Page 13 of Offside and Off-Limits
Man, I bet shelovedthat.
The truth is I've been addicted to comic books ever since I was Benny's age, which I pick at about eight or nine. Back then, comics were my escape. I would take my weekly pocket money Mom gave me to the comic store in our small town and carefully select which one I got to take home. Mom would always roll her eyes in a good-natured way, knowing how much I loved thatworld of superheroes and villains, and the good guys always winning in the end.
So different from the world I lived in.
The bad guy definitely won there.
And I still hate him for it.
I squirt some shampoo into the palm of my hand and lather up as my jaw twitches as I think of my father, the man who put the word absent inabsent father figure. The man who would only turn up once every couple years with some sob story, treat my mom like a piece of dirt beneath his shoe, and then leave again.
I never understood why she let him back in, time and time again. But let him in she did, whenever he would turn up on our stoop, believing his lame excuse as to why he hadn’t been around, why he had no money to give her to support his own kids, giving her some cock and bull story about whatever it was that he knew would get him back into our lives.
At first, I was excited to see him, just the way Mom was. He was my dad, and he’d come back to us. I’d try to spend as much time with him as I could, inviting him to my hockey games, telling him all about my friends and my comic collection, eager to have father-son time. And he’d come to a couple games, making my heart soar, then he’d get involved with something—or someone—else and drift away, until one day he wouldn’t be home when I got back from school.
Then, as I grew older and his visits grew farther and farther apart, I began to resent him. Who did he think he was, coming into our lives whenever he wanted, and then disappearing again?
So, I made the decision long ago that I wasn’t going to treat people like he did. When—if—I ever settled down, it would be forever. I wouldn’t jerk either my wife or my kids around like he had done.
There’s no freaking way I’ll ever be like him.
But a big part of me was afraid I would turn into him. So, Isteered clear of commitment, kept my relationships short and shallow. And it worked for a while. I didn’t have a wife and kids I was messing around. I could be whatever I wanted to be, and the League afforded me the ability to do as I pleased, no strings attached.
In the end, that lifestyle wasn’t the answer.
Sure, the women I dated knew the score from the get-go. I was there for a good time, not a long time, and they got that. But do that for long enough and your soul grows weary.
Now I’ve become a man who wants to fall in love for the very first time.
And I guess that could start withnotflirting with women like Clara Johnson.
No matter how much I want to.
“Yo, Lennox. You done yet?” Asher calls out.
“What’s it to you?”
“Coach wants us in the locker room to meet some dude about marketing, so get your butt out here.”
“Be there in two.” I push the conundrum of Clara Johnson and the new me from my mind as I rinse off the shampoo and then switch the water off. Immediately, I miss the therapeutic heat.
Man, I’m not as young as I once was.
And yeah, eventhinkingthat makes me feel old.
I might not quite be Jamie’s age, but at thirty-three I don’t bounce back from the brutality of the sport like I once did. And hockey has got to be the most brutal sport of all, except maybe rugby. Those guys are insane.
Although I’m not in that headspace yet, sometime soon I know I’m going to have to think about what comes after hockey.
Which is all the more reason to get on with the new me.
I grab a towel and dry myself off before I wrap it around my waist, slicking my hair back. I pad across the cold tile floor out into the locker room. I'm expecting to see a rabble of guys invarious stages of undress, talking and laughing as they get ready to head home after practice.
What I see is every single one of my teammates fully dressed in their regular clothes, sitting in front of their lockers, looking at a woman speaking. I swivel around to see who they’re listening to only to capture the gaze of the hot mom I ma’amed yesterday.
Clara Johnson. The woman I’ve just told myself I’mnotgoing to flirt with.
Her eyes slide quickly down to my abs and back up again, and within seconds her cheeks begin to flush, and she pulls her gaze from me, focusing back on my teammates.
