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I was thrilled to be a successful player. It wasn’t that I took the Wombats or my natural skills for granted. I didn’t. I was thankful for every day I got on the ice.
But that wouldn’t last, and I knew it.
And then where would I be?
A has-been. A guy who used to play.
I had plenty of money. My life would be good. But it would be empty. If I didn’t have hockey, what did I have? The MBA would let me stay close to what I loved. Hopefully. But now?
Maybe Arnold would let me operate the Zamboni at his rink when I came home in shame and found a house near my folks. But I didn’t relish the thought of a future spent driving a Zamboni around, living in the shadow of my past.
INTERLUDE
JULIUS RAMON (AKA ZAMBONI DRIVER)
Forgive the interruption, but as I represent the Zamboni-driving contingent in this particular story, I felt it was important to add here that some people really enjoy the thrill and responsibility of driving a Zamboni.
And while hockey cannot be one of those careers that sees you gently into your golden years, thanks to the sheer physicality of it, maintaining proximity to a thing you love is never the wrong choice.
But in this case, Zamboni husbandry is probably not the right thing for Sylvester Remington. I’d known the man a while now, and knew he had a particular tendency to discount himself any time his intelligence was the topic under consideration.
Why in the world people believe that men and women are either good at sports or intelligent is something I will never fully understand. But it’s clear that Sly has bought that load of crap and has been living under its weight his whole life.
Maybe Clara can show him the way out.
CHAPTER12
SLY
NOT CRYING IN MY CHILI
Clara and I said goodbye in the parking lot and pulled into our parallel driveways like synchronized swimmers, in tandem. The goodbye had been a little awkward after the kiss and then the phone call. I knew I hadn’t reacted right to her offer of help, but that would just be too much like reliving the past, wouldn’t it? Clara and me at the table, me struggling and her looking on, realizing moment by moment how thick I actually was. I didn’t want her to see me that way.
When they’d gone inside, I should have gone in and gotten right to work, but I needed a few minutes to get my head back together, so I headed up the stairs next to the garage and let myself into the sweltering space above it.
It was still dusty and dirty up there, but it was the only place I could really escape to where no one would want to know why I wasn’t cracking jokes or being my usual self. I knew why, even though I didn’t really like to admit it.
I wasn’t going to get an MBA, and I wasn’t sure why I’d convinced myself I could. Maybe this single project wouldn’t end things for me, but there’d be more like it. More teammates to let down, more professors who probably knew all along that I couldn’t cut it.
I sank down into the old flower-patterned armchair next to the window and turned on the ancient air conditioner, which sputtered and groaned before settling into a steady hum.
This was why I didn’t mention the program to anyone. That way, if I failed, I was the only one who’d know. I wasn’t letting anyone close to me down, or confirming their expectations that I’d never hack it anyway. And thank god no one in the program knew who I really was, save maybe the administrators who admitted me in the first place, if they happened to watch hockey.
I was managing a good deep dwell on my own inadequacies when the phone in my pocket vibrated with a text. The darkness in my mind dissipated a tiny bit when I saw who it was.
Clara: Thanks for a fun day. Katie’s exhausted!
Me: You’re welcome. Thanks for coming.
I wanted to say something else, maybe ask her out on a proper date, but I realized she probably wouldn’t want to do that. Especially not now that she’d had every suspicion she’d had about me since high school confirmed by a single phone call over dinner. Why had I told her about the program? Why had I told her anything?
Clara: I wondered if you wanted any help with the assignment you have to redo?
Shit.
I was immediately transported back to high school, to the feeling of complete and utter inadequacy while sitting across from the girl I wanted, the one I knew would never consider dating a dumb jock like me.
Clara was a goddamn scientist. She was fucking brilliant. And now she saw me as some kind of pathetic charity case all over again. It didn’t make it better that my mom had been pulling strings to get us together from the start.
