30. Brett

Brett

"Are you sure it's okay?"

"Brett, please," Fallon says, her voice muffled and a bit tinny over the phone. "We're married, but we're not like… married ."

Our game against the Predators was a week ago, and now we're in Minnesota. I was nervous to play the Wild, but Fallon called me before the game.

"Just get in and get out," she'd said, and I heard June cooing in the background. "And come back to us. Okay— God , that made me feel like a wife."

"You are a wife," I laughed.

"Yeah, but not, like, a when-will-my-husband-return-from-the-war wife."

Now, she breaks me from the memory by speaking again: "I trust you."

That statement makes my chest feel weird, and I realize it's been a long time since I've heard that from someone. It's been a long time since my behavior warranted trust.

Fallon said her friends were staying over tonight, since she wasn't used to being at our place by herself. I couldn't stop thinking about her and her friends, all watching the game together at our home, seeing me there on the screen.

She trusts me. And I want to show her that it's well-placed.

This was another knock-out game for me. We won in a landslide, and my composure seemed to drive some of the Wild players up the wall. Or, more specifically, into it. They kept getting more and more physical, to the point where, eventually, one of them accidentally took out one of their own players.

Before the game, announcers were talking about my history of losing it against the Wild, citing my "hometown" rivalry. But nobody really understood that the stress of playing them didn't come from the team itself, but rather, where I had to be to play them in their home rink.

Walking down the streets of downtown Minneapolis, able to quickly pick out the properties owned by my father. Wondering if I would accidentally run into someone if I wandered too far from the arena.

"You trust me," I say, clearing my throat.

"Well, yeah," she says, and then, in a Transatlantic accent, "dear, do you think I would have had a child with you, if I didn't trust you?"

I laugh and feel some of the tension leave my body. I've only known Fallon since I started having appointments with her, but she's the one person who instantly makes me feel at ease. I just want to stay on the phone with her, but I can hear her friends in the background, calling her back.

"Okay," I say, clearing my throat. "I'm gonna go out with them."

"Text me when you get back to your hotel room," she says, as I hear Chloe yell something about Candy Land in the background.

"I will," I say, "tell everyone I said hi."

"Oh, I will." And then, quickly, "Also, I think Joey might try and steal you from me. He's in love with your kitchen. He's always going in there for ‘a drink of water,' but we all know he's just running his hand over the range wistfully."

"He can try," I laugh, "but he just doesn't have the jugs for it."

Sammy comes around the corner into the hotel lobby as I'm hanging up with Fallon, laughing and slinging his arm over my shoulder.

"So?" he asks, "What did the old ball and chain say?"

"Don't call her that," I say, tucking my phone into my pocket. "I'm coming out."

"Yes!" Sammy says, "Guys night!"

To our surprise, Devon comes around the corner, looking fresh in a pair of nice jeans and a button-down shirt.

"What?" he says, rolling his eyes at our expressions. "I can still have fun, you losers. Don't make me regret this."

When we get into the car, I give the driver an address that's almost forty-five minutes away, and Sammy lets out a groan.

"What the hell, man? There's a perfectly good club just across the street!"

"Trust me," I say swallowing, "this place is great."

When we pull up nearly an hour later, Sammy hurries inside to use the bathroom and Devon gives me a look as I tip the driver and slide him a hundred to hang around for us.

"This place is great?" he asks, gesturing to the shit hole in front of us. It was the only bar I could find in an area outside my dad's developments, and I didn't want to risk being in a building he owned.

"Yeah," I say, "why? Something you don't like about it?"

"Nah," he laughs, shaking his head as we walk through the front door, which creaks loudly. "Nothing at all. I might sleep on the ride back, though."

We get settled at a table in the corner, and a group of Wild fans gives us a couple of evil glares, but it's fine. Sammy returns with a round of beers.

"Wow, Brett," he says, laughing and falling onto a solid wooden bench. "This place low-key blows. Why the hell did we have to come all the way out here?"

I don't normally like to share stuff with the guys on the team, but, for some reason, it doesn't feel like a big deal now. Fallon is waiting for me at home. I'm having the performance of my life right now. Our team is headed to the Stanley Cup.

