Page 58 of Her Goal
Here we go.
I lift my lips in a half smile and am about to fill in the blank for her—not to gloat or be cocky—but because if I speak softly enough, maybe I can slip out unnoticed.
It’s not that I’m super famous and get swarmed. Nor do I loathe signing things for people and taking selfies. It’s just that lately, I’m not feeling too good about my career. Of course, it got out that I’m taking figure skating lessons on my new team and the media is having a field day. Football players don’t take somuch guff when they do ballet. But the headlines are all,Robo: Trading Puck Blocks For Toe PicksandCrossover Training: How Nebraska’s New Goalie Has the Spins.
The server snaps her fingers. “You look like a bigger and,” she gestures to her shoulder area, “brawnier version of a dishwasher that used to work here.”
That’s not what I expected her to say.
“He didn’t last much more than a night. Left during the dinner rush on his second shift.” She shakes her head disapprovingly.
Nor that.
“Do you have a twin?” She winks.
Actually, I do. Instead of saying so, I ask, “When was that?”
She frowns. “It was a while ago. Over a year at least. If that was you, looking good. If not, you have a body double out there somewhere. Well, not a body double exactly.” She leans in and whispers, “Between you and me, he seemed like he was going through a tough time.”
I nod, knowing exactly who she’s talking about and why she’d think that.
“I’ll keep my eye out.”
The male employees who recognize me take this prolonged chat with the waitress as permission to approach the table and ask for me to sign their server booklets. Instead, I give them each an autographed hockey trading card a fan made for me. I started keeping a few in my wallet after some overzealous fans asked me to sign certain body parts. I can only imagine how ostentatious Leah would think this is, but it’s gotten me out of a few, let’s say “hairy” situations and the guys are stoked.
After dinner, I take a walk around the swanky neighborhood. Lights glow from inside shops. Pedestrians stroll, some pushing baby carriages and others walking dogs. Restaurants overflow with guests waiting for tables on this pleasant fall evening.
This is more like it. There are signs of life unlike in sleepy little Cobbiton. Then, as I turn the corner and a bum asks me for a cigarette, my brother comes back to mind.
The last time I saw him, he looked like the walking dead.
When I get back in my car, I can’t shake the idea that Hunter is somewhere out here, hungry, alone, and in rough shape. It guts me.
Before I realize it, I’m cruising through “the bad part of town” in my shiny truck. The contrast to the area I was just in is so stark, it makes me want to turn back. But if I see him … maybe I can try to help him … again.
He told me if he ever laid eyes on me again … well, he used fighting words.
As I pause at a traffic light with my doors locked, a couple of shady characters in hoods lean together on the corner. Recalling her family’s comments, I hope Leah lives in a nicer neighborhood than this.
An urgent sense of fierce protection comes over me. Sure, she has her ice skates with sharp blades on the bottom, but when I hear a distant and muffled scream, I’m not sure how helpful her figure skating skills will be. A siren wails. The cement shines in the reflection of my headlights. Trash cans overflow, spilling onto the sidewalk and a couch sits on the side of the road. Sure enough, someone is sleeping on it. As a person with resources, I contribute to hopefully improving people’s lives who are experiencing poverty, but what can I do to help Leah?
Marry her to get her out of this cesspool.
Ha!
Family pressure aside, she won’t go for it. I may now be a Knight, but she’s far from letting me ever be her knight in shining armor.
As I cruise back toward the highway, thoughts of my brother and Leah trail behind me as if trying to tell me something. Theywere close enough that she called Hunter her best friend, but how well did she know him? I’m thankful she didn’t turn out like him, but why on earth is she very likely living on the worst street in the entire state?
It’s not where she belongs. Then again, Hunter didn’t either until he made certain choices. It could’ve been so much different.
Before I return to my new house, I cruise past the old duplex where my brother and I grew up. A dim light shines in one of the upper rooms on what was the Smith’s side. Because their house mirrored ours, it would’ve been the master bedroom—my mother’s bedroom—so likely where Mr. and Mrs. Smith slept.
Across the street, I cut the engine. The park where we’d hang out is little more than a bench—the old metal slide and swings were likely deemed a safety hazard and removed at some point. Little did they know the real problems were happening behind my front door with my mother’s revolving assortment of boyfriends. They’d fight, make up, and fight again. It was a rickety rollercoaster of a childhood.
I handled it because I had hockey. Hunter did not, though; he could’ve kept playing. Perhaps he found refuge in Leah.
But what did she see in him?
