Emma. Just her name had the power to slice me open.
She hadn’t left me; I’d left her.
For two weeks we’d pretended that nothing had changed. We barely kept our hands off each other. There was something almost frantic about it, a desperation to get as close and as deep as possible during the time we had left to ourselves. She sassed and teased me, made me laugh every day. I fed her pastries and gâteaux, loving the way she moaned and devoured them like she often devoured me, with utter abandon and lusty glee.
But it was an illusion, and we both knew it. One that broke when she took me to the airport.
“I have to do this,” I told her. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering ‘What if?’”
“I know.” But her eyes were dead, her spirit already slipping away from me.
“This isn’t goodbye, Em.”
Her lips wobbled then. But she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried since the night I’d found her curled up on her bed. Her smile was brittle, a stranger’s. “Let’s just call this until we meet again.”
It had felt like death.
We still talked. But our calls were becoming less frequent. I was in DC, practicing and getting scanned, poked, and prodded every day. She was in LA, moving into her new house—that perfect house with a kitchen I ached to give a test run—and occupied with her own meetings and prep for her upcoming role.
Irked at Brommy, I scowled. “Don’t bring Emma into this.”
“Why not? She’s your girl, isn’t she?”
My fist tightened. “Fuck off, Brom.”
He made a sound of annoyance, but I didn’t care.
I missed her. I missed her with a strained yearning that had me looking around corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of her wide smile. I missed the feel of her warmth, the fresh sweet scent of her skin, the sound of her voice.
I ached for Emma.
This is hockey life; you’re often away from the ones you love. Everyone on the team deals with it.
I don’t want to deal. I’m tired. Fucking exhausted.
Without warning, the image of a kitchen flashed in my mind. Sunlight gleaming on the marble counters, the scent of baking bread in the air, and delicate red roses dancing along the edges of the windows, thrown wide open.
It wasn’t Mamie’s kitchen, I realized with a jolt. It was Emma’s.
The kitchen that could be mine as well. It had been there in her eyes, that promise, the question she hadn’t asked. Because I’d thrown a puck into the glass and shattered it all.
Grunting, I shook my head and focused on the now. My dream. My passion.
“I’m doing this,” I said to Brommy. “You can either be part of it or not, but I’m back.”
He bared his teeth, all but snarling at me.
“You got your grille fixed,” I said.
That drew him up short, and he peered at me, as if I was totally clueless. “Yeah, Ozzy. I got my grille fixed. You know why? Because my dentist said the gap would start affecting the rest of my teeth. So I did the smart thing and fixed it.”
“Subtle, Brom.”
“I like to think so.” He glared downfield, then sighed. “Fuck. Do what you want, Luc. Stupid as it is.” He glanced at me with a slanted smile that held little humor. “I love you like a brother. So I’m going to worry about you like one. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got that.” I gripped my stick. “Love you too, you big fucking bear.”
Whistles blew, and we got down to business.
And it was awful.
“Oz, get your head out of your ass,” Dilly shouted, red faced and likely straining something important.
I’d missed three passes, fumbled a shot. My game was off. Way off. I found myself thinking about flavor combinations instead of breakout patterns. Every time I got near the boards, a cold sweat broke out over my skin. I skated tense, waiting for a hit that never came. Because the guys were taking it easy with me.
It would get better, I told myself. But I was having a hard time believing that.
The next day was worse.
The press had gotten wind of my “interest” in returning. They swarmed like flies to fruit. Had I missed this? I couldn’t fathom why as I dodged endless questions pelted my way and the incessant flash of cameras. Not for the first time, I missed the warm hum of the kitchen, the feel of a whisk in my hands, and the knowledge that I was in complete control.
In the privacy of a bathroom stall, I lost my breakfast, my hands shaking like autumn leaves. On the ice, I held back when I should have attacked. My mind kept drifting, wondering about Emma, worrying if she was eating all right, wanting to be with her.
This didn’t feel like love or freedom. It felt like work. Worse. It felt like a farce. The end of the day was a relief.
“Hey, Drexel,” I called to the forward as he exited the showers and headed for his locker across the way. “You going out tonight?”
Brommy was hooking up with a woman who’d been hanging around watching practice all week. I had similar offers, but I was still Emma’s. I would always be hers. But that didn’t mean I had to stay inside my hotel room all the time. Drexel and I used to hang out a lot after practice. We’d go to a bar, watch some sports, and talk shit.
He shook his damp head, scattering water droplets. “Can’t. Gotta go home to Sarah and my little guy.”
“That’s right. You had a kid.”
That was all it took for Drexel to show me multiple pics of his five-month-old, a chubby baby with ruddy skin and enormous brown eyes. I feigned interest, but on the inside, I ached.
Drexel left, and the locker room grew quiet. Everyone else had long gone home. My home was in California, likely swimming in a pool that stretched before a kitchen window where I could keep an eye on her while I kneaded dough or tempered chocolate.
No. No. My home was here. I’d made the choice. This was my life now. All I needed was time to get back into sync with everyone else.
I felt like vomiting again. I couldn’t keep much down anymore. It was as though my insides were filled with sludge. Closing my eyes, I felt the various aches and pains that came with performing a sport at the top level. My thighs burned in protest and fucking screeched whenever I flexed them. My back killed me when I tried to straighten. But that sort of pain was expected. It was part of the life.
You don’t have to hurt.
But who would I be?
You’d be hers. You’d be free. You’d be happy.
Blinking at the floor, I almost didn’t hear the text when it came. Absently, I pulled my phone out of my bag and read it.
EmmaMine: I thought of you just now. The sun is shining through the kitchen windows and illuminating the countertop. I remembered that time at Rosemont when you were assembling those Earl Grey and lemon creme macarons, and the light hit your face just so. That fierce, stern face of yours, so wrapped up in the moment of making that perfect, delicate bite of pleasure that you barely blinked.
I swallowed convulsively as the next text came.
EmmaMine: It was art. It was love. You never admitted it, but I knew in that moment that you loved making people happy through your food. And I never told you how cared for I felt when eating your creations. How alive I felt. You woke me up, Lucian. Made me see that life was in the moment, not some distant dream.