Page 5 of Her Goal
I go through phases where I want to minimize and downsize and then see a really cute crotched succulent plant ad on social media, a new hair styling tool, or get into a project to resurface my bedside table with sea glass. I ran out halfway, which means I need to go to the beach.
It’s all about progress, not perfection, people!
I mostly gave up trying to contact Hunter. At this point, he may not even have the same phone number or email.
But his brother does.
Rather than contacting him like a normal human to tell him about the boxes—with Cara’s help—I got his new address. Right across the street from her dad’s house, of all places. Talk about returning to the scene of the crime.
Then, like a common thief, I snuck into Hudson’s garage, deposited the boxes, and made my getaway.
This was after I opened the cardboard flap to take a peek ... to see how heavy they were. Can you really blame me?
Nestled inside were Hudson’s nasty old high school hockey jerseys and the garden gnome that terrorized me from sophomore through senior year. I tried reaching out to Hunter so we could reminisce about Howie, but when he didn’t get back to me as usual, I decided it was best to keep the gnome in the family and make it Hudson’s problem.
Also, I don’t want to have to explain to Cara. She texts again, this time in the Hockey Gal group loop.
Cara: I’m calling an emergency meeting. My house. Thirty minutes. Attendance required.
A rumply brow accompanies my frown. I only know this because I reply with a selfie. If something serious is going on, why wouldn’t she simply have told me since we were texting a few minutes ago?
There’s a flurry of replies from the various hockey wives and girlfriends. Somehow, I’m affiliated by proxy even though I don’t have a Knight of my own.
Never will at this rate, especially with the lineup for this season, Hudson Roboveitchek is the last person I’d consider … if he even remembers that I exist. His brother certainly doesn’t.
3
HUDSON
This isn’tone of those instances when one of my teammates or buddies plays a practical joke on me, nor do I expect the ceramic hockey garden gnome to talk back after I asked it what it’s doing here.
However, this is a flash from the past with a lot of memories and miles. Fortunately, none of which had me back in Nebraska except during occasional away games.
Until now.
I thought I’d left small-town life behind. Locals call this tiny oasis in the middle of a Nebraska cornfield Hockey Town. I call itBeen There, Done That. I would’ve been happier had the Nebraska Knights remained in Omaha. At least I can get a good steak there.
Cobbiton boasts a bakery, a bookstore, and every quaint little shop in between. I’m not about that, having spent the last five years living in Boston, Miami, and Houston. I prefer life where the action is.
However, despite my bravado, I shouldn’t be surprised that I was traded again. Numbers don’t lie and mine aren’t too shiny these days.
Why one of the top teams picked me, I’ll never know. They must pay their other players a boatload and got me for a bargain.
Cobbiton’s claim to fame now is the Ice Palace Arena, an athletic complex that should be a hockey player’s dream.
Not mine.
I did everything I could to get out of here and forget about the past. Not that it was overly awful. Just boring. There was nothing for me here then. Nothing for me here now other than regrouping, improving, and getting back in the game full steam.
With the last plastic tub unpacked from Houston, a sad pair of tattered cardboard boxes sits in the garage of my new house. My agent must’ve had them brought over. Little do they know that if that gnome could talk, it would tell wild stories that would probably get me kicked out of the league, never mind a bank lender questioning why I’m suitable for home ownership. It was a steep climb, yet here I am.
I’ll never forget when I signed for the purchase of my first house. Technically, it was a condo, but it was all mine. A little oasis where doors didn’t slam, people didn’t argue, and there was peace and quiet all of the time.
Well, until Hunter came to stay with me.
Some pro hockey players burn through their money and others invest wisely. I’m in the second category and collect real estate like I used to accumulate trophies. I’m guessing there are a few in these boxes.
I should just toss them directly into the garbage, along with the tumult my mother introduced to my early years. I rarely think about it anymore, but being back in Cobbiton makes me feel like I’m wearing an itchy sweater. In case any of my brother’s belongings are in there, I take a deep breath and set aside the gnome.
