Page 14 of Until He Scores

“No shit? Like NHL?” Hunter tilted his head as I worked.

“Yeah. He was with theThunderbirds,” I said. “Now he’s coaching an AHL team; the MurfreesboroMountaineers. Sounds like he’s doing pretty good for himself.”

“Damn, I had no clue there was a local team. That’s cool,” Hunter replied. “So, you’re friends with him?”

“More like acquaintances, now. It’s been several years since I’ve seen him in person.” Apart from the few times I saw him on television.

“Well, hopefully everything will work out, and you guys can pick up where you left off,” Hunter said.

Yeah, not likely. I wasn’t about to hold my breath when it came to Thierry and me getting along. “So, show me this kid of yours. Tell me everything about him.” The change in subject lightened the mood.

Two hours later, I locked up the shop and headed upstairs to the small bachelor apartment. When I bought the building, the space was included. It made starting my business easier and gave me somewhere to live instead of with my father. Both of us needed our space. I couldn’t sit in the grief of losing my mom, like my dad had for the last thirty years. Just thinking about the oppressive atmosphere made my stomach twist with anxiety.

However, when he needed me, I was there.

After his massive heart attack last year, I came home. Both of us realized dad wasn’t spry or young-ish any longer. He needed someone to help him with his apartment, and doing the shopping. I never understood why he didn’t date after mom. They married young. He could have had a second chance, but he spent all his time working and sinking into the darkness and into the bottom of a bottle. I hadn’t asked him why he chose that path, until after the heart attack. He said, “I couldn’t betray you mother.” That made my heart ache for him and see him in a whole different light. He went through his whole life alone, because of some misconceived notion she’d have been mad at him.

If anything, I bet mom was mad at him for not starting over.

Because my father was obstinate and set in his ways, aka, hardheaded, we butted heads in the beginning. I’d show up when I was supposed to, and he’d be leaving in his truck to go somewhere, even though he’d been on strict bed rest for eight weeks. (It was a miracle he even survived. Widow Makers don’t carry the moniker for no reason. He should have died.) When I had to rush him to the hospital two days later because he couldn’t catch his breath, he finally listened. Thankfully, the only issue the doctor’s found then was a pulled muscle near the incision site.

Which was common.

Still, his bullheadedness caused more issues than necessary. Only when reality smacked him in the face, forcing him to take the help offered, was I able to focus on turning my shop into one of the best damn tattooing parlors in the south. I had a set number of hours. Appointments filled most of those, since most of theBroken Eagles MCcame to get work done by me. I added Caleb and Clancy, yes twins, a couple of months ago to help with walk-ins, which improved my business and brought a steady stream of money into the shop. Obviously, what they made they kept, but I got rent from them, so I put the extra into an escrow account, should I need it for a rainy day.

As I trudged up the stairs to my apartment over the shop, a wave of melancholy washed over me. Was this going to be the rest of my life? Everyone I grew up with had settled down, had kids, and began planning for their futures. What did I have to show for all my hard work? I spent five hours a day with my father then spent six to eight hours a day in the shop. Only to return to a shitty apartment over my business and do the same thing again in the morning. I stuck the key in the lock and turned the tumbler.

Damn. I was pathetic.

Stepping inside, the feeling intensified. The streetlights below illuminated my apartment in a soft amber glow, casting long shadows across the wall. I’d told myself two days ago, it was time for curtains or shades, something to cut the light out. Instead, I left the glass panes bare because, “I only slept there.” My bed sat against the far wall, unmade, just like the other four days this week. There were dishes in the sink of my kitchenette that I needed to wash. The small trash can had a horrible odor emanating from it, and I was sure if I opened my fridge, it would stink, too. I didn’t even have the mental fortitude to clean up.

Do it in the morning.

I opened the only door on my right and stepped into the bathroom. I could use a shower, too. Once I turned on the water, I undressed and waited for the steam to rise from the stall. Staring at myself in the mirror, self-loathing filled me. Over the years, I’d used my body as a canvas, covering every available inch of skin in tattoos. There were some I’d wished I never got. Others, given the choice of redoing them, should’ve been bigger. That’s not what grabbed my attention, though. No, it was my face. Fatigue darkened my gaze. The lines around my eyes and mouth deepened, making me appear older than my thirty-five years. No matter how much I tried to change, or do better, I never liked what stared back at me.

As I stood under the tepid spray, my mind wandered to Thierry and when my self-hatred began. The answer was simple. The year I turned fourteen. I thought I was cooler than all the other kids. Thought as long as I had hockey, I had everything I needed. Then he kissed me. Following that, I tried out for football because hockey was a whim when it came to going pro or playing in college. Most of those spots were taken up by kids who played in league programs and all that bullshit. Like Thierry had done once I quit. If we were best friends forever, he was supposed to follow me, right? Hockey was for people with money or foreign last names.

Not kids from the Holler.

Yet, instead of quitting, Thierry kept going. He continued to play. He advanced so far beyond even what I thought we were capable of. Then the resentment sat in. Crazy thing was, he hadn’t brought up that night. Ever. The realization paralyzed me. I was jealous of him because he got more attention than I had, and it was like that night never mattered to him. Like he forgot or whatever. So, we went in different directions. Guess I’d been more butthurt about the situation, than he was.

Why he seemed less fazed about the kiss, was a whole other assortment of problems I didn’t want to open. So, I moved on. Tried to forget.

Trying out for football had been a fluke. I never thought I’d be the starting quarterback for the high school team or be recruited to Georgia. I’d spent more time trying to prove something to Thierry—like I didn’t need him, or he didn’t affect me—I’d been blind to everything around me. My damn stubborn pride stood in the way, and I let my chances of being something more—someone important—slip through my fingers too. (Guess I was more like my father than I realized.) Back then, I came up with so many excuses to explain away my behavior, but none of it mattered now.

Yet even that wasn’t the truth. It was so much easier to tell myself that Thierry caused our problems, and did nothing to repair our friendship, so I could continue down the path of destruction I’d been on. I self-sabotaged everything I touched, including my relationship with Cherie. Why? Because I never saw myself happy in anything I did. Blaming my grandparents, father, and those church ladies for my actions, eased the guilt in my mind. Doing so allowed me to continue to point the finger at everyone, instead of myself.

Including Thierry.

Because he left me.

No. That wasn’t true, either. None of my bullshit had anything to do with being kissed by my best friend at fourteen. It had everything to do with grief and anger and being left behind with a dad who seemingly had one foot in the grave with my mom after her death.

Instantly, I regretted all those times Thierry tried to reach out to me, but I stepped back. Looking at the situation from a thirty-five-year old’s perspective, I cut off our friendship like it hadn’t meant a damn thing to me. All because I couldn’t processthe emotions from that night and thought it best if we weren’t friends anymore.

It was easy back then to blame the rumors of Thierry being gay and not wanting to be called the same foul names he’d been, especially since I was straight. What happened between us—the kiss—he hadn’t done anything wrong. I hated myself for being so shallow. Rather than help Thierry, I hurt him. I was sure of it. We’d been best friends, and I left him to suffer.

On his own.

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