Brian has been great about setting up opportunities for Banksy and me to talk with youth hockey players about the importance of inclusivity in hockey. It’s all been rainbows and Pride flags until I got cheated on.
Tucker must be scrolling through social media because he starts making all sorts of noises while I’m driving north.
CHAPTER 6
LENA
I’ve losttrack of how many times I’ve thrown up since I saw Brad making out with someone else on the jumbo screen at my new job. The fact that Brad was even at a hockey game is surreal. I wish I felt more surprised that he was cheating.
Most of the nausea came alongside a deep certainty that he’s never cared for me. Not like I cared for him. I clutch my stomach, glancing around the empty apartment where I slept a total of zero minutes last night. He hasn’t answered his phone. He certainly didn’t come home.
Home.
This place will never feel like home to me. It is a den of betrayal.
I don’t know much right now, but I do know that.
I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror, at the dark smudges under my eyes, at my unkempt hair. I need to get my shit together and drive to the hockey facility–a special building north of the city where the players practice, work out, and sometimes seek dental care.
Since I don’t know if I can bear to come back here ever again, I grab the first suitcase I can find and stuff a bunch of things into it: my laptop and some underwear, not my clothesbecause I’m between sizes right now and was counting on wearing scrubs most of the time.
I spit out a laugh, remembering all the zeroes on my new salary. Now that I’m not going to be funding anyone else’s lifestyle, I’ll be able to divert some of that money toward a plus-sized wardrobe that feels comfortable. After I take a whack at my student loan balance, I guess.
I rush through a shower, glance around the apartment again, and realize how much of it centers on Brad and his wants and tastes. The spare bedroom? His office where he can ponder his dissertation.
The living room? His furniture choices, his artwork. His dishes. His blender and specialty cookware. Like the clay tagine, he insisted on getting, donating our other pans, and then using them exactly once. I’ve been microwaving my pasta in a glass measuring cup for a year. A fucking year.
I swipe at the tagine on the counter and watch in satisfaction as it strikes the tiled kitchen floor, shattering into three pieces. “Good,” I say to the empty apartment.
I climb into my beat-up Honda Civic, drive north, and head to my dental suite to wait for Tucker Stag.
This is what a dental suite might look like in a fantasy land, surely. Everything is painted in soothing beach tones. The artwork appears as if it came straight from a meditation retreat. And the equipment! It resembles a catalog we see at a dental conference, fully aware that any practice hiring us will likely only afford shabby, outdated versions.
I run my hand along a water pick, state-of-the-art 3D imaging devices, and modern X-ray machines. There hasn’t been much time to explore since the team has been in the playoffs. My predecessor has a closet full of small drawers, each labeled with a name: G STAG, ROGERS. I pull open some of the drawers to reveal plaster mouth molds and, in some cases, loose teeth. Fascinating.
Well, if this is where I get to work, there’s at least a smallsilver lining to my humiliation. I could sleep in this office quite comfortably, I’m sure. The desk chair alone is one of the five-figure options I used to laugh at with my cohort in dental school. I sink into it, noticing that I can widen the base to comfortably accommodate my hips.
Yeah, this is okay.
I hear male voices arguing and kick my bag under my desk. I tuck my hair behind my ears and straighten my scrub top as a third, angrier male voice joins the fray. Should I wait here for them to approach?
I don’t have to wait long until a middle-aged white guy with dark hair sticks his head into the office. “You the new doc?” I nod. He presses his lips together. “Well, I’ll let you go to town on Tweedle Dee here, but I’d appreciate it if we could talk after.”
“Certainly, Mr…”
He smacks his forehead. “Sorry about that. Brian Klein. I’m the agent for these two.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, and I glance around him to see two identical hockey players. Well, nearly identical. One has a bruised face, and I last saw him bleeding on the ice as I filed down the sharp edges of his broken incisor.
I slip into my work focus, forgetting everything else for the moment as I rise to greet my clearly terrified patient. “Tucker, I’m going to take good care of you today.”
The non-injured twin slaps his brother on the back. “You should call him Fucker. He’s going to be good.”
Judging by his face, there’s nothing good going on for Alder today. He looks about as healthy as I do after the kiss cam. Maybe he’s just concerned for his brother.
“Tucker,” I repeat. “How is your pain this morning?” His eyes dart rapidly around the room like he’s searching for a drill. “Tell you what.” I approach him and realize my head only comes to the shoulders of these massive athletes. I look up into his bearded face, wondering how someone could playsuch a violent, brutal sport, and feel so intimidated by the tiny tools I use to tend teeth. “Let’s get you in the chair, and we can take a look at things. I promise I will only use my hands until we discuss a plan. Okay?”
Tucker looks at his brother, who rolls his eyes and shoves Tucker toward the exam chair. Tucker clutches his twin’s hand in a move I find deeply endearing, and I’m glad when they both make their way toward the chair. Now, I need to set Tucker at ease… or at least distract him while I work.
“How are you today?” I reach for the box of gloves on the wall of the exam room. They’re all XL, of course, but these will have to do until I can order smaller gloves to fit. At least my hands aren’t plus-sized.
