Page 8 of Playing for Keeps

I take a leak, chug some more water, and lie back on the bed, feeling my heart pound behind my ribs. I pull up my phone and click the star next to Dad’s name, knowing he will always answer, no matter what. I’m not even sure what time it is back home or if Mom is in court or something like that.

“Gunny!” Dad sounds excited, which kills me because I’m about to ruin his day. “Tough break last night, kiddo. Are you back in the ‘burgh already? Want me to come over and talk it out with you?”

“Hey, Dad.” I breathe in the silence for a minute and hear Dad pacing around, fidgeting. “So, um, that’s not why I called.”

“Oh. Okay…what then?” I hear voices…are the twins over at my parents’ house already? “Hey, your brothers just got here. Why aren’t you with them?”

“Dad, I need to tell you something.” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, waiting.

“Okay, let me duck out back.” The porch door slides open and shut on perpetually squeaky ball bearings. “Hit me, Gunny.”

“Dad, I, um…I did it again.”

“What’s that, buddy?”

I close my eyes. “I acted without thinking.”

“Hmm.” His voice is reassuring. “Well, you know, that is a crucial part of goalie life. You gotta move that glove toward the puck before your brain registers that’s what you’re doing. You’ve always been my boy with the best quick-twitch muscle fibers and–”

“Dad,” I interrupt. “I got married last night.”

There’s a clatter, and I’m sure Dad dropped his phone. I hear cursing, rustling, and then he is yelling. “You what? To who? Why?”

I bite my lip. This is the tricky part. “Her name is Emerson. She, um, plays the cello.”

“So, you what? Got drunk and eloped in Vegas? Without the family?” His voice shakes, and I know I’ve wrecked him. Dad has been all in on the family since Mom got pregnant with my brother Odin. In fact, Dad retired from the pros to stay home with us while Mom ran for judge. Shutting him out of a marriage is the meanest thing I could do to him. My guts churn as he draws a deep breath. “This is unreal!”

Dad has shown up to every single hockey event, helping coach, throwing his name around, making connections. I’m not Gunnar Stag so much as I’mTy Stag’s kid. And now I’ve made a huge public mess and robbed my family of a chance to celebrate together. “I know I fucked up, okay? And the press is already allover it, and Brian is apoplectic, and you don’t have to remind me that I’m a spastic fart, okay? I saw her playing music and bought her a bunch of drinks, and … we eloped.”

I hear Dad breathing, slowly, steadily. I hear a bird chirping in the background, and then I hear his teeth click together. “I see,” he breathes in some more. “When can we meet her?”

CHAPTER 5

EMERSON

Victor,the doorman in Gunnar’s building, eyes me with curiosity. Which is fair because my clothes are two days old, and all I have is a cello and a purse. At least I fit in the tiny Uber that came to fetch me at the airport. Not sure how they would have picked up someone with any more luggage than this instrument.

The apartment is in a neighborhood called Lawrenceville, which my driver says is really hip and cool andthe place to befor young people in Pittsburgh. And honestly, the buildingisincredible. I don’t know what they mowed down to build it, but it’s brand-new construction with a lounge, a game room, and a place to store kayaks. Kayaks! Nobody in Manhattan kept kayaks…at least nobody I ever had access to.

There's an ATM in the lobby, which strikes me as odd but certainly convenient. With trembling fingers, I insert my credit card, keying in a few hundred dollars I'll need for basic necessities after my Velvet Mirage payment. The screen flashes red: ACCOUNT ACCESS DENIED. I try a smaller amount—same message. My chest tightens as I attempt a quick twenty bucks. Nothing.

I glance around the fancy lobby, suddenly feeling like an imposter. Without access to my money, I'm exactly what myfather called me - worthless. The credit card makes a satisfying sound as it hits the bottom of the trash can, but my hands won't stop shaking.

I spin on my heel and approach the desk. "You must be Victor." I force brightness into my voice. His eyebrows lift. "I'm Emerson. Gunnar Stag said he'd leave a key for me?"

When Victor lets me into the apartment, I thank him and look around. This whole adventure feels much less cool now that I’m here, with nothing, in a space that smells like the man I apparently married in a drunken bout of rebellion. Who gets married just to piss off their father?

Gunnar texted me that I should make myself at home and that the entire guest room is mine. He mentioned a third room that I could use for studio space if I wanted. There’s a central living space with a kitchen along one wall and an island separating it from the living room. He’s got a table and chairs, both heaped with neatly-folded laundry, and an overstuffed couch facing a massive television. A sliding door leads out to a balcony I can’t quite see through the slatted blinds.

I peek in the first door down the hall, and it’s heaped with random trophies and medals, presumably from Gunnar’s hockey career. I set my cello next to a stack of wooden plaques and shut the door. I’ll have to see about soundproofing the walls in there. I like the idea of having someplace to practice right here where I’m staying.

Apart from the whole “living with a stranger I married” issue, the move to Pittsburgh actually seems like it could be good. There are a lot of arts and cultural opportunities here—a ballet, a symphony…opportunities my father would smile at. So, of course, I won’t be pursuing them.

But I did spend time on the plane looking into other music organizations. There is an alternative group called String Fury. They play rock music on cellos and the upright bass. I’m practically salivating at the idea of connecting with them, volunteering for some of their educational programming, and teaching in their summer camps. I just have to figure out how to make it all happen.

The next door is a bathroom, while the one opposite it is clearly a guest room furnished as if it’s a rental property—sparse, functional, and impersonal. I assume the last door at the end of the hall is the primary bedroom... Gunnar’s space. I resist the urge to snoop in there and sniff his bath products.

Since I have nothing to unpack, I toss my purse on the dresser in my windowless guest room. I strip and hop into the shower in the hall bathroom, and as I’m drying off with a plush towel, unsure what clothes to put on, I hear the door open and close.

---