Page 9 of Two for Holding
As a general rule, Tom tried not to let his ego get in the way.Hard to do when you made nine million dollars a year chasing a piece of rubber across ice with a big stick, but he did try.In this concrete instance, he failed miserably.Something about the way Jax had so easily slotted himself into the team, giving out nicknames and listening to personal problems, rubbed Tom the wrong way by highlighting all his own failings.
Tom wasn’t mad about Jax doing a good job as an alternate.
He wasn’t mad Jax had called him out on falling short of his responsibilities.
He was furious Jax had gotten such an accurate read on Tom after knowing him for so short a time, and, worse, that he could do nothing but accept it and try to do better.Which led him here, chopping peppers while Phil went out to buy lighter fluid.
Jax arrived before Phil returned, which was the poop icing on a shit cake.
Tom pasted on a smile.“Hi, you’re early.We’re just getting set up.”
“I know.I’m here to help.”
Tom had been afraid of that.After Tom issued the invitation on Wednesday, Jax had asked several times if he could do anything or bring anything, and it brought Tom a small sliver of pleasure to turn him down each time.
Jax picked up a massive plastic container from the stoop and pushed his way inside.“I brought brownies.”
“Brownies.”Why did proximity to Jax turn him into an idiot who repeated things?It’d been more than a week at this point, and the words “slutting it up” still rolled around Tom’s mind when his hip kept him up at night.
“Yeah, I bake.Promise they’re gluten-free and low sugar.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Excuse you.I am good at what I do.”
“I know.”
Therein lay the crux of the problem.Jax insisted on being good at everything, and he was also— Well.He had strange men coming out of his room in the middle of the night, and he thought Tom hated him because of it, not because of the stark reminder of his own inadequacy.All of it was terrible, but the worst part was Jax legitimately being good at everything, from hockey to making friends to, apparently, baking.As much as Tom wanted to hate him, he made it kind of impossible.
With no other alternatives, Tom turned tail and returned to the kitchen and his bell peppers.
Jax followed, set his brownies on the table, and leaned casually against the counter.“Really?Me being good at stuff?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t like me because I’m good at baking?”
“I never said I didn’t like you.”
“You didn’t have to.So, the baking?”
“No,” Tom lied through gritted teeth.
“Is it the Calder?You definitely should have won it too.”
“Ivan Abramov is the best goalie in the Atlantic Division.He deserved it.”
“You’re the best left wing in the PacificandCentral.”
Tom stopped mid-cut.“I am not.”
“Crow.You are.Don’t bullshit me.”
“It’s not bullshit.I didn’t win the Calder for a reason.I haven’t won the Art Ross for a reason.This team hasn’t won a Cup for a reason.”Tom had never said as much out loud, but he found it a relief to put words to the disappointment of it all.The disappointment he had turned out to be.He rubbed his hip absentmindedly; remembering all the things he had yet to achieve in his career worsened the ache.
Jax stared at him as if he was insane.“Tom, the reason isn’t you.”
Tom couldn’t help the disbelieving sound that scratched its way out of his throat.
