Page 70 of He Has Pluck

Instead, she reaches down, grabbing onto the hem of her team jersey, the one with my name and number on it, she pulls it up and over her head.

A sudden feeling of weightlessness lifts me, clears my throat and steadies my heart, and I take her in my arms and kiss her silly, not intending to stop all night long.

* * *

“My next assignment starts in two days,” she says.

I’m standing behind her, watching her in the mirror over the sink in our tiny bathroom as I comb my hair and she applies moisturizer. Our two-week limbo is about to end. During that time, we slid into that fugue state again, where we kept the conversation about where the thing between us is going suspended like a guillotine above our heads, invisible and rendered harmless by the protective shell of oblivion.

Now, her work on post-production ends today, and the reality of no more tomorrows, no more nights together with no one to answer to, comes crashing down.

“Where is the assignment?” My gut churns with sickening ferocity.

She shakes her head. “Not telling. Let’s enjoy the next two days. I have a heavy schedule all day to finish this fucking documentary, but my night is all yours, Hockey Boy.” She gives me a wobbly smile.

“Fuck. How can we… I thought we were going to discuss this, to make plans for us?”

“How can we do that if we don’t know where the hell you’re going to be?” She takes a shaky breath, “Or if it’ll even be possible?” She puts her moisturizer down and turns to face me.

I take her face in my hands. “Don’t say that. It’s always possible. Worst case is I’ll be back in Portsmouth, and we spend time together in the off-season, right?” I attempt a smile, but I want to spit to get the taste of those words out of my mouth.

She snorts. “Unless I’m somewhere else in the off-season.”

I drop my hands from her and run them through my hair, trying to hold back the panic, the anger, the hurt, because I can feel her retreating when I thought we were going forward. And I know no amount of arguing can make her want to make things work if she’s unwilling. Backing away, I leave the bathroom and go to the small table in our tiny room. She follows me.

“Let’s not do this now, Jason.” Her words are soft, and she comes to me, touches my face and makes me look at those eyes, the ones that make me want to drown, to give her everything I have. Except hockey. I blow out a breath because I’m an idiot.

“Right. Not now.” I pick up my mug of coffee and take a swig even though it’s ice cold. “I have a meeting with Brawlers management and the owners this afternoon. We got a bonus for making it to the second round, and they’re giving out checks in person.” I shrug. “Whatever gets them off.”

“Let’s get dinner after your meeting,” she says. “I’ll text you when I’m done. We can celebrate the completion of our documentary, your bonus, and who knows, maybe we’ll have more to celebrate.”

“I can only hope.” But I can feel the guillotine over my head, slipping.

* * *

To my surprise, my agent, Ham Jett, is waiting outside the conference room at the Brawlers’ corporate offices when I get there ten minutes early.

“I’ve been trying to get you. What happened to your phone?”

“It’s turned off,” I say and shake his hand. “What’s up?”

“Why would you turn your phone off? This is an important time, a unique window of opportunity for you.”

“I’ve been getting too many condolence calls, and it was getting depressing,” I say. “After I talked to my mother and brother, I didn’t need to hear from anyone else right now.”

“Except your agent, you shithead,” he says and punches my arm. I don’t even feel it because my muscles are coiled tight, and I feel the tension like a buzzing in my ears.

“Sorry.” I attempt a laugh. “So, put me out of my misery and tell me what’s going on.”

“We’re about to negotiate your new contract,” he says. “They’re offering a three-year deal.”

His words float in the air like a dream, an impossible, far away dream.

“What the fuck?” I can barely talk. The words register and then disappear as if I’m hallucinating. “Are you shitting me?” I grab him by the shoulders and squeeze him, ready to lift him off the ground or hug him as he grins.

“No shitting around,” he says. He looks me up and down because I’m dressed in jeans and a golf shirt.

I shrug. “I wasn’t expecting an official meeting. I thought I was just picking up my check.”