“You know everything there is to know about hockey,” Morrie says. “You must study it twenty-four-seven.”
I say nothing. It’s a slight exaggeration, but yeah.
“He watches every game,” Millsy says. “And tons of video of our team.”
“That’s how I learn,” I say. “How I get better.”
“Oh yeah, for sure.” Millsy nods. “You’re the hardest working guy on the team, hands down. Staying after practices, putting in extra ice time. Working out.”
“Is it possible…” Hellsy purses his lips. “…hear me out here…that hockey has become an addiction for you?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Hockey’s not a drug,” Morrie points out.
“No. But people who are workaholics often use work as a way to distract themselves from what’s really going on in their lives.” Hellsy watches me as he says that.
“Oh, that’s bullshit,” I say. “I’m not a workaholic.”
They all say nothing while eyeing me with doubtful expressions.
My insides shift uncomfortably. “What?”
“I’m starving,” Morrie says. “Let’s order pizza.”
Jesus. I just want them to leave. I’m annoyed and tired and salty. I want to be alone. But they plow ahead and order pizza.
“You got any beer?” Morrie says when that’s done.
“I might have one. You can share it.”
That’s not enough to get rid of them. Hellsy goes out for a jog to the superette over on Broadway and returns with a six pack of some kind of ale.
As they crack them open, I offer glasses, which they decline.
“You don’t talk about your brother much,” Millsy says. “I lost my brother, too.”
“I know.” Millsy’s brother and father were also killed in the bus crash.
“It’s hard,” he says. “I still miss him. I talk to him, sometimes. Not as much as I used to, but I still do.”
I didn’t know that. Talking to your dead brother is pretty…sad.
“You ever talk to Eric?” he asks.
“No.” I look down at my bottle of water. I think about that. Hell. I know why I don’t talk to him. I just don’t want to admit it. I swallow a sigh and say, “Probably because I was so pissed at him for years before he died.”
Millsy’s chin goes up. “You were pissed at him?”
“Yeah. I know it’s dumb. He was an addict. It’s a disease. He couldn’t help that. But I was mad at him. For a long time, I thought he should just quit using drugs. Just get his shit together. Quit causing problems for Mom and Dad.” I pause. “It was hard to accept that he couldn’t. Even when he tried. It was just too powerful for him.”
“Addiction’s a bitch, man,” Morrie says quietly.
I nod. Now I’m thinking about Eric. About what he was like before he started taking narcotics. How much fun we had. How he looked out for me. How competitive we were at the local community center rink, playing even when it was dark and freezing cold, trying to outscore each other.
I do miss him. I miss that Eric.
“We didn’t play together very often because of the age difference, but one time we were just playing pick up at the rink. I kind of bumped this other guy, like, not even a check. He turned around and punched me in the head. Eric came shooting over and shoved him. He was way bigger than either of us. The guy fell on his ass, but then he got up and bolted off the ice and never came back.”
The guys all smile.
I feel like there’s a hard lump in my chest. I rub at it absently.
“Is he why you don’t drink much?” Millsy asks.
Is it? “I guess so,” I say slowly. “Another way I was determined to not be like him. To not be a drunk.” I snort out a mirthless laugh. “Life goals.”
Jesus. That’s pathetic. These guys are probably cringing. But when I look at them, they’re not. They’re nodding. Like they understand.
They hang out until the pizza comes. Pizza’s not on my healthy eating plan, but fuck it, I’ve barely eaten anything the last few days. I have to fuel my body somehow. So I scarf down the meat-lovers with extra cheese.
Otis is sitting in front of me, polite but watchful in case a piece of pepperoni falls to the floor.
“You already knew Emerie and I broke up, didn’t you?” I say to Millsy.
“Well, no. I just knew she moved into Lilly’s apartment.”
I nod.
“Lilly’s going to move in with me,” he adds.
“Congrats,” I say automatically.
“Yeah, that’s good news, dude,” Morrie says. “Cheers.” He lifts his beer bottle.
“Thanks.” Millsy grins. “Otis is happy, too.”
Otis is in fact smiling. I have to smile back at him.
When they eventually get around to leaving, Millsy says, “So, you’re coming to skate tomorrow, yeah?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah.”
Tomorrow’s a game day, so I can go skate and hang out with the guys then go back to watch the game. I hate watching games when I could be playing. But it is what it is.
28
Emerie
I e-transfer Lilly the money for my half of the rent for the next month. I have enough in my savings to cover this, but when she moves out, paying the full amount every month is going to be a challenge. I’ll figure it out.
I wander around the apartment. It’s in an old building, and I like the shiny, honey-toned hardwood floors, pale walls, and original dark woodwork. The living room is long and narrow with two windows overlooking the street and one long wall of exposed brick holding a fireplace. The kitchen is tiny but functional.
Lilly’s probably going to take a lot of things with her like dishes, glassware, cutlery. Furniture? Easton likely has all they need, but who knows? I’m going to have to go shopping. Normally, shopping would excite me. Not now. Bleh.
I lean against the counter in the tiny kitchen.
Being with Owen opened up my world. Opened it up to possibilities. To bigger things and deeper emotions. I met new people and went on a trip and had fun. I got up the nerve to start my SoundCloud. Now I don’t have Cat. And I don’t have Owen. I don’t even have myself anymore.
For some reason, I think of that movie Owen and I watched on the plane. The guy who was trying to find his identity and his struggles, the questions about his art—what it meant to him, what it meant to the public, what was he trying to say?
I’ve never asked myself those questions. Why not?
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and guzzle some down. Suddenly, I feel hot and sweaty. Uncomfortable.
Craig in the movie thought that the reason he wasn’t successful was because people didn’t understand his work. He thought being successful was being famous. And he learned that wasn’t it. Because he never tried to do the work of becoming his best self.
I don’t want to be famous. I just want to be my best self. And music is a big part of that.
I think of Owen and all the work he does to become his best self. But…is he doing it for the right reasons?