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I call Rhett three more times. He doesn’t get annoyed with me. He’s fucking patient and meets every one of my bothersome worries with love and that can-do attitude that makes up the threads of his personality.
Were the tables turned, I would have blocked him by now.
Maybe I should have run off to Vegas with him?
I meet up with Kam, and I’m ready to vent about the event—one I don’t even know all the details of—that’s capsizing my existence. We’re talking full-on word vomit central. But he’s staring into his pint, lip almost wobbling. What the fuck happened to Mr. Sunshine?
He transforms as I approach, trying to pretend that he’s not a sad puppy. Fuck him. I may not have had many friendships, but I’m not doing the fake kind where you hide your feelings for the sake of social graces. He’s wearing a matching Eagles jersey with his fiancé’s surname, Linden, on the back. Mine says Elkington.
“Why so glum, chum?”
“My rabbit died today.”
“That’s not nothing. Dude, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say? We could have rescheduled.”
Kam sips his beer as he contemplates life. “I was watching Linden’s game either way, and I wasn’t doing it alone. Pubs are the best place to watch a hockey game.”
“I wouldn’t know, never done it.”
“No? You can’t be a real Canadian. You’re about to have an experience.”
His smile is watery, but it’s genuine. Looks like we both have shitty things going on in our lives. I know just the medicine for that. “Four Casamigos Reposado over here, please,” I tell our server. “Uh, and maybe some wings.”
“Wow? Shots. Didn’t know you liked to party.”
Me either. “Guess you heard about the ‘engagement’,” I say, using air quotes for engagement.
“I knew it was bullshit. Bet you when Rhett does propose, you’ll be able to see the ring from space.”
He’s probably right, and I like the thought of that.
Rhett steps onto the ice with a twinkle in his eyes for his fans, but the kiss he blows is for me. My heart quickens.
“That man is gone for you.”
“I know.”
Kam smiles. “Seriously. Never seen him like this. I’m glad. I know Rhett can be a cocky bastard, but he’s got a good heart.”
Yeah. He does.
This pub is similar to the Wicklow. Polished wooden bar tops, worn tables, green cushioned benches and chairs. Hockey jerseys hang from the ceiling and there’s an odd-looking doll wearing an Eagles jersey near one of the TVs that I think serves as the pub mascot. The place is decked out in a lot of white and red for a New York pub, but other than that, it’s a sea of blue and green, and I’m not the only one wearing an Elkington jersey. A ton of his fans are here.
“The owner’s Canadian,” Kam says as I look around. “Big Vancouver Orcas fan, but he panders to the Eagles fans. Whoa, hey look! Jack’s on the starting line.”
Jack skates out with Rhett. Now that I think about it, Rhett’s always with the first shift of players on the ice. “Is that important?”
“Hell yeah. See my man up there? He’s on the first line too—defense. It means they’re the top players.”
A wash of gooseflesh prickles my skin. Jack probably deserves to be on the first line, but he hasn’t been. “Is a rookie supposed to be on the first line?”
“They usually aren’t, but it depends. Rhett has been since his first season.”
Rhett’s also Rhett. Even without money, power, and influence, he’s got star quality and that would put him on that first line regardless.
All I can do for the next two periods is watch how much time Jack spends on the ice, my mind going as wild as a conspiracy theory board. Does this mean something? Is this good or bad? Could be good right? Maxwell’s finally given up on the Jack thing and Jack’s taken his rightful place on the team—yeah, could be it.
Ugh. But my brain just doesn’t think that way. It thinks in terms of worst-case scenarios and anxious “what ifs”.
