I hate when I’m right. It’s a struggle to force the words out of my mouth, but somehow I manage to say, “Sure, we can try.”
She smiles and comes over to hug me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
I swallow hard. “Do you think Scott would tell Marc about Roger’s accident? He wants to know, and I—” My head starts shaking in protest before I can even say the words.
Sylvia pats my hand. “I’m sure he won’t mind. Are you going to eventually tell Marc about...you know?”
My eyes harden. She can’t be talking about what I think she’s referring to. “Am I going to tell him what I did after Roger died?” I ask for clarification.
She nods.
“No. Why would he need to know something like that? It’s none of his business.”
“But one day—”
“No,” I interrupt her. Fear more than anger is gripping my throat. Marc can not know about that.
“I think one day, it’s going to be something he should know,” she says softly and I do my best to forget she said it.
Later, I’m curled up on the couch with a pizza and my laptop. After last night, I don’t want to attempt watching a game without Marc for the time being at least. I don’t know why I even want to watch a game at a
ll, but the more I think about it, the more I want to do it.
I’m such a bad person for throwing Stella in there as a reason why, too. I’ve never considered watching her play. Ever. When Sylvia told me she was signing her up to learn how to skate, I immediately let her know I’d never go to her game when she would start playing. I can’t do it. What kind of person am I that I want to see the guy I’m seeing play hockey, but not my niece? I’m so screwed in the head, that’s for sure.
For some reason, my mind keeps looping around to what Marc asked of me. I certainly don’t want to tell him what happened to Roger. Hell, I don’t even know if the words can come out of my mouth. But I don’t understand why he needs to know.
With a sigh, I text Marc and Scott. It makes me feel better knowing neither will get them until later. The first one is to Marc, letting him know he can ask Scott. Then, I text my dear brother-in-law.
Me: I’m sorry for ignoring you. We’ll talk soon. Just wanted to give you a heads up that Marc may ask about Roger’s accident. He wants to know what happened, but doesn’t want me to have to tell him.
“And that’s Scott Boyd with the goal!” the broadcaster shouts.
“Looks like Marc Polinski and EJ Bertuzzi with the assists,” the other one says.
Hm. Maybe my texts were somehow good luck. But with Scott’s second goal, I turn off the team’s radio. I can’t stop thinking about Roger. He would’ve been twenty-six this year. I can almost hear him ragging me about being older than me. That’s how he celebrated his birthdays with me, by bragging about being older. Like I cared. Like either of us cared, but for some reason, he liked to tease me about it.
He was only older by less than a month, as my birthday is January twentieth. I’ve avoided spending Christmas with people because Roger loved the holiday. He went all out. I mean, if Santa wasn’t already the face of Christmas, then it would be Roger because that’s how much he loved it. It’s been a struggle to listen to a jingle, see a decoration, or wrap presents without bursting into tears. I hope Marc doesn’t want a festive holiday because all I’ve been able to do since he’s died is buy presents for the girls and make Sylvia wrap them.
This is why I go into hiding. It’s why I shop online. It’s why I try to stay home as much as possible. I try to watch as little TV during this time, and the same for the radio, because if I can avoid Christmas, then that’s what I want to do. I don’t know that I can bear to experience the holiday without it killing me inside.
Heaven help Marc and me because who knows if we’ll get through this.
“ARE YOU SURE you didn’t flop on that pass because you’re still rooting for the other team?”
“Will you shut the fuck up, Marco? Why do you have to do that shit? Every time I make a mistake in this building, you say it’s because I want to play for them.”
“You grew up here. You wore that jersey, Rams. Of course I think that.”
He shakes his head at me. Noah hates it that I rag him about wanting to play for Pittsburgh when we’re in town. There is some truth in what I say. He was a fan when he was a kid. Most people love their hometown team and hockey players usually dream of playing for said team. But it pisses Noah off that I insinuate that he would fuck up just so the other team could have an advantage, which is exactly why I like to mess with him. I usually wait until after the game, but I felt like starting the fun early.
“Both of you shut the hell up,” Captain Hook snaps.
It’s time for our shift, so we jump onto the ice. We’re tied at one in the middle of the second period. I swear, we’ve been up and down the ice a million times tonight. Or, at least, it feels that way, though I think we’ve spend a decent amount of time in each zone. Not too much, but not too little either.