Page 35 of Much Ado About Hockey

He left to meet his new team, full of excitement and possibility, and she went out alone. She bought herself a car—a sleek, flashy new Kia that gleamed under the morning sun in their apartment complex’s parking lot. It was bold and shiny and hers. But when he saw it, the disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable. He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t argued. But the silence between them stretched like a chasm.

That silence only deepened.

He asked her out to dinner one evening, his voice hopeful, but she had already numbed her feelings with a rushed ten-pack of chicken nuggets and a chocolate milkshake from McDonald's. It hadn’t even been hunger—it was habit. She was full physically, but emotionally starved. So she declined again.

He asked her to a hockey game—their first home game of the season. She declined.

He invited her to a team meet-and-greet, his eyes lighting up as he said he couldn’t wait for her to meet everyone. She had stiffened. “How many people will be there?” she asked, already bracing herself.

“About a hundred,” he’d said.

And with that, she declined once more.

She didn’t hate the town—they were in a beautiful, quaint part of the world. In fact, she was falling in love with it. She’d wandered through cobblestone streets that seemed pulled from another century, browsed gift shops nestled inside buildings from the 1700s, and marveled at the careful restoration of old structures still in progress. She’d already spent hours at the library, visited the zoo and the museum, walked the walls of the old fort, and taken a guided tour.

That day, she found herself sitting in the hushed stillness of St. Anne de Beaupré. The air inside the cathedral was cool and scented faintly with incense. She stared at the intricate stained glass, the majestic arches above, and the way the afternoon light bathed the pews in color. The tour guide’s words still echoed in her head, telling stories of faith and miracles. But as she satthere in the silence, a painful realization wrapped around her heart.

Jett had stopped asking.

There had been no more invitations to games, no more casual dinner suggestions, no more attempts to bring her into his world. The coffee dates they once joked about hadn’t happened. She had never been to the arena, had never even seen him play. The first game had come and gone, and she hadn’t been there to cheer for him. She hadn’t been there at all.

Now he was on a plane, flying out of town with the team—to who-knows-where—and she wasn’t included. A team text thread confirmed what she had already suspected: the plane had carried not just the players, but their families, too.

But not her.

She stared at her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. Her chest felt tight with regret, her heart aching with the weight of everything she hadn’t said and hadn’t done. She had kept him at arm’s length again and again. He had tried, and she had pushed him away.

We still need to establish what day we are going on our coffee dates.

She hit send, then winced. It sounded so impersonal, so cool. So wrong. There was no softness, no tenderness, nothing that hinted at how much she missed him. Because despite everything, she did. She missed the way he smiled when he looked at her, the warmth of his hand in hers, the way his voice softened when he teased her.

He was still sleeping on the couch.

She was still in the bedroom.

They were living under the same roof, but felt like strangers to each other.

Karen’s fingers trembled slightly as she typed again.

Who are you playing tonight?

This time, her breath caught in her throat as she sent the message. It was time to stop hiding. Time to stop pretending she didn’t care. Because the truth was, she cared deeply. She just didn’t know if it was too late to show it – and her heart skipped a beat as she saw three dots appear on the cell phone screen, indicating that he was texting her back.

Who’s this?

Funny, Jett – it’s Karen.

I don’t know a Karen. I avoid Karens at all cost…

But I’m a huge fan of my wife texting me.

It’s your wife.

Karen chuckled, texting him back the words he was obviously wanting her to say. If he wanted to claim her, to have her say she was his wife, then she would. It was a weird sort of flirting that seemed to fit him – and strangely – her too.

Hi Nutella – we are playing Seattle tonight.

Is that a tough team?

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