Make It Sweet

“What does Emma say about all this?”

Emma. Just her name had the power to slice me open.

She hadn’t left me; I’d left her.

For two weeks we’d pretended that nothing had changed. We barely kept our hands off each other. There was something almost frantic about it, a desperation to get as close and as deep as possible during the time we had left to ourselves. She sassed and teased me, made me laugh every day. I fed her pastries and gâteaux, loving the way she moaned and devoured them like she often devoured me, with utter abandon and lusty glee.

But it was an illusion, and we both knew it. One that broke when she took me to the airport.

“I have to do this,” I told her. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering ‘What if?’”

“I know.” But her eyes were dead, her spirit already slipping away from me.

“This isn’t goodbye, Em.”

Her lips wobbled then. But she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried since the night I’d found her curled up on her bed. Her smile was brittle, a stranger’s. “Let’s just call this until we meet again.”

It had felt like death.

We still talked. But our calls were becoming less frequent. I was in DC, practicing and getting scanned, poked, and prodded every day. She was in LA, moving into her new house—that perfect house with a kitchen I ached to give a test run—and occupied with her own meetings and prep for her upcoming role.

Irked at Brommy, I scowled. “Don’t bring Emma into this.”

“Why not? She’s your girl, isn’t she?”

My fist tightened. “Fuck off, Brom.”

He made a sound of annoyance, but I didn’t care.

I missed her. I missed her with a strained yearning that had me looking around corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of her wide smile. I missed the feel of her warmth, the fresh sweet scent of her skin, the sound of her voice.

I ached for Emma.

This is hockey life; you’re often away from the ones you love. Everyone on the team deals with it.

I don’t want to deal. I’m tired. Fucking exhausted.

Without warning, the image of a kitchen flashed in my mind. Sunlight gleaming on the marble counters, the scent of baking bread in the air, and delicate red roses dancing along the edges of the windows, thrown wide open.

It wasn’t Mamie’s kitchen, I realized with a jolt. It was Emma’s.

The kitchen that could be mine as well. It had been there in her eyes, that promise, the question she hadn’t asked. Because I’d thrown a puck into the glass and shattered it all.

Grunting, I shook my head and focused on the now. My dream. My passion.

“I’m doing this,” I said to Brommy. “You can either be part of it or not, but I’m back.”

He bared his teeth, all but snarling at me.

“You got your grille fixed,” I said.

That drew him up short, and he peered at me, as if I was totally clueless. “Yeah, Ozzy. I got my grille fixed. You know why? Because my dentist said the gap would start affecting the rest of my teeth. So I did the smart thing and fixed it.”

“Subtle, Brom.”

“I like to think so.” He glared downfield, then sighed. “Fuck. Do what you want, Luc. Stupid as it is.” He glanced at me with a slanted smile that held little humor. “I love you like a brother. So I’m going to worry about you like one. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got that.” I gripped my stick. “Love you too, you big fucking bear.”

Whistles blew, and we got down to business.

And it was awful.

“Oz, get your head out of your ass,” Dilly shouted, red faced and likely straining something important.

I’d missed three passes, fumbled a shot. My game was off. Way off. I found myself thinking about flavor combinations instead of breakout patterns. Every time I got near the boards, a cold sweat broke out over my skin. I skated tense, waiting for a hit that never came. Because the guys were taking it easy with me.

It would get better, I told myself. But I was having a hard time believing that.

The next day was worse.

The press had gotten wind of my “interest” in returning. They swarmed like flies to fruit. Had I missed this? I couldn’t fathom why as I dodged endless questions pelted my way and the incessant flash of cameras. Not for the first time, I missed the warm hum of the kitchen, the feel of a whisk in my hands, and the knowledge that I was in complete control.

In the privacy of a bathroom stall, I lost my breakfast, my hands shaking like autumn leaves. On the ice, I held back when I should have attacked. My mind kept drifting, wondering about Emma, worrying if she was eating all right, wanting to be with her.