Page 4 of Her Goal
Cara: Has the eagle landed?
I only wish this particular bird of prey hadn’t built its nest in the same town.
Me: Confirmed.
Me: Mission accomplished.
Me: The horse is in the barn.
Or should I say the gnome is in the garage? But not to Cara. She can’t know about the lawn ornament.
Cara: Wait. Who is the eagle? You or Robo? And where did the horse come from?
I harrumph because I’ve lost track except for one vital piece of information: Hudson Roboveitchek isn’t one of my favoritepeople on the planet. Cara knows this, but not all the sordid details.
Cara: Isn’t the barn where you want to build the hockey museum?
Me: Yep. The original Cobbiton hockey rink would be the perfect location.
.
Speaking of our small town, recently, my parents moved out of my childhood duplex and into the McMansion of their dreams. It even has a circular driveway. This was all thanks to Chuck, my brother, and the generosity of NHL superstar and his client, Jack Bouchelle. During the big move, I came across some old boxes.
Actually, I’ll give Chuck credit. He practically wrote the happily ever after for Jack and Ella rather than their story coming to an abruptThe End. I want my hockily ever after, not that it’s likely to ever happen. I’ll probably just end up marrying a garden gnome. I roll my eyes because lately—okay, for a long time now—I’ve spent far too much of my time thinking about Hudson.
I digress.
A deepthudcomes from somewhere in the Omaha apartment I share with six other people. My room was previously the pantry. Lloyd lives in the living room that’s strung up with curtains like at a hospital ward. The other five people have the dining area and three bedrooms, respectively. Supposedly, Mirin and Branch are a couple, but I’m pretty sure they’re cousins. Rasmus only makes appearances during his potluck sound baths.
Snoring comes through the wall and I’d bang on it. However, the last time, plaster rained down on me and I disturbed therat empire, as evidenced by Julius Cheeser, supreme ruler of the kingdom, chewing through my phone charging cord the next day.
I remind myself that this is a turf war andfairis a relative concept.
My living situation on Graves Street in the city was a choice I made when the landlord of the adorable rental I had on Main Street in Cobbiton had to move his elderly mother into the apartment on short notice. I’d have done the same thing if Mami needed a place with handicapped access, so I don’t blame him, though I could do without the constant burning plastic smell that I cannot locate and the month-old dishes in the sink. I come from a big family, so I wash them, but they routinely pile up. I’m a waitress, not the resident dishwasher. Also, there’s a cockroach colony in addition to the rats.
What gives, people?
The real problem is I want Hudson out of my life.
Those boxes are just an example of how he repeatedly turns up like a stray dog, with emphasis on thedogpart—no offense to dogs. I’m rather partial to the family pet, Tinker.
This isn’t one of those instances when I had a secret crush on him, or vice versa. Nor did we hate each other like in one of the romance novels Gracie sells where we’ll have an enemies-to-lovers conversion. More like we tolerated each other because of our shared connection to Hunter. His twin, my best friend and boyfriend of indeterminate status.
Hudson was like another annoying brother. One was enough,thanks. He treated me like a pesky little sister, which I already received at home,no thanks. The difference was that we didn’t have the family tie to fall back on to make it so, at the end of the day, we hugged and made up. Not that I’d ever so much as touch him with a hockey stick.
Ew. Cooties.
I know, I know. I’m being juvenile, but the guy has the knack for drawing it out of me, even all these years later.
Thankfully, after high school graduation, Hudson moved out, chasing hockey goals. Before Hunter left for New York City, he asked me to hold on to two boxes. At the time, I figured it was a way to keep part of him with me because it wasn’t like I was going anywhere.
Side note: I hinted that I wanted to go to NYC with Hunter. He said he had to follow his dreams, promising that he’d call me when he got his first record deal.
Looking back, I guess I wasn’t part of those dreams. My phone never rang. Never buzzed with a text. Haven’t heard from him in nine years.
I stuffed the boxes under my bed in the three-bedroom duplex occupied by six people. I’ve tried reaching out to Hunter and somehow think about him nearly every day, which is likely why his twin brother lives rent-free in my mind as well. However, the boxes disappeared until my family’s recent big moving day.
Valentina, my sister, told me to do something with them, so I brought them to my apartment—the new catchall—until one night, curiosity got the better of me … and the clutter, if I’m honest.
