by Mignon Mykel
Why Jordan couldn’t answer.
I wasn’t even three rings later that his usual, “Hi, Lo,” came through. There was a bunch of background noise and I heard as he excused himself. “Sorry. We’re headed to the arena.”
“I figured. It’s about that time. Hey, question for you,” I said, trying to make it light. I pulled open the freezer door and reached for a pack of two red popsicles, tearing them apart as I held my phone between my shoulder and ear. “Rori tried to call Jordan a few minutes ago. Is he with the team? I mean, I don’t know why he wouldn’t be.” I rushed on before he could say anything, “They had a good day yesterday. I don’t understand why he’d be fielding calls now. Not after how adamant he was on seeing her.”
I pinched my lips together to refrain from saying more.
I may be pissed with Jordan when it came to Rori, but it wasn’t exactly fair to him to come between him and his team.
“Yeah. He’s here.” There was a slight edge to Trevor’s voice and a large part of me appreciated it. “I can—”
“No, no,” I interrupted. “I just was trying to give him the benefit of doubt.” My words trailed off into silence.
“Marlo,” Trevor tried again. “I can ta—”
“Trevor. No. It’s fine. We’re fine.” I nodded to myself and walked away from the fridge. “We’ll be fine.”
Chapter Seven
Jordan
The puck was dropped and Texas gained possession.
I pulled back to guard Jonny on his right, while Leeds took the middle.
Johnson battled it out by the boards, two Texas players on his ass, but eventually he freed the puck, shooting it down the boards. I skated to corner it, turning my body to guard the puck against the Texas players swarming me.
Sticks and skates were a mess on the ice. I pushed back, trying to get the ape off my back, all while doing my best to get the puck out of there. All around the arena were chants and cheers—for Texas, against us. Same ol’ shit, new arena.
But always easy to drown out.
The only sounds that I cared about were the sounds of skates on ice, sticks battling for the puck, and the grunts and chirping all around.
Texas managed to pull the puck out of our pileup, and I heard the hard slap as the puck was sent around the back edge, which was quickly followed by another slap.
Turning, I watched as the puck sailed toward Jonny. Leeds pulled himself upright, body blocking the pass. When the puck fell back to the ice, he skated it toward the blue line, quickly shooting it back over. Our forwards raced to the other end, and I headed quickly toward the bench for a line change.
“Winski! For Byrd,” Coach yelled, changing up lines on the spot.
As I hopped through the door, Winski jumped over the boards, the blade of his stick hitting my shoulder—and not for the first time this game.
Gritting my teeth, I sat on the bench hard. I pulled my left glove off by pinching it between my right arm and side, then reached for a water bottle, squirting the liquid into my mouth as I tilted my head back, still keeping my eyes on the ice. I threw the bottle back and scooted down the bench as Leeds came in.
I looked up at the Jumbotron to catch the time.
Two-minutes, thirty-four seconds remaining in the third.
Nothing-nothing.
This had been a tight game. Everyone was playing well, Texas and Enforcers, alike. There were few mistakes, fewer penalties. Just rough, gritty hockey.
The best kind of hockey.
I focused back on the game, watching for bad plays and aggressive hits. Those were things I could help fix on my shift.
The whistle was blown.
High-sticking, but I couldn’t tell who it was on. I looked up at the replay just as Coach cursed behind me,
Mike O’Connell was ushered to the penalty box and I shook my head. We were going to be down a guy for nearly the remainder of the game.
Good times.
Coach waved our guys in, Jonny Prescott included. “Jonny, keep tight. Caleb, Jonesy, Winski, and Byrd. You’re my four.” I shifted in my seat to watch Coach draw on the board easier. This wasn’t our typical PK group, but we could make it work.
I popped my mouth guard out and chewed on it as I listened.
“Winski and Byrd, no fists, no grit. Just protect Jonny. Caleb and Jones, play tight and make magic. Don’t get tired. Don’t cause whistles.”
Meaning, he wanted us out the full two, and wanted O’Connell to join us and end the game.
Two minutes—hell, damn near two and half minutes—was a long shift when in this type of situation, but we could do it.
Jumping the boards, I joined the guys who were on the ice and we headed out to set up—Caleb at faceoff. Within moments, the puck was dropped and one of the tightest played two-minutes of my life began.
“Get it in!”
“Around the back!”
“Pre-e-ess-cott. Pre-e-ess-cott. Pre-e-ess-cott.”
The cheers and taunts echoed loudly, but the sound of ice shaving and wood connecting with vulcanized rubber more than made up for the negative.
This was it.
This was life.
These men. This team. This life.
I was finally beginning to feel like I was getting off that damned hamster wheel.
“Yup, yup!” Jones called out, and my attention flew to the forward. Caleb broke into Texas’s passing game and shot it over to an available Jones, who slapped it through the zone.
A whistle was blown.
“What the fuck, Byrd?” I heard Winski yell.
It took me less than two seconds to see where my feet were.
On the wrong side of the blue line.
Fucking off-sides.