"You know what?" I say, laughing and leaning toward them. "I fucking hate Minneapolis. That's what."

"What?" Sammy asks, taking a drink, "Why?"

For the next hour, I tell a dumbfounded Sammy and Devon about my childhood, my dad hating hockey, his ultimatum for me, and Bryson's appearance at the arena.

"Holy shit , man," Devon exhales, shaking his head and taking a drink of his beer. "That explains a lot."

"What does that mean?"

"Just, like—with the impulsivity and everything," he says. "Probably some shit like, since you had no control in your childhood, once you got a sense of control in your adult life, you started to sabotage it. Doing shit just because you could."

"Wow, thanks." I rub my hand over my head.

"You're welcome," Devon says, bringing his drink to his lips. "It probably also has something to do with you avoiding how obvious it is that you're in love with that girl."

"Am I missing something?" Sammy asks, laughing. "Isn't that kind of a pre-requisite for being married?"

"Ask you parents," Devon scoffs, "aren't they divorced?"

"Shit," Sammy chuckles. "Are you some kind of shrink or something? You gonna give me a diagnosis like you did for Brett?"

"Don't say shrink , pretty sure it's offensive to therapists," Devon corrects him, "and no . I'm not psychoanalyzing you. It would hurt your feelings."

"Bet."

"Bet what?"

"It's an expression, I'm basically saying, like, no. It won't."

"You're obsessed with my performance last season because you want to be successful in your career," Devon starts, and Brett immediately looks embarrassed. "You're afraid of being forgotten, so you want to leave your name on the hockey record books, but you can't find a way in on this team, since there's already so much talent. It's never been hard for you to find your fit, so now you're struggling. Probably something about your parents being divorced and really sheltering you, fighting over who loves you more, or something. You also have a mild case of the yips."

Sammy lowers his head to the table, and I laugh.

"Players can have mild cases of the yips?" I ask, "And also, how did you know about Sammy's obsession with you?"

"I'm not obsessed with him," Sammy says, muffled by the table.

"He's always watching some shit about last season," Devon says, clapping his empty cup on the table. "Or something about the all-time hockey greats. I'll give you a hint, kid, confidence is ninety percent of the battle."

"Thanks," Sammy mutters into the table.

"I don't know what the hell you guys are gonna do without me," Devon sighs, looking into his glass, as though he can conjure more beer.

"Wait," I say, sitting up. "Does that mean you're retiring?"

At this, Sammy lifts his head, staring at Devon, who lets out a long breath.

"Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, after this season, I'm done. I want to enjoy time with my family, less time being so damn far from home."

"Holy shit," Sammy murmurs, looking into the distance, somewhere into the center of the bar, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. With Devon leaving, the team will need someone to step up.

Or someone to come in and take his spot.

Devon doesn't order another, and when Sammy and I finish ours, we decide to take off. We find the driver napping and more than happy to take us back when I slip him another hundred. The ride back into the city is quiet. Devon leans his head against the window, and Sammy falls asleep almost immediately, the inside of the SUV filling with the sounds of his snores.

Without meaning to, I start thinking about what Devon said again.

It probably also has something to do with you avoiding how obvious it is that you're in love with that girl.

Am I in love with Fallon?

She's the first thing I think about in the morning. The last thing I think about before falling asleep. I dream about her, and I realize it's been like that for a while. This whole thing didn't start with me proposing to her at the PT clinic—I did that because I was falling in love with her.

"Shit," I mutter, and Devon opens an eye, glancing over at me.

"Did you finally figure it out?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "About time."

When we get back to the hotel, Devon and Sammy get in the elevator right away, heading up to their rooms to crash.

But I need to talk to Fallon, to tell her—What, exactly? That I'm falling in love with her? That I am in love with her? Is there some way to test it, to be sure?

Maybe the fact that I want to tell her is proof enough.

Fallon doesn't pick up when I call, which makes sense. She might be having fun with her roommates, or sleeping. She'll call me back tomorrow, and I'll tell her then.

I'm turning on my heel, heading to my room and thinking about Fallon when two figures step out into my path, clogging up the hotel lobby.

"Brett," my father says, sneering at me. "We need to have a little chat."