Page 6 of Jaded

“I’m thirty-five, Syd.” And before she can open her mouth to protest, I add, “I haven’t played competitively in eighteen years, and I was never that great to begin with.”

“You never believed in yourself,” Brenda murmurs, her words so soft I’m not sure I heard them. But she’s right, isn’t she? Even when I chased the dream with everything, did I evertrulybelieve?

How else could I have cost myself my alleged dream in a long chain of stupid mistakes? Then woken up one day to realize I’d been living a lie.

Brenda’s next words leave no room for misinterpretation. “Maybe it’s time to concentrate on other things.”

I groan. “Please don’t mention the repo biz, Bren.”

“Oh, no. Because it’s much better to be sharpening skates, driving a Zamboni, and working for a title company . . .” She shakes her head. “Instead of making real money at one job.”

“All right, I’m done with this conversation.” I lift my plate and make for the sink, trying to ignore the way the world seems to have faded behind a buzz of white noise. Like I’m watching my own life from high in the stands.

That way, I don’t have to take part. Don’t have to process it or affect its outcome. Don’t have to relive Jerry’s words—and how Brenda clearly agrees with them.

I turn on the water, play more white noise.

They don’t mean it, don’t realize their words fly too fast, hit too hard. Lodge in places that still hurt. Tension coils inside me like a compressed metal spring—tight, ready to burst, sharp enough to cut to the bone.

“Well.” I sidle away from the sink to dry my hands on a towel. “I think I’m gonna get going.”

“To sit on the couch with your guitar,” Syd grumbles. “Yay.”

“No,” I say, which is true. “I’m meeting Charlie for pool.”

“Charlie Holland?” Avery beelines into the kitchen. “Like, Dingoes Charlie Holland?”

“Yep.” I slide my phone out to see if Charlie’s texted. I wouldn’t call my best friend a flake, but he does have a new boyfriend, as well as something of a pot habit.

“Dude, you gotta let us go with you!” Avery bounds up beside me as I head for the coat rack. “Introduce me to him!”

Back at the table, Syd turns around to face us, her green eyes wide and hopeful. “C’mon, Dad.”

“Nope.” I tug my jacket over my shoulders. “We’re going to abar. And you guys are . . . What was it again? Seventeen and eighteen?”

Which isn’t legal for a few reasons, I don’t mention. Because honestly, my daughter’s sex life . . . Shit. I guess it is technically my business—

“Aw, let us come!” Syd leans out of her chair. “Please.”

“Nope. Put the puppy-dog eyes away.” I aim a pointed finger in her direction. “You’re home at curfew tonight. And Avery willnotbe with you.”

“Da-ad—”

“Nope.” I set my hand on the doorknob. “Eleven o’clock, Syd.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes for the third time in as many hours, and I can’t help but soften.

“Eleven.” I leave her with that one last parting command before I head out into the dark and frigid cold of yet another Day River winter night. I slide behind the wheel of my ancient Lexus and crank the stereo.

Music has always held a special place in my heart. With the notes in my ears, or my hands on the strings, dancing through a song, feathering soothing melody against my soul like nurturing fingers, I feel whole.

In a way I maybe never did with hockey.

And yet, sometimes I still see that old, broken dream when I close my eyes. Still taste it and smell it and feel it, like the afterimage of a nightmare that leaves the world off-kilter for hours after waking.

When I lost hockey, I lost everything; my word burned.

I couldn’t fathom how I’d go on—keep breathing, keep living—after my dream had been revoked. But somehow I continued, even when I’d lost my purpose, when all I had left was the song on my lips, pressed beneath my fingers.

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