Page 96 of Canadian Boyfriend

“She was lying to you,” I said, suddenly understanding where his fixation on honesty came from.

“Was shelying, though? I used to think so. But was she maybe just telling me what I wanted to hear so I would lay the fuck off? Anyway, you can’t be mad at a dead person.”

“Can’t you?”

He made a vaguely frustrated noise. “I don’t know. Iwasmad, but now that some time has passed, I’m mad atmyself, for pushing. For notgettingit. And the dumbest part of all, the part that’s hard to live with, is that there was an obvious solution if I really wanted more kids that badly: quit hockey. If I’d done that, I’d probably have two kids today.”

“But you didn’t want to quit hockey.”

“I didn’t want to quit hockey,” he confirmed. “I mean, that’s my thing, isn’t it? I never want to quit, even when it’s the obvious thing to do, even when quitting would make other areas of my life, shit I care about more than hockey—or at least things Ishouldcare about more than hockey—easier.”

“I think you care about hockey in a different way. I’m not sure it’s worth setting it up in your mind as hockey versus family. They’re apples and oranges.”

“Elaborate.”

“Well, of course you love your family. Youwouldquit hockeyif it came to it. You told me that when I first met you. You told a mediator that.” He nodded. “But I feel like hockey… gives you life, not to sound too dramatic. It’s what makes you you. So of course you don’t want to give it up. It’s like the saying about securing your own oxygen mask first.”

“Hockey’s my oxygen.”

“Yes.”

He chuckled wistfully. “I think you’re right, but I also think I’m in trouble, then. Because I don’t have much time left, realistically. I have one more year on my current contract, and that’s probably it. If I do get another one, it will only be because I’m a defenseman and we’re in shorter supply, and thenthatwill almost certainly be it. I know you object when I say I’m old, but for hockey, I’m old.”

“OK, your days in the NHL are numbered. But that’s not all hockey is. You talked about the feeling of being a kid skating on a bumpy pond. That feeling doesn’t go away because the NHL does, right?”

“Right.” He paused. “You could say the same about ballet, though I recognize your particular ballet context was extremely traumatic.”

“You’re right. I’m coming around to that notion.” I’d gotten to the point where my ballet classes were my favorites. Gretchen had asked me if I wanted to take over her class of older kids—the one with Taylor and Abby—when the session turned over, and I was pretty sure I was going to do it.

“Anyway,” Mike Martin said, “my point about the kid stuff, and the condoms, is… you know, I don’t even know what my point is. I’m not even sure why I told you all this. I haven’t told anyone except my shrink.”

I was flattered. But once again, I was holding two truths inmy heart at the same time. One was that I was flattered that Mike Martin trusted me enough to share these complicated feelings with me. The other was that I was deceiving him, too.

Not for too much longer, though. I was going to tell him everything when we got home, I resolved. After our vacation. There was no point in hitting him with it here, in the middle of nowhere where neither of us had an escape hatch.

But Iwasgoing to do it. I’d been anointed by the lights, and shit was going to change now. It had to.

“Is it really OK to talk about her”—he waved his hand back and forth between us—“here?”

“It’s really OK.” Not only did I not mind talking about Sarah, I relished it. She seemed like a cool woman, and I wanted to know her. I wanted to know what kind of person Mike Martin had chosen.

“Well, first,” he said, “you are supercool. Second, I think I do know what my point was meant to be with all my rambling: Remember when I cried the first time?” He rolled his eyes, and I nodded. “I’m still embarrassed about that, but yeah, I’ve found the process of grieving to be not linear. So while I am thrilled to be here with you, in a position where we need condoms, it’s a weird milestone that Iamthe kind of guy who needs condoms.” He pointed at the box. “And if I let myself think about it too much, which probably isn’t a good idea, I’ll start down the path ofDo I even know how to have sex with anyone else?” He looked at me and made a self-deprecating face. “You know how you sort of get into a habit with someone, you figure out what works and—”

“OK, stop.” I hated to interrupt, but I could not let this go on any longer. “One: There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I myself have cried after sex.”

“Really?”

“Not in front of the guy, generally, but, like, afterward.”

“But—”

I held up a hand. It was still my turn. I was willing to elaborate, and even to take questions, but I wasn’t done with my thesis statement yet. “Two: At the risk of giving you a big ego—which I actually think is impossible—you definitely know how to do it. I can honestly tell you that I have never enjoyed myself so… reliably as I did that week in the spring.” I could feel a blush starting. “And last night.” Last night when Mike Martin had gone down on me while I watched the lights. Was this really my life? Even if only for a moment?

He grinned.

“Not that I have a huge sample size,” I added. You’re only the fourth person I’ve had sex with.” Since we were apparently chatting about our sexual hang-ups, I felt comfortable telling him that.

“Really?”

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