Page 107 of Can't Kiss the Chef

The guys are in various states of undress when I stand in front of them clearing my throat.

“Hey guys I’m sorry about the way I handled myself out there. You guys deserve better and I promise I’ll give you better. It’s just one loss but it’s one we should have won. Let’s forget about this one and have a good couple days before this weekend’s games.”

As my teammates pass me I get variations ofit’s not your faultandit’s a team game, we all let each other down.

I take my time getting ready for the showers. I don’t really want to talk to anyone else about the game. I’m able to make it through the locker room without any more chats with my teammates. That’s until I see Oliver slumped against the wall opposite the locker room scrolling on his phone.

He looks up when he hears the stragglers still in the locker room.

“Hey want to grab a protein shake?” He points his head towards the athletes-only cafeteria.

I shrug before begrudgingly following him. I don’t really want to go but it’s easier to just follow him than come up with some kind of an excuse. We order and wait in silence. I watch Westvale’s top athletes move around the Riley Center carefree. Laughing like they don’t have the weight of a dying parent dragging them down. Or maybe they are hiding their own pain. Hiding it behind the fake world college presents to us.

“Byron.” The curt sound of Oliver’s voice snaps me out of my self-pity.

“Sorry, I’ve just been a little off lately.” It’s become my automatic response whenever I’ve been lost in my own thoughts.

We sit down at a secluded table and Oliver wastes no time getting to the tough questions.

“Did everything go okay at the appointment your dad had at Temple?”

I know doctor-patient confidentiality is a thing, but I kind of assumed one of his many family members that were there that day might have told him something.

“The cancer metastasized,” I say emotionless.

If I feel anything it’s anger. That’s the one side of myself that I’ve worked to suppress over the years. It’s best when it comes out on the ice where it is socially acceptable for me to punch someone.

“He only has a few more months to live.”

Sympathy radiates through Oliver’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Byron. I know it doesn’t help,” he shrugs his shoulders. “But I really appreciate how you’ve taken me under your wing this year. I just feel like you haven’t been yourself this week and you know I’ll always be there for you, but I think maybe you should tell the rest of the team. It might help if you tell the rest of the guys and Coach what’s going on. Maybe you won’t suppress your feelings and have games like today’s.”

There it is. It’s always about how I can help the fucking team. It’s never just a genuine, is Byron okay? My chair goes flying when I stand up drawing attention to Oliver and I.

“Do you really think I give a fuck about hockey right now? My dad just came back into my life and he is going to be gone before I get a chance to get to know him.”

Oliver’s face drips with horror. “That’s not what I meant Byron. I just think that you holding this in isn’t healthy. I want to make sure you’re okay.” His hands start to nervously fly around. “And if I’m being honest, if you’re flying off the handle this easily, I don’t want you around my sister.”

He stands up and suddenly we are chest to chest, eye to eye.

“You’ve put her through enough bull shit and I don’t need you making her into a shell of herself like you did last summer. She’s finally her fucking self again.”

His words sober me up. Oliver has been like the little brother I never had since he got to Westvale. His opinion means the world to me, but the more I think about what he said the more the anger drips back into me.

“Yeah maybe I’ve been off this week, but I’m fine,” I lie. “I love your sister and the last thing I would ever do is intentionally hurt her.”

I storm out of the cafeteria not stopping until I’m at home.

I woke up to a text from Mr. Holloway, Westvale’s athletic director, saying that I needed to meet him in his office at nine this morning. There was a point in time where Mr. Holloway was simply just Matt, my best friend’s cool uncle. Now he holds my playing eligibility in his hands.

I blow raspberries trying to ease the tightness in my chest.

Raising my hand, I tap a few times waiting for the signal that it’s okay to come in. My foot taps against the ground trying to remember exactly how everything went down yesterday. If it wasn’t for my little episode, I’d be happy to come and see Matt. Sometimes when I need a little taste of home I find myself in his office. There is this nagging pull on my chest that today isn’t going to be one of those happy times.

“Come in.” Matt’s normally strong voice is muffled by the large oak door that separates us.

“Hey Matt, how’s your morning been?” I keep my voice even as I settle into the seat across from him.

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