Coach waved the four of us to stay on ice. This time when we lined up, the clock was down to fifty seconds.
The cheers were loud.
The taunts, louder.
The puck dropped.
Slap.
Shhhht.
The rattle of boards.
Grunts. Yells. Hollers between teammates, both Texas and us.
The puck was freed.
I reached for it, trying to break up the ring-around-the-Enforcers game going on.
The chanting turned into a countdown.
Fuck.
I was hit hard from the back but kept upright on my skates.
We played hard.
But the red light told us we didn’t play hard enough.
Head hung low, I skated with the guys back to the bench—Caleb and Jones walking in through one side, Winski and I heading to the other.
Winski kicked the door open, sending it crashing into the wall. I caught the door with my hand before it could slam shut, stepping up into the bench behind him.
Before I could sit though…
“What the fuck is your problem? Huh, Byrd?”
Winski was in my face, standing nearly on top of me as my back was to the Plexiglas.
“Not only are you playing like shit, but you are a piece of shit.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I started, but before I could do much more, Caleb was between us.
“Break it up, you two. Not the fucking time or place,” our captain said, a hand on both of our chests.
“I don’t know what his fucking problem is,” I spat, shrugging away from Caleb’s hand.
“Oh. You know,” Winski called out behind me. “Fucking has-been. I can’t believe I—”
“I said enough!” Caleb yelled.
Two zebras were nearing the bench. It was only a matter of seconds before one, or both, of us was thrown from the game.
What little remained, anyway.
Finally, Coach intercepted. “Byrd, back on the ice. Winski. Showers.”
Thirty seconds later, my blood was boiling.
We lost the game.
Yeah. We all knew that was coming.
But those thirty seconds on ice had me making more hits than the other thirteen minutes tota
l I’d been out there, and it was because of Winski.
What that fuck was all of this?
He stays my friend when I leave. He keeps in contact, fucking waving Marlo and Rori under my nose. And the moment I get back, he’s pissin’ all over what was mine?
Marlo wasn’t his.
Aurora wasn’t fucking his, either.
They were mine.
At least, Rori was.
Because you fucking screwed that one up.
I stomped down the hall and into the locker room, my helmet under an arm, as I searched for Winski.
Finding him, I dropped my gear and went right up to him, my forearm to his throat, not giving a damn if any reporters were in the oval room.
He was stripped of his pads; he had no protection from me.
“What the hell is your problem, Winski? You want my woman? My daughter? They’re not fucking yours.”
“Newsflash, dumbass. They’re not yours, either,” he sneered, remaining stoic. His eyes narrowed and locked on mine. “I gave you the benefit of doubt, brother, but you fucking screwed up one too many times.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t? No? Who the hell did Marlo call a few hours ago, and actually talk to? Cause it sure as shit wasn’t you.”
I was getting really tired of this game. “She didn’t call me,” I sneered through my teeth.
“She did. But it was for Rori. You want to ignore Marlo, sure, fuck, whatever. You’re divorced. You catch that part? Di-vor-ced. That means she’s not yours. But to be this close to your daughter? To pull the shit that you did at the hospital? And then not answer her fucking call?” Winski’s hands were at my chest then and he shoved me back. “Fool’s me. But no more.”
I stepped back, the blade of my skate rocking. Turning on him, I yelled, “She didn’t call me!”
“Shut up!” The entire locker room went quiet at Coach’s yell.
“Byrd and Winski. You two are sitting out Sunday’s game. Figure your shit out.” Then, Coach’s eyes were on me. “I don’t know what they taught you in Florida, but they messed up a fucking good player. Get your head on, or leave my organization.”
A few hours later, the team plane in the air and heading back to San Diego, I walked up the aisle, phone in hand.
We’d been in air for about two hours, but I needed to wait for a good opportunity.
Stepping up behind Winski’s seat, where he sat next to Caleb, I dropped my phone in his lap. My call log was open and the light blinding.
“She didn’t fucking call.”
I was at war with myself when it came to Marlo. What went on between the two of us over the last five years, was a shit storm of hurt, but it needed to stay between the two of us. This dragging the team, dragging Winski, into it, was going to stop now.
“You probably deleted them,” Winski finally said, not bothering to look at my phone as he picked it up and held it back to me.
“She didn’t call me. I’m tired of this shit, but she did not call me.”
“You’re twenty something years old, Byrd. Fucking call her yourself then.” He didn’t bother to look at me.
I snatched my phone from his hand and, rather than wait for us to land, pulled up Marlo’s contact card and hit call, thankful for in-flight talk and text.
Standing over Winski, I glared down at him as the phone rang once, then twice, in my ear. Caleb glanced over but stayed quiet.
He’d probably tell his wife, who’d get back to Marlo about this outburst.
In my ear, just like every other time I called her, the rings clicked over to an automated message.
“She ignores my calls,” I said, thrusting the phone out toward Winski. Saying it out loud, I realized how childish it sounded. “I don’t ignore hers,” I added quietly, seeing as I was already on the juvenile train. “She’d have to call me for me to ignore them.”
