I help her go through some of her things and pull out her music. She has another guitar, a bigger one than the one she carries around busking. I watch her lovingly stroke the sleek curves of it. I want her to play for me.
She wants some of her other things out—candles, books. I hold up a a stone sculpture and study it. My eyes widen. “Whoa. What is this?”
The couple appear to be having doggy style sex.
Emerie laughs. “Oh! Janiya sent me that from India. It’s an erotic sculpture from a temple there.”
I study it. “Okay.”
“The carvings are supposedly good luck and she thought it would bring me good sexual luck. And hey—it worked!”
I laugh.
“I’ll put it next to your bed.” She takes it from me.
“If I get any luckier sexually, I’ll probably have a heart attack.”
“Ha. But I’m glad you feel lucky. I do, too.” She gives me a cheeky grin.
I still go skate with the guys and work out. I convince Emerie to eat my quinoa with roasted carrots and grilled chicken and to try my super protein smoothies. She convinces me to order pizza. Once.
When I get home, she has dinner ready for me. She even made one of my favorite recipes—spicy chicken skewers with black bean salsa. She picks up food and does my laundry, even though I tell her she doesn’t have to do that. So I drive her when she has to take Cat to gymnastics or talk to one of the teachers at her school, and knowing she loves baths, I run her baths in the big tub and fill it with these tension-reducing, relaxing bath salts I picked up for her one day that smell fantastic.
One night we go out for dinner to a new restaurant with Morrie and Kate, and another night we go play Skee-Ball with Millsy and Lilly, Hellsy and Sara.
And we watch our countries’ hockey teams compete against each other in the Olympics. Luckily, this doesn’t make us hate each other.
And she busks. I worry about her, but I know that music is important to her. I feel the same about hockey. So, I support her
One night, she plays her guitar and sings for me. She played this song in the subway once when I was listening. I remember the line: And suddenly…all my love songs are about you.
I watch her face while she sings and our eyes meet, and I fucking love that she’s singing to me. Just me. Maybe even about me.
“I still can’t believe you write these songs,” I say. “You blow me away, Em.”
“Thank you.” She pauses. “Lilly offered me a job.”
I blink. “Doing what?”
“Dog walking. Or helping in the day care.”
“Huh. Do you want to do that?”
“It would be fun. But honestly, on a good day busking, I can probably make more money. I do love dogs, though.”
“I like dogs, too. Just never had time for one.”
“Yeah. It would be hard when you travel so much.”
I grin. “That’s what Lilly’s for.”
“I went to the animal shelter she used to work at. The one we’re planning the dog fashion show for?”
I nod.
“So many cute dogs waiting to be adopted! I wanted to bring them all home.”
“I guess Mr. D wouldn’t go for a dog.”
“God, no.” She makes a face.
I want to get her a dog.
What the fuck am I thinking? If this has disrupted my schedule, a dog sure as hell would. I can’t get a dog.
Tomorrow we get back to regular practices, and our first game is the day after that. I don’t know how this is going to work with my regular schedule. Things have been going okay. In fact, I’m kind of happy she’s here. Maybe we can make this work without interfering with my game.
22
Owen
Back to the usual routine. The break is over.
I’ve gotten used to waking up with Emerie in my bed. The day of my first practice, we get up at the same time, which means some shuffling in the bathroom to get ready. I got used to having her around, but I’m not used to sharing my bathroom when I’m getting ready to go to practice, and she has a lot of shit spread out along the vanity. It flusters me, being bumped out of my groove.
She guzzles her morning coffee while I whip up a smoothie in the blender. Again, having someone else in the small kitchen at the same time is a bit of a pain.
“Do you want my Land Rover to take Cat to school?” I ask. “Hellsy is driving us to practice today.”
She purses her lips. “That’s okay. I’m still afraid I’m going to smash it up. And some days you’ll need it when it’s your turn to drive.”
“Okay.”
She leaves first to go take Cat to school, and I spend a few minutes scrolling through social media and catching up on the hockey blogs and sportscasters I follow for news, reminding myself of what the standings were before the break. Then I’m off with the guys to practice.
The coaches work us hard. I’m feeling it after some time off, even though I’ve been skating and working out. That week in Aruba distracted me from staying in game shape. Damn.
We start with some O zone drills, which immediately makes me think of Emerie and her dirty little mind. I smile. And miss a pass. Shit!
“Focus, Cooke!” Coach yells.
Right. Focus.
“Go to the net!” Coach shouts at Murph.
I skate hard, shoot the puck, Murph at the net waiting to tip it in. We miss. Circle back. Try again. And again.
I’m soaked with sweat and breathing hard by the time we’re done, but I stay on the ice after everyone else has left, practicing one-timers with assistant coach Meknikov.
When I was a kid, I was a good skater, but I couldn’t shoot. My dad used to take me to special shooting practices to learn the proper technique. And I practiced. Practiced. Practiced.
I practiced a lot with Eric.
I miss a shot from Coach Meknikov.
Jesus. What is wrong with me?
When my technique got better, I worked on one-timers, and I still do. Goalies are so good these days, you need a fast, hard shot so you don’t give them an extra second to prepare by stopping the puck on your stick.
I want the puck on the middle of my blade and lots of torque on my stick. Coach shoots the puck to me but not always right to me, making me move fast to get in the right place. My arms and shoulders are aching, but I keep going until I’m satisfied.
“Good work,” Coach says as we skate off.
“Thanks. It’s hard having that long of a break.”
I hit the shower and then meet up with the guys in the player lounge for lunch. We get caught up on what we all did, hearing from Gunner, JBo, and Bergie about the All Star Game and some of the parties they went to.
“The days of Playboy bunnies at the All Star parties are over,” JBo says in response to a question about that from Jammer.
“Yeah. Times are changing,” Bergie agrees.
“You’re saying you didn’t go out somewhere after with lots of hot chicks?” Murph says.
“Hell yeah, we did.” JBo grins.
I have a phone call scheduled with my agent that afternoon to talk about some endorsements he’s working on. I sit in my office, trying to ignore the boxes full of Emerie’s belongings stacked along one wall.