“Forgive me for not trusting you two knuckleheads. Dash and Dirk have their stuff in the truck already.”
The five of us lived together this season. It’s time to head back to Vancouver for the summer.
Casey opens the fridge and cracks beers. I happily accept one. We cheers the bottlenecks.
“Guess neither of you are driving,” Stacey says.
“Nope. We’re getting lost in a sea of drunken bliss,” Casey answers as I hug him to my side.
Dirk and Dash clamber into the doorway. There’s a moment of staring and assessing from Dirk to Casey’s head before they switch ball caps.Knew that was Dirk’s hat.His is a little frayed around the rim. For once, Stacey and Dash have their own. They usually end up wearing each other’s.
Then their attention is on me, and a wordless conversation takes place between the four of them about me.
“Stop it, guys. I’m not gonna retreat to my Jack cave again. I’ll be fine.”
Fine as I can be anyway. Even if they don’t blame me, I know the other guys on the team do, at least a little. It’s still a hockey team with a coach and everything, but they noticed the drop in my performance.
“That was some bullshit those first few weeks, Jack, and we haven’t forgotten,” Casey says. Stacey, Dirk, and Dash glare at him. “What? It’s true.”
It is true. I retreated. I wouldn’t take any of their phone calls. I didn’t want them to suffer my bad mood, so I took a little time away from the group. A time-out.
Casey hands out more beer, giving one to Stacey anyway. “You just need a little for the speech,” he says.
We stand in a circle, arms around each other in a halfway huddle. The apartment is empty, save a few things we have in the fridge to take with us and the furniture that doesn’t belong to us—the condos in this building are rented out furnished. It’s spring so we’ve still got plenty of light casting brilliance over the bare space, but it’s heavy with the eeriness of ending.
I don’t like it. I want to get out of here. Too sad. I loved living with them and can’t wait to do it again next season. Prior to this, I lived with Rhett. We got to play house every season, which was hard enough not to think about this year. Having my four best friends distract me from the pain of the worst breakup in history was everything or I might not have been able to play at all.
“I know this wasn’t our best season yet,” Casey says. “That means all of us, Leslie.”
He means that, but I wince anyway, thinking of my stats. I knew I was down from last year, but I nearly died when I saw the numbers. I’m trying not to think about them too much. I could be traded, or worse, cut loose from the league completely.
Doing a lot of praying to the Hockey Gods right now.
I guess it also didn’t help that we lost more than just Rhett to the draft. With all the changes and new guys, we just didn’t gel right this season.
Letting my lips curl into a half smile, I lean against Dirk.
“Not every season can have a cup run, we’ll get ‘em next year. I’m proud of us. We still kicked Boston’s asses all season and that’s what truly matters—that and bein’ friends with you chuckleheads. Long live the Wildcats. Hear, hear!”
“Hear, hear!”
* * *
We hit Rodney’s Oyster Bar, a restaurant slash nightclub in the small town of Kelowna, in time to catch the game. It’s on the water. They serve killer west coast BC fair—mostly seafood and salads—and they’ve got a dance floor which usually gets started at some time around nine or ten.
With the exception of tonight. Dancing will start when the game ends.
“You sure you’re all right with this?” Stacey asks. “We could just head home.”
“Nah, I’ll be fine,” I say.
Truth is, I might puke, but I want to do this. I need to. Everyone’s been looking forward. Most of the team is here. I’ve been preparing myself. It’s not like we don’t watch Rhett’s games. If I’m not playing, I’m watching hockey with the guys. Just because we’re missing a Calder Cup run, doesn’t mean we’re missing a Stanley Cup run on account of my dumb breakup. I usually don’t watch Rhett’s games outside our group though. If a few tears escape, I can privately cuddle with someone instead of making a scene and without all eyes on me.
Better to finally get this over with. Better when we’re all half-full of beer.
Stacey’s remembering. He was one of the ones who saw me at my worst.
We usually prefer the patio, but we take a seat in the area closest to the large-screen TVs and order a few pitchers of beer and some plates of nachos. I actively don’t look at the screen during the pregame.
