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I am also pretending my half-hearted proposal attempt to Bailey, a woman I barely know, and the subsequent nonsensical explanation before I bolted, didn’t happen. What was I even thinking? I don’t have an answer for the temporary lapse in judgment that lead me to blurt out a half-cocked joke-proposal to the sweet, shy woman working at the animal shelter.
Based on her reaction—which was almost choking to death right in front of me—I think I can rule out the whole find-a-wife option.
And now, I’m too embarrassed to face her, which means not going to the shelter, which is not helping my mood. She may have joked about it, but the dogs reallyaremy version of therapy. Maybe Bailey has a part in it too, something I only realize in hindsight now that I’ve wrecked things with her.
When I was little, Mom sometimes would pick a chapter book to read at night. Often I fell asleep only to wake up to find her still reading, silently then, and many chapters ahead. One book that stuck with me was about a boy who lived in a house with a doomsday clock in its walls. Kind of creepy reading, but I loved the thrill of fear, and Mom did a great job with the voices. Too good, maybe.
The story comes to mind now. That’s me—a man with a doomsday clock in my walls. And every day that I don’t dosomething, the deadline moves closer and my mood gets darker. I swear, I can almost hear the minutes ticking away.
Alec knocks into me, his bulk hefting me into the wall. For a moment, we’re locked in the hockey player’s version of a romantic embrace. If we didn’t have our helmets on, his face would be far too close for comfort.
I grunt and shove him off.
“We’re going to have to start calling you Speed Bump,” Alec says, skating away.
“Ha ha,” I say. I’d like to release a little of my current tension by wiping the smile off his face. Briefly, I imagine his grin with a few teeth missing, and I’m almost happy.
Tucker laughs, and I have a sinking feeling that I’ve just gotten a nickname to replace Hop.Great.
“I approve,” Tucker says, turning backward to shoot me the kind of grin that makes me want to chase him down and knock him into the wall. “Speed Bump suits you.”
I manage to ignore the guys’ ribbing, but when Coach calls me over, I can't ignorehim. He may not call me Speed Bump, but I’m sure he’s thinking it. I am useless on the ice today. If I keep this up, he’ll replace me with the overeager second stringer in Saturday’s game.
The idea further darkens my mood.
I expect a lecture, but Coach’s stern expression softens when I skate over. He puts a hand on my shoulder, his dark brown eyes meeting mine.
“I know you've got a lot on your mind, son,” he says. “But until you're not here,behere.”
I try not to react to him calling meson. But every time Coach does it, something inside me expands, like a desperately needy part of me is preening under the idea of anyone at all claiming me as theirson.
Stupid.
After I shake off that feeling, Coach’s other words sink in:until you’re not here.
Notif.
Until.
In other words, he already sees this as a done deal. Me leaving the team. Going back to Canada. Losing what I’ve built here.
Whatever expanded in my chest moments ago shrivels up and crumbles to a fine powder. The hidden clock inside me ticks away, picking up speed.
I swallow and nod, forcing a smile that feels like it doesn’t fit. Like it was designed for a completely different person, a totally different face.
“Hop?” Coach gives my shoulder another squeeze.
“Sure thing, Coach.”
“Malik said you might propose to your girlfriend?”
Malik has a big mouth. I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, like that will make the words disappear. How long will the lifespan of my little lie be?
“Uh, maybe,” I hedge.
Coach grins. “My daughter’s getting married soon, you know.”
I do know. Coach passed out save the date cards a few months ago in the locker room. A black and white photo of a couple with mountains in the background. I vaguely remember sticking mine in a drawer somewhere in the kitchen. Probably need to find that and actually, you know, save the date.