This time, Winski glanced over, his eyes on the screen. Then, turning his face forward again, he said, “That’s ‘cause that’s not her fucking number, asshat.”
“I think I know the number she’s had since she was sixteen.”
Winski looked back, pointing at the screen. “That three should be an eight.”
Frowning, I turned the screen back to me.
And realized…
He was so fucking right.
“Put down your damn phone, Byrd!”
Sitting at the bar, I swiped through my pictures, trying not to pay attention to MacPeterson.
I’d been in Florida for six months.
…And already it was fucking old.
Before I could swipe left again, Mac grabbed my phone, and pictures of a smiling Marlo left me.
“You’ve got to move on, dude. You divorced her.”
I reached for my beer, taking a long swig.
It was nearly mine and Marlo’s anniversary. I blamed that for the remorse tonight.
I missed her.
I missed coming home to her.
I missed hugging on her.
I missed her smile. Her laugh. Her sighs.
I missed the middle of the night cries from Aurora.
I missed my daughter’s chubby cheeks and chunky legs.
I ground my molars together. It had only been a few months since I found out Marlo rejected mom’s offer to come home for Easter, but it still hurt like a punch in the gut. I’d been hopeful to see my daughter.
You’d been hopeful to see Marlo.
There was truth in that thought.
I took another swig of my beer and my phone landed on the bar top in front of me.
“No more for the night. I have taken away your ex-wife privileges,” Mac said, sliding his beer toward himself. “You know what would get your mind off Marlo? What about that brunette over there? Three o’clock. Tall. Sexy. Short-assed skirt. Dude. Jordan. Are you fucking listening to me?”
No.
I wasn’t.
I glanced up at the television screen just as the national weather bar flipped over to San Diego.
There’s your sign.
I picked up my phone again and pulled up Marlo’s number, all while Mac laughed like a fucking hyena beside me.
This time when I called, the call clicked over to an automated message.
My drunken heart broke into a thousand little pieces.
She was done. She blocked my calls.
I realized my jaw was clenched tightly by the sharp pain in my molars. I slammed my phone down and finished my beer.
“Another.”
I was getting drunk tonight.
The divorce should have been the end of our story.
Even though it was my doing, my asking…
I still held out a little hope.
I’d just needed time.
Time to learn that this life wasn’t all that stellar without her in it.
Time to realize that Marlo was my life. Always had been my life.
We’d just had some bumps in the road, was all.
Well, time was up.
And I lost.
Sorely.
It was officially, The end.
Chapter Eight
Marlo
I woke up to ten text messages.
From Jordan.
Sitting in my bed with my back to the headboard, I contemplated whether or not to open them.
Rori’s going to wake up soon. She was cleared to go to school today. It’s only kindergarten and it’s a Friday. But she liked being there.
So Rori was going to wake up and she had to get ready for school. I didn’t have time to open this can of worms.
But he hasn’t called or texted you in years.
It had been a long time since I saw his name flash on my screen.
Torn didn’t even begin to explain how I felt. On the one hand, seeing Jordan with Rori did things to me. But on the other, who was I to stop him?
She deserved to have Jordan in her life. He and I could be adults, and figure out how to be c
ordial.
I swallowed hard but just as I talked myself into opening the messages, Rori came flying through my bedroom door.
“I get to go to school today!”
I couldn’t help but laugh at my mini-me. I put my phone down and, stretching my legs out in front of me and my arms down by my sides, I waited for my daughter to barrel into me.
Jordan waited this long.
He could wait a little while longer.
Not that much longer, I quickly figured out, because not quite an hour later, breakfast in her belly and backpack bouncing, Rori ran to my car with me right on her heels. I turned back to lock the door and as I descended the porch steps, looked up and saw a man by my car, and Rori…
Before my heart could fully leap from my chest, I realized the man was Jordan, and Rori was in his arms, chattering away.
Slowly, I made my way over the lawn toward them.
Because I hadn’t yet gotten to his text messages, I wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
Didn’t know why he would be here this morning.
He didn’t take your call yesterday. He didn’t take Rori’s call yesterday.
I tried to hold on to that mad but seeing Rori in his arms…
Again, I was struck with the thought…
What if he hadn’t left?
He left. He left. He left.
I had to remember that.
“We have to get going,” I forced out when I reached the pair.
Yeah. Hold on to that mad.
Jordan’s eyes were on mine but he was whispering in Rori’s ear, and she was giggling softly.
My chest ached.
He.
Left.
He set Rori to the ground. “Tomorrow, sport. You and me.”
“Kay, Daddy!” Rori giggled again before running around the car to get into the back.
I crossed my arms and sighed. “What time—”
“You didn’t answer my text messages,” Jordan interrupted quietly.
“I figured they could wait.” The words came out cold and I mentally patted myself on the back. In a moment where I was having weird second thoughts about this man, I needed the cold to remind me…
I watched the muscles in his jaw flex, but he nodded. “I deserve that. Are you coming back after dropping her off? I’d really like to talk to you.”
