Page 13 of The Goalie in Room 1

Why, when your life went to shit, did everything feel like it had some creepy symbolic meaning where action resonated more epically than it should? Every closing of anything—a drawer, a door, a suitcase, even my laptop—felt like yet another nail in the coffin of my life as a hockey player, as if I were locking it all away, never to be seen again.

Sighing, I pushed the heartbreak away. Focusing on the morose shit never did anyone any good. Instead, I moved my bags to the front door, only to pause at the sight of the street in front of the house, which seemed frightful. Turning, I left the bags by the door and made my way back to my room, shutting myself inside before dropping onto the bed and pulling the covers over my head. I had a few days to figure my shit out.

“I’ll deal with it tomorrow,” I muttered, closing my eyes to shut out the world.

October

I limped from the bedroom some time later. How much later, I couldn’t say, but enough that a nearly full beard covered the lower half of my face. Running my hands down it, I exhaled, glancing at my luggage and goalie bag while chewing a protein bar and drinking a premade shake. The last one.

My bags still sat near the front door where I’d left them, however long ago. Every time I walked past them, I paused at the door but couldn’t bring myself to open it. The moment I stepped over that threshold, I’d be homeless.

The landlord stood on the front walk with an officer. Fuck my life. I backed away from the door, moving my bags away from the windows so they couldn’t be seen, and hid on the floor behind the kitchen peninsula. What day was it? I was never late on rent. Never.

Knocking echoed through the empty house as I sat there, tears rolling down my face. “Cash, are you in there? It’s Mrs. Patterson. I’ve texted and called, but I’ve not been able to get in touch with you.”

The knocking and Mrs. Patterson’s kind voice went silent, only to be replaced by a knock I hadn’t heard since childhood. The insistent pounding of a fist against the door followed by, “HCPD. Cash Benjamin? I’m Officer Vale. I’m here for a welfare check. If you can hear me, I need you to answer me.”

“Officer…I’m so worried about him. I’ve not heard from him. He was so friendly before the accident. Always⁠—”

“Accident?” the officer asked.

I wanted to yell at them to go away and leave me alone, but…

“He’s a hockey player for the Breakers. He was injured during a game last December. Anyway, as I was saying, he was always happy and smiling and helping out with anything that needed to be done around the house.”

That’s Mrs. Patterson. You cannot derail that woman’s monologues. Only pause them momentarily. She always picks up right where you cut her off.

“You said he’s not paid rent.”

“No. And he’s always paid his rent well in advance. Sometimes months and months at a time. I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t care about the rent. I don’t plan to rent the house anytime soon. My nephew’s daughter is moving to the area for her new job in November, so I’m not worried about the money. I’m worried about him. I saw him a couple of weeks ago⁠—”

That was a couple of weeks ago? It couldn’t have been. It was the day I came home from the last appointment with the surgeon whose name I couldn’t remember. That was just a few days⁠—

The officer interrupted Mrs. Patterson’s words and my thoughts. “What do you mean you saw him a couple of weeks ago?”

“I live just down the block. This was my sister’s house. She and her husband didn’t have any children. The nephew is my brother’s son. Anyway, my sister left me the house, and I rent it out for some mad money. My George left me well provided for. Anyway, when I saw him a couple of weeks ago, Cash was getting out of one of those cars with the pink and black logos on them…”

“A rideshare?”

“Yeah, those and Cash…the poor lamb⁠—”

Thanks for that one, Mrs. P. Not that I didn’t feel bad enough without the pity.

“He could barely walk. He’s had trouble since the accident, but he’s been off the crutches for months now. I’m worried he’s incapacitated and can’t answer.”

“Do you have his number?” the officer asked.

Shit! Where was my phone?

A moment later, the phone rang from the other room. It probably still lay in the mess of bedclothes I had only stumbled out of moments before catching sight of Mrs. P with the police.

“See!” she exclaimed. “It just rings and rings. When he didn’t answer any of my calls or texts, or even my emails, I called the boys who lived here with him—Mason Keller and Nolan Proctor. They’ve not heard from him either. Mason said Cash was barely speaking to them when they moved out. It seems so unlike Cash. Nolan said in the group chat that Cash didn’t even show up for their going-away party. They even had some guys from the Breakers come over to check in on him. When that didn’t work, they called Cash’s ex-boyfriend. Not that I’m sure why. That guy stopped showing his face around here months ago. I asked Cash about him⁠—”

“Ma’am…do you have a key?”

Fuck! Time to face the music. Standing, I moved from the kitchen to the bedroom. No fucking way would I let them catch me hiding. Even if that’s what I was doing. I picked up my phone from exactly where I thought I’d left it. I swiped the screen. Half dead. Just my luck. Oh well. There were places all over to charge the damn things.

Then I looked at the date. Holy shit! Where the hell did a week go?