Page 16 of Him
Back in our hotel room, I find Terry sitting on the bed, clicker in hand. But the TV is off, and he’s watching a black screen.
“Um, Terry? You okay?”
He looks up fast. “Yeah. Just…” The sentence dies an early death.
The next several days are going to be just like this. I can see it now. We wanted so badly to be the ones who brought this title home to Rainier. It would have proved to our families and the college that all these years of sacrifice were worth it.
We proved nothing.
“It’s still the winningest season in thirty years,” Terry says slowly.
I flop onto my bed. “Is winningest a word?”
“Not if you’re us.” We both laugh. But his laugh ends on a sigh. “That was my last game, Canning. My very last one. I’m not an NHL recruit like you. Three months from now I’m wearing a suit and sitting at a desk.”
Shit. That’s really grim.
“For fifteen years I’ve been a hockey player. As of a half hour ago, I’m a junior associate in the investment banking division of Pine Trust Capital.”
Jesus. And now I’m hoping our hotel room windows aren’t the kind that open, because I’m half afraid he’s going to step out onto a ledge. Or else I will. “Dude, you need alcohol and a girl. Like, yesterday.”
His chuckle is dark. “My cousins are on the way over here to pick me up. There will be drinking and titty bars.”
“Thank Christ.” I roll over to study the pebbled hotel room ceiling. “You know, there’s a very real chance I never play a single NHL game. Third-string goalie? Detroit might as well make a bench to my ass’s exact measurements. If I’m lucky they’ll let me play backup to their farm-team goalie.”
“You’ll still have the jersey and the puck bunnies.” His phone rings and he swipes to answer. “Born ready,” he tells the caller. “I’ll be right down.” Then to me, “You coming with?”
Am I? I definitely need a drink. But at the moment, my back is plastered to the bedspread. “I’m not ready,” I admit. “Can I text you in an hour, see where you are?”
“Do it,” he says.
“Later,” I call out as the door clicks shut.
For a little while I just stew in my own misery. My parents call my phone, but I don’t pick up. They’ll be awesome, as always, but I don’t want to hear nice, encouraging words right now. I need to feel bad. Get drunk. Get off, maybe.
There’s a firm knock on the door and I haul my sorry ass up to answer it. Probably a teammate, ready to help me with the getting drunk part of tonight’s activities.
I yank the door open to find Holly standing there, her face smudged with orange and black paint, a bottle of tequila in one hand and limes in the other. “Surprise,” she says.
“Jesus, Holls.” I laugh. “You said you weren’t coming.”
“I lied.” She gives me a big grin.
I open the door wider. “You’ve never had better timing in your life.”
“Really?” she challenges, pushing past me. “Not even the time I got you off in the bathroom of the train right before our station stop?”
“Okay, maybe then.” I am so happy to see her it’s not even funny. Distraction is what I need, and that’s what Holly and I have always been to one another.
She gets down to business, cutting limes on the hotel table with a knife she’s pulled from her purse. Do I know how to pick my friends, or what?
“Glasses,” Holly orders over her shoulder.
I think I could go straight for the bottle tonight, but for her sake I look around, finding a pair of them on the console by the TV. I plunk ’em down and she’s pouring before I know it.
“Here.” She offers me a glass and raises another in the air. “To kicking ass and getting over our disappointments.” Her wide blue eyes study me, looking for something.
“That’s a good toast, pal,” I murmur. “Thank you.” When I touch my glass to hers, she grins like she’s won something tonight. That makes one of us.
