Sylvia’s jaw drops and she stares at me. This may be the first time I’ve ever seen her speechless. It’s starting to make me uncomfortable, so I start talking.
“He asked what my passion was, so I told him. Then he takes me to the grocery store, says we’re having a bake-off, and walks away from me to buy his own ingredients. I wasn’t too sure about it, but it didn’t suck.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? He forced you to bake a cake, something you used to do almost once a week, and all you can say is it didn’t suck?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.” After a beat, she asks, “Are you happy?”
Now I’m the one rolling my eyes. “I haven’t even known him that long.”
“Yet he’s already made an impact.” I don’t comment on that and Sylvia doesn’t like silence, so she asks, “Are you going to try to work through your issues so you can see him play?”
I stiffen at the thought. My body immediately says there’s no fucking way that’s happening. My husband died on the ice while not playing professionally and she wants me to work through my panic attacks to watch another man play a pro game? She really has lost it. Instead of saying all of that, I repeat what Marc has told me. “He said he didn’t need a person to support him like you do Scott. That he doesn’t need to talk hockey with me or have me watch his games.”
Sylvia’s eyes widen with surprise. “Really?”
“That’s pretty much what he said. It shocked me too, but I’m not complaining.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“Do you think he actually means it?” Even Roger loved me coming to watch him fool around on the ice with his friends.
The waitress sets our food in front of us and Sylvia seems to take time to think about it. “That may be a better question for Scott. Maybe there are hockey players out there who don’t need that kind of thing.” However, she says it as if she doesn’t think such players exist.
That stays with me all day. The thought of watching a game sounds as tortuous as it was to attend the one I went to. The thought of doing that now or in the future sends my pulse skyrocketing and my lungs can’t decide if they want to go on strike or not. Even though I’m sure he won’t answer for a while, I send Marc a good luck text.
I’m sitting on my couch with some TV show on in the background, a slice of cake resting on the cushion next to me, and my laptop resting on my thighs. I go to the website for the team and first venture to the roster. Turns out, Marc is six feet three inches. He’s two inches shy of being a full foot higher than me. I can only imagine how he’d be a giant on the ice with the added height skates would give him. My cursor hovers over his name and I giggle as I click it. His photo is hilarious.
I’ve never seen him with such a straight face! It doesn’t even look like him. Why didn’t he smile? They can smile, can’t they? Marc without a smile on his face is as unnatural as it comes. I wonder why he didn’t smile. If he was going for the tough guy look, I think he failed simply because he looks so strange being smile-less.
Next, I check out the schedule. He’s in Texas tonight. The game has just started, it looks like. I wonder if that team is any good. I scroll up and see that the Rebels lost by three goals when they played them earlier in the season. Maybe they can do better this time around. If Marc can force me to bake a cake and enjoy it a little, if he can be completely supportive in his own little way, then I need to find a way to do the same for him.
An icon on the right catches my attention. You can listen to a broadcast of the game? That would be like watching it, right? Sort of? Close enough, I decide. I click on the icon, mute the TV, and suddenly, the booming voices of the broadcasters are coming from my laptop. Please don’t let my brain start visualizing what they’re saying. This can be my way of supporting Marc in a way that doesn’t cause me to completely freak the hell out.
“It’s not a great start for the Rebels. A bad line change leads to an early goal...”
Well, that sucks. Five minutes in, I realize I have a problem with listening because I’m easily distracted. My attention is dragged back to the game every time the announcers get riled up about something. The two guys are kind of funny too, and often go off on a tangent. It’s more enjoyable than I thought as long as I can pay attention.
It doesn’t help that it sounds like the Rebels are being crushed. Liam, their goalie, is doing the best he can. That, or the broadcasters really love him. The score at the end of the first is two-one, but no goals are scored in the second period, which is both good and bad for the Rebels.
“Ouch. That was a massive hit on Polinski along the boards, and he looks a bit shaken up,” one of the broadcasters says; I keep getting them mixed up.
“Yeah, and it lo
oks like he’s going down the tunnel.”
“Let’s hope he just needs a moment. The Rebels do not need to lose one of their best defensemen right now.”
Okay, that’s it. I close my laptop and un-mute my TV the second the broadcasters say he’s back on the bench. I don’t want to hear about a close call for a potential injury. Maybe I can’t do this. Yeah, I know injuries are possible, and no, I’m not overly worried that hockey will kill him. What happened to Roger was a freak accident. However, that doesn’t mean I can listen to how he may or may not be hurt. I don’t want to see him injured any more than I want to see him play a game. Frustrated with myself, I decide to go to bed early after eating another slice of cake. Maybe I won’t share it with anyone and eat it all myself.
The shrill ringing of my cell phone wakes me up. Who’s the fucking idiot calling me? The call ID display says it’s Marc. I don’t know whether to scream or smile.
“Do you know what time it is?” I snap as I answer, resting my head on my pillow again.
“I’m sorry.” Marc Polinski, the always smiling, will crack a joke in a heartbeat, always ready for a good time goofball, sounds defeated.
“Is everything okay?”