s not what this is about, even though I want to pretend it is.

  My phone buzzes and I start. I glance down at it.

  Okay, sure.

  I smile. I’ll come by your place at seven.

  I get a thumbs-up emoji in return.

  I grin at Otis. “We better go for a walk now. I’ve got a hot date.”

  * * *

  —

  She answers her door wearing black leggings, a big, loose blue sweater with a cowl-neck, and her usual boots. “Hi!”

  “Hi.” For a moment, I’m without words. I don’t know why. She looks casual and put-together but not speech-robbing. It’s her smile that does it—wide and glowing and engaging, her eyes full of light and life.

  “I’m ready.” She pulls her jacket on and picks up her purse from the small table near the door. “I feel like Otis is missing.”

  “He can’t come on a date with us.”

  She locks her door and slants me an amused glance. “Is that what this is?”

  “Call it what you want.”

  We step outside and descend the stairs to the sidewalk. “Where are we going?” She tugs the neck of her soft sweater up under her chin.

  “Let’s walk up to Broadway and hail a cab. There’s a place in Hell’s Kitchen I like.”

  “Okay. We can take the subway, though.”

  “I’ll spring for a cab tonight.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  I laugh. “That’s me.”

  Luckily we have no trouble getting a taxi which makes its way through bumper-to-bumper Manhattan traffic to the restaurant.

  “I’ve never been here,” Lilly says as we get out of the car at Piccolo. “This looks fancy.” She glances down at herself.

  I know what she’s thinking. “You’re fine.” I set my hand on the small of her back to enter the eatery.

  I called and made a reservation right after she agreed to have dinner. This is a popular place, but I got lucky and we’re shown to a table for two. She slides onto the banquette and I take the upholstered chair opposite her.

  “This is the best thing on the menu.” I read off the description of the black linguine with lobster in a spicy tomato sauce.

  “That sounds amazing.”

  “You order it. I’ll get something else, and we can share again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  It’s one of my favorite dishes in the world, but I’m sure. “Yeah.” I look over the menu. I end up ordering veal scaloppini with artichoke hearts, blue cheese, and truffles.

  We also get a bottle of Sangiovese, which the waiter pours into enormous glasses.

  “This is lovely.” She catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’ve been taking me to all these nice places and I feel guilty.”

  “Why?”

  Her lips now press together briefly. “I can’t afford places like this these days.”

  I don’t want to dismiss her feelings, but she really doesn’t need to feel guilty. I also don’t want to sound like I’m bragging about how much money I have. “Next time, you pay.”

  One corner of her mouth hooks up in a wry smile. “Okay. Can’t wait to take you to McDonald’s!”

  I laugh. “That’d be fine with me. I love a Big Mac.”

  Lilly sips her wine, then holds up her glass. “I feel like we should be celebrating something.”

  “More like drowning my sorrows.” I make a face.

  “Uh-oh.” Her eyes soften. “What?”

  I tell her about the power play and Coach’s dick move.

  She bites her lip. “Is it possible it’s justified?”

  “No!” I lower my voice. “No. I know I screwed up last game, but I don’t deserve that. It’s not like I haven’t been scoring.”

  “Okay then, he’s just a twatwaffle.”

  I choke on a laugh.

  She leans closer across the table. “You’ve heard of karma?”

  “Yeah.”

  She nods knowingly. “He’ll get his.”

  “Fuck, I hope so. I hope I can survive until it happens.”

  “Does it make you that miserable?” She sips her wine.

  “I try not to let it. I don’t want it to mess with my head and make things even worse. I just get so…furious. It’s frustrating. I hate feeling like I have no control.”

  “You do have control. You always have choices.”

  I frown.


  “But there are consequences, of course. As I know.” She rolls her eyes.

  She does know. And I know too, that’s why I try to keep my mouth shut. “I tried to defend myself yesterday when we had our meeting, but he obviously didn’t like that.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sympathy shadows her eyes and she reaches for my hand. “It sucks. You’re one of the best hockey players in the world, doing what you love, and you should be happy about what you’ve accomplished.”

