I smile at his mention of his mother. “It suits you."
He sits back down, a wry smile curling his lips. "A Stag with a stag."
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound being the occasional whimper from Gordie's dreams in the living room.
"Adam texted me seven times after we left," Alder says finally, his voice rough. "Kept saying I'm making a fool of myself, called me pathetic."
"Brad sent fifteen," I counter, trying for levity.
His laugh is hollow. “I guess the two of them aren’t hitting it off.”
I hesitate, then pose the question that's been nagging at me. "Does it bother you? What Adam thinks?"
Alder stares into his glass. "It shouldn't." He takes a long drink. "Six months, Lena. Six months of me chasing after him, making excuses for why he couldn't meet my family, why we could only hang out at my place, why he never introduced me to his friends." He shakes his head. "And he was banging someone else."
"It's not your fault he's a cheating jerk," I say firmly.
"No, but it's my fault I kept accepting the scraps he offered." His gaze finally meets mine, blue eyes clouded with pain and whiskey. "You know why I put up with it? Because I thought he was so much smarter than me. Sophisticated. Heworks with athletes but has all these opinions about art, politics, and literature."
"And you thought you weren't good enough?" I venture, recognizing the pattern all too well.
"Just a dumb hockey player." He shrugs, the movement rippling across his shoulders. "Why would someone like him want someone like me except for my body?"
The self-deprecation in his voice makes my heart clench. And here I stand, objectifying him as he opens up to me about feeling like a piece of meat. "Alder, that's ridiculous. You're not?—"
"Not what? Dumb?" He laughs bitterly. "I left college without a degree. I've spent my entire life learning to check people into boards and stop pucks."
"That's not all you are," I insist, surprised by my vehemence. "And it's not dumb. Do you know how much strategic thinking goes into what you do?"
He looks skeptical, but something in my tone makes him pause.
"You know what I noticed watching your media interviews?" I continue. "You were the one everyone looked at when they had questions about defensive strategy."
"That's just experience," he dismisses.
"No, it's intelligence. Just not the kind Adam values." I can hear the echo of my relationship in his words. "Brad did the same thing to me. Made me feel like my work wasn't important because it wasn't 'intellectual' enough."
Alder snorts. "You're literally a doctor."
"Who fixes teeth, not curing cancer. The 'manual labor' of medicine, he called it." I shake my head at the memory. "He acted like I should be grateful that someone with his brilliant mind would stoop to being with someone so... practical."
"Practical is good," Alder says firmly. "Practical gets shit done."
"Exactly!" I tap my glass against his. "And strategicthinking on the ice is just as valuable as pontificating about obscure philosophy."
He smiles a genuine one this time. "To practical people getting shit done."
We clink glasses, and something shifts in the air between us—a recognition, perhaps, of kindred wounds.
"I should try to sleep," he says after a moment, pushing the whiskey bottle away.
"You have any plans tomorrow?”
"Just meeting with my trainer. Nothing important." He stretches, wincing slightly. "Might skip it."
"You should go," I say, worried about how much booze he put away tonight and the sadness behind his words. "It would be good to get out of the house."
"Maybe." He stands, gathering his glass and the bottle. "What about you? You’ve got tooth shit to get done, right?"
