Page 7 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
He played pro hockey. He probably still does, but I long ago forbade myself from looking him up online. My high school sweetheart, we were inseparable back then. But college came along and we went to different schools. We still spent most weekends and holidays together with family and friends.
We never even went on a real “date” since we’d always just been together.
I thought I felt him changing, but I’d chalked it up to us getting closer to the age where we either get married or go our separate ways. You know, at twenty-one.
I was so silly.
He played his hockey games all over the country, told me I shouldn’t be bothered coming to them. He knew I didn’t care for the sport and that I was petrified of flying.
Frankly, if we were meant to fly, we would have been born with wings.
But after a weekend together when he was particularly distant, I knew I needed to do something big, something meaningful, so that he knew I supported him.
I practically hyperventilated all the way from Poughkeepsie to Seattle. Four buses, many hours of white-knuckled grip on the armrest, and one unfortunate incident involving a pothole-induced ginger ale bath.
By the time we arrived, I nearly kissed the ground.
His team was playing the Ice Breakers in a charity game. I told myself it was fate—that this was my moment. My dramatic gesture. The kind at the end of movies where the audience claps.
I bought a foam finger at the merch table and a caramelswirl latte from the nearest concession stand with my stomach already flipping like a gymnast. I found my seat in the nosebleeds and screamed like a lunatic every time he touched the puck, even though I had no idea what was going on and kept accidentally cheering for penalties.
The game ended and the crowd thinned. And that’s when I realized I had no idea how to find him.
After wandering around aimlessly and getting directions from a teenage volunteer wearing a headset three sizes too big, I was led to a security door.
“I’m Paul’s girlfriend,” I said to the massive man, clutching my latte like a lifeline.
The guy went inside to check. He came back out with a different expression than he’d left with.
“Paul says…” He hesitated. “He says he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
My brain stopped working for a full three seconds.
“No, but I’m hisactualgirlfriend. I’m not a fan or a groupie. Do you see my pencil skirt? This is my first time at a game. You know, to surprise him.”
He pursed his lips and even looked a bit embarrassed. “Sorry, ma’am.”
I went around the back and found his team as they were loading onto the bus, all duffel bags and backwards baseball caps and tired swagger.
“Paul!” I called out, desperate and still hopeful, like this could all be some massive misunderstanding.
He turned, saw me, and sighed.
He walked over with a look I’ll never forget. Pity and annoyance, like I was a tax form he didn’t want to deal with.
“What are you doing here, Marcy?”
I thought it was obvious and didn’t answer.
“We’ve grown apart,” he said. Just like that. As if Ihadn’t just crossed the country for him. I was instantly ashamed to think I’d spent the last two years dreaming of a past version of us. “We’re too different. I go with the flow. You construct everything around you. It’s too much. You’re too intense.”
Too intense. Like having standards was a crime.
But it was when he said, “You shouldn’t have come,” that I started melting down on the inside.
I stood there blinking at him, holding my half-empty caramel swirl latte and the foam finger that said, “Number #1,” wondering if I’d misheard.
Turns out I hadn’t. He left with his team.
