23. Jamie

Jamie

The next dayI’m lying on my back on our sofa, studying the ceiling. I’ve been here for a while now. Wes is at practice, and the apartment is so fucking quiet that every thought I have echoes too loudly in my head.

A couple hours ago I looked at some flights to California. But depending on whether Wes’s team makes the playoffs, that’s still two or three months away. I just couldn’t see the point of planning a trip now.

It’s like I’ve forgotten how to feel excitement. Or—the fever I had burned all the happiness out of me. Even the high I got yesterday from sex with Wes faded fast.

The day stretches out in front of me. I have nothing to do and nobody to talk to. Lunchtime comes and goes, but I’m not even hungry. It doesn’t take any energy to be a complete bum, so my stomach has forgotten how to crave food.

Disgust makes me get up and stroll over to our wall of windows facing the waterfront. The lake is a dark, cold color, and I get a chill just looking at it. But down below, I can see people bundled up and hurrying through the March afternoon. Cars stop and start on Lakeshore.

The whole world is busy except for me.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. It does that a lot. I walk over and study the incoming message, but it’s only an automated text reminding me that my team has a game starting in thirty minutes. Even though I’m on leave, those messages keep coming just to remind me of everything I was missing.

I wander into the kitchen, choose a carton of yogurt and eat it. Cooking seems like a lot of trouble lately.

That done, I throw away the container and confront the empty hours ahead of me. For once my stir-craziness actually overpowers my listlessness. If I don’t go somewhere right now, I will lose my mind.

Grabbing my phone, I shove it into my pocket. Then I find my coat, adding a hat and scarf just so Wes won’t get mad if he sees me out in the cold.

I don’t even know where I’m going until I get into the elevator. But then it hits me—I’m forbidden to work, but I’m not barred from the rink. I can watch my guys play, right? It’s a free country.

It takes me a half hour to get there, between the subway and a pretty long walk. My chest is rattling when I finally see the building ahead of me. I stop to cough, because I don’t want to be hacking like an idiot in the stands. I hate the sound of it, and the way my stomach muscles ache from the now familiar workout of clearing my lungs.

Laughing hurts worst of all. Good thing I don’t do that very often.

When I finally reach the rink, the game is already in progress. But that’s fine, because it allows me to sneak in unnoticed. My guys look sharp out there, too. I climb the bleachers and take a seat on the top row. The rink isn’t huge—it only seats a couple thousand people. But it’s weird to be so far away from my guys during a game. I should be down there behind the bench, where Danton’s pin-shaped head is weaving back and forth as he talks to the team and calls the lines.

I miss being involved. I feel like an outsider up here. And helpless. Another coach has taken my place. Gilles is working with Danton, coaching my defensemen.

Hell, it’s working, too. My guys are doing a good job of keeping their chins up, finding the pass before they’re beset by opponents on the back check. And my goalie looks alert and ready. His stance is more relaxed than the last time I saw him play, like he’s shaken off his fear.

The teams are well matched, and the game is scoreless through the first period. Dunlop makes a couple of beautiful saves, but he doesn’t have to work all that hard. Not yet.

Things get scrappier during the second period. Our team gets some good shots on goal, but they’re answered by some brilliant defense. And then our star center puts one in, and my smile is really wide for the first time in weeks.

My hands are in tense fists as the game grinds on. The opponent steps on the gas, bringing everything they’ve got. Dunlop has his hands full for a little while. But he doesn’t choke. I’m so proud of him I could burst. Then our team draws a penalty and I’m holding my breath for two minutes, hoping Dunlop doesn’t fall apart.

But he is a rock. He saves two during the PK. And he holds the line for the entire third period.

When the buzzer goes off, the score is still 1-0, and Dunlop has shut the other team out. I’m limp with relief. It’s great to see them win.

And then? All the happiness drains out of me again. Just like it always does now.

Below me, Danton and Gilles gather my guys together. They are a clot of happy victory, patting each others’ shoulder pads and smiling, their faces red and sweaty. I feel like Scrooge when the ghosts of Christmas make him watch scenes from his own life. I should be down there, congratulating kids and giving a post-game wrap-up. But another coach has taken my place, and now they’re winning. Dunlop looks about a hundred times happier than after my last few games with him.

Why the hell did I come here? This was the worst idea ever.

I need to leave. But the stands have emptied out, and my team is still visible. So I sit there a few awful minutes longer, waiting for them to hit the showers so I can make my exit unnoticed. I don’t even know what I’d say to those kids right now. Nice game. Glad I got pneumonia so you could win a few.

The truth clobbers me. I’m unnecessary, and I’ll probably be fired. If that happens, there won’t be any more job for me in Toronto.

Then what?

Suddenly I can’t be in the building any longer. I stand up and jog down the bleachers, heading for the door. There’s nobody in the hallway, and it seems like I have a clear path to freedom. But then somebody shouts my name.

“Canning!”

I spin around on instinct, and it’s Danton jogging toward me. He skids to a halt. “Hey.” His face is red.

“Hey.” I have nothing to say to you.

“Listen. You shoulda come to me.”

“What?” I look into his angry, beady eyes and almost laugh. He can’t mean that I should have confided in him. We are not friends.

“You had a problem with me, you shoulda spoken to me about it. Now I got Braddock on my ass. You went behind my back to him. And I didn’t mean shit by anything I said. It was just smack talk about the other team. You knew that. I never called you a faggot.”

My blood pressure spikes hard. I’ve never felt anything like it. All of me is shaking. “Doesn’t matter who you say it to. It’s still wrong.”

“But I didn’t treat you bad! I’m not like that. I wouldn’t have been an ass to you if I knew you had a boyfriend.”

That’s it. That’s all the bullshit logic I can take in one day. I grab Danton by the shoulders and shove him roughly up against the wall. “You stupid asshole. Don’t mistake me for someone who cares what you think of me.”

His eyes widen in shock, but I’m not even half finished. I give him another shove and the back of his head actually bounces against the cinder blocks. “That shit that falls out of your mouth? The kids hear everything you say. You’re an authority figure. Now they think it’s okay to call someone a faggot just as long as you don’t actually know them. And it’s. Not. Okay.” I am practically spitting in his narrow little rat face.

There’s movement at the edges of my vision, and to my horror, I see Bill Braddock coming down the hall.

Oh my fucking god.

I yank my hands off of Danton. Yeah, it’s bad to say “faggot” to your team. But it’s also a dealbreaker to slam your co-coach up against the wall and scream in his face. There’s a page in the employee handbook which specifically forbids the laying on of hands.

See how easy it will be to fire me now?

The door is only ten yards away, and suddenly I’m striding toward it. Bill Braddock yells my name, but I don’t stop. I beat it out the door and then jog down the sidewalk. I run a hundred yards or so before my lungs are burning. My pace falters and I stop. Then my chest is wracked with coughing.

Fuck. I can’t even run. I’m useless, even to myself.

When I’m able, I walk to the subway. And nobody follows me.