  My forehead creases. “Do I sound ungrateful?”

  “No! That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s a shame that you’re in a situation like this.” She bites her lip. “Would you want to be traded again?”

  I close my eyes. “I can’t do that. They were happy to get rid of me in Vancouver. If I ask for another trade, my reputation will be shit.” More than it already is.

  “I understand.”

  I meet her eyes and it occurs to me that she totally understands…because she’s been through this. She knows what it’s like to try to do your best and do the right thing and be criticized for it. To be unfairly accused of not being a team player, when the truth is she was trying to be the best team player.

  The pressure in my chest eases and I relax my spine. “I know you do,” I say quietly. “Thanks for understanding.”

  She nods, a small smile on her lips. “I do.”

  * * *

  —

  I’m determined to play my ass off in Wednesday night’s game against Washington. Call me spiteful, but I want to show everyone that Coach’s decision was bullshit. I’m aware that I should be playing my ass off every game, and dammit, I do, but tonight it’s even more important. Then I stop and think about Lilly’s question. Is it possible it’s justified?

  Is this Coach’s way of getting me to play better?

  I ask Cookie that on the subway ride home.

  He gives me a weird look. “You weren’t playing bad, though. Seriously. Look at all the stats—your points, your plus/minus, Corsi, Fenwick, shooting percentage…”

  I nod slowly. I’ve doubted myself in lots of ways, especially since Bryce and Dad died and Mom didn’t care enough about me to even try to keep going. But I’ve never doubted my hockey skills. Before the accident, I knew I was going to get drafted, and after the accident that was all I had left to focus on. I may have made my career more difficult because of always feeling like things are too good to be true and I’m going to get whacked so I might as well hit first, but that has nothing to do with my ability to play hockey.

  “Yeah,” I agree slowly.

  “I mean, nobody’s perfect and we can always do better. But you’re one of the hardest-working guys on the team.”

  Right now, it means a lot to me to hear that. “Thanks.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Cookie says glumly. “We all know it. And tonight, do we score any power play goals? No. None. Zip.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Red’s just not strong enough in front of the net.”

  I nod. We both love the guy, but it’s true.

  “Coach’s stupid decisions are making us a worse team,” Cookie adds.

  “That’s just not right.” I blow out a breath and glance around to make sure no one is in earshot of our discussion. “You’d think Mr. Julian sees that. How does Coach keep his job? Aren’t we supposed to focus on winning?”

  “I know. I don’t get it.”

  I shake my head. “Glad I’m not the only one feeling this way.”

  “Nah, you’re not.”

  The loss tonight feels shitty. As Cookie and I walk along 66th Street, I think about Lilly. Once again, I feel a visceral need to see her. She sent me her usual picture of Otis when she left him after his walk. Just seeing that text from her made me smile. I wish she was waiting for me in my apartment along with the mutt. But at least I have my dog. I’ll take him out for a walk and clear the frustration clouding my head.

  Back out on the street with him, I consider walking to Lilly’s place. But I can’t keep doing that. I’ll see her tomorrow when I drop Otis off. We leave on a road trip to Montreal and Ottawa.

  Instead, I text her when I get home. Thanks for the pic of Otis. See you tomorrow morning.

  Yep!

  Are you in bed?

  Yes. Why?

  I’m in my bed too.

  I wait, then add another line. One of us is in the wrong place.

  She replies:

  Then she sends another message. Are you okay after the loss?

  I’m pissed as hell. We could’ve done better.

  I was afraid of that.

  It’s okay. Your sexiness is distracting me from my anger.

  You can’t even see me.

  I’m thinking about you.

  Oh yeah?

  Yeah. If you could read my mind, you’d be having an orgasm.

  Maybe I am having an orgasm…because I’ve been thinking about you.

  Lilly…fuck.

  I wish.

  I groan. Maybe sexting was a bad idea.

  * * *

  —

  I drop off Otis in the morning, on my way to the airport. Poor Otis. As usual he’s a roller coaster of emotions—overjoyed to see Lilly, then crying when I leave. I know he’ll be fine; Lilly keeps me very well informed about all his activities, including pooping. She even sends little video clips. If she does that for all her clients, she must be popular. She knows how hard it is for people to leave their dogs, I guess.

  “We get back around one in the morning Sunday,” I tell her. “Is that too late to pick him up?”

  “That’s way past my bedtime.”

  She’s teasing me.

  “Okay,” I say. “Here’s an idea. How about you stay over at my place Saturday night? I’ll try not to wake you up when I get home.”

  Her eyes widen. “Um, really?”

  I lean in closer until our noses are almost touching. “I mean, I could wake you up. If you wanted.”

  I love the smile that curves her lips. “Well, normally I don’t like having my sleep interrupted, but I might make an exception for you. But maybe you’ll be tired after your trip.”

  “Never too tired for you, babe.” I move that last inch and brush my mouth over hers. “Sleep in my bed.”

  She swallows. “Okay.”

  “Take care of the pooch.”

  “I will. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  —

  We squeak out a win in Ottawa, four–three, then move on to Montreal. This is a big game, not necessarily because of the standings, but because it’s Saturday night in Montreal, which is probably the craziest hockey city in the world, and which means hockey night in Canada and tons of media attention.

  Which is perfect for one of my most humiliating hockey moments.

  It’s late in the third period, and we’re down a goal and trying to tie it up. We’re going hard to the Montreal net, but they get the puck on a rebound and take it back. In front of our net, Jammer and I are trying to cover Montreal’s leading scorer, Grekov, when Jammer goes down, taking me with him. What the fuck?

  I look down and see that my skate lace is caught in the guard on the back of Jammer’s skate. As I see this, as we’re both lying on the ice, Grekov is totally open and scoops up the puck, firing it past Gunner.

  I close my eyes.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Jammer curses. “What is happening?”

  The hometown crowd is on their feet, cheering wildly, Montreal players celebrating. I look over at Gunner, who had no chance on that goal, and he slams his stick against the goalpost. I don’t blame him.

  Jammer and I are still tangled up and I have to loosen my lace from his skate to be able to stand up and skate to the bench. Jesus fuck.

  I don’t play at all t
he remaining four minutes of the game. I can practically see the steam coming out of Coach’s ears. Maybe he’ll have a heart attack. I’m going to hell for thinking that, but it would take the attention off me. I know this is not going to go well.

  And Jammer. He’s more of a target for Coach than I am. Fuck.

  The horn sounds and we all trudge back to the dressing room. The mood is heavy and my gut is a mass of knots, waiting for what whooping Coach is about to deliver on our ass. I can handle it. It was an accident, a fluke, a one-in-a-million stupid thing to happen. He can blame us for it, but everyone knows it was just shitty luck.

  As expected, Coach is irate and Jammer and I are in his focus. “What the fuck was that?” he yells. “You left their top scorer open right in front of our net!”

  Jammer and I exchange glances. He doesn’t realize what exactly happened?

  “It was a freak accident,” I start. “My—”

  “Freak accident?” He glares at me. “It was fucking garbage defense!” His head swivels to direct his glower at Jammer. “What were you thinking?”

  “Coach, my skate lace—” I try again.

  “I’m talking!” he yells.

  “Well, maybe you should listen!” I yell back. Immediately I know that was the wrong thing to do.

  He hurls his clipboard at me.

  I duck, even though it doesn’t come that close and it crashes off the wooden stall.

  Silence thickens the air in the room.

  Coach storms out and we all bow our heads, not wanting to look at each other. I’m not on the list to talk to the media, thank God, so I yank off my skates and my equipment, handing it over to Tommy, the equipment assistant. Then I hit the showers. I should cool down on the bike and stretch but I’m way too wound up to do that. I just want to get the fuck out of here.

  The bus is waiting for us in the tunnel. We’re going straight to the airport from here. I find a seat at the back in the dark and slouch down in the seat. I can’t think—everything in my brain feels stuck. A giant band is tightening around my chest and I’m sweating even after my shower.

  Gradually other guys board the bus. Normally there’d be a lot of noise—trash talk and laughter, even after a loss. But tonight, things are quiet.