Carried Away

And still that means nothing. I’m a big girl now, playing by big girl rules. And the rules of courtship these days are no one owes anyone anything. Double that sentiment if the person in question is a super famous sports star. One with a star a touch tarnished, but a star nonetheless.

“Did Jake say where he was going?”

I give her a look. “Nan….we’re not talking about Jake.”

“So he didn’t tell you.”

Leave it to my grandmother to pour salt on a wound and kick it across the room.

“No. We’re barely friends. He doesn’t have to explain himself or tell me when he leaves town.”

“Is that what you kids call it these days?”

I glance back up at her and find her rapt attention on her needlepoint, a soft smile of her face.

“It’s pointless anyway…I’m going back to California as soon as possible. This place…is not for me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nan.”

“A place is what you make of it.”

“I’m going out,” Dad announces, stepping into the doorway dressed and shaved.

It’s eight. My father is usually sleeping in his chair in front of the TV by this hour.

“Out?” I feel the need to affirm. “As in, out with company?”

“Meeting the guys for a beer.”

“Have fun,” Nan chirps and we both turn to get a better look at her. Very odd.

Dad gives me a beats me too look and waves.

By nine, I crawl into bed, defeated. No Jake. No friends. Even Gene is out. My father has a better social life than I do. I did not see my life going this way. For half a second, I contemplate going to Regina’s but she’s likely busy working and I’m not going to be the sad chick at the end of the bar nursing a soda for three hours. I refuse to be that girl in this story.

I do the next best thing, I call my sister to complain. “He didn’t say a word. Just mauled me in the pantry and left the next day.”

“How big is he?”

Pregnancy has turned my mild-mannered sister into a gutter rat. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You expect me to tell you how big the guy I have an unhealthy crush on is?”

“What’s the big deal. You want me to tell you how big Charlie is?”

“No! Don’t ever have another kid. Pregnancy is turning you into a crazy person.”

“Oh, Charlie’s home. Time for sex. Love you.”

After Jackie hangs up on me, I’m still not tired so like the high school loser I am, I Google him…again.

A YouTube video of his last Stanley Cup win pops up and I press play. On skates, Jake is poetry in motion. Fast, graceful. Erotic. The change in him is so obvious now. Watching him play with so much unbridled energy, so many emotions crossing his face, he barely looks like the same person. It makes me sad, actually. I have to wonder where the guy laughing with his teammates in this video has gone.

Something catches my eye. I stop the video and rewind it. A jarring hit one of the Penguins defensemen lays on him. A guy even bigger than Jake slams him into the wall. But what makes me gasp is not the crush of bodies when he’s upright. It’s when he hits the ice head first and gets knocked into the boards by the scrum of players fighting over the puck. His head caught in the middle of all that violence.

I watch him get to his feet a little wobbly, his bleeding face making it all the more gory. Then he skates off the ice.

I watching that forty second clip three more times and make a mental note to ask him about it next time I see him.

That is, if I ever see him again.

My phone keeps chiming with notifications. Unlocking it, I stare at my screen. 5630 Twitter notifications. I’ve blocked so many accounts I’ve gotten them down to almost zero so this alarms me. It’s possible someone took a screenshot of my tweet and circulated it again.

Reluctantly, I open Twitter and start to read. Then, I scream.

Chapter 13

Music, bluesy with a hip hop edge, lures me into the bar. After bouncing around ideas for the next column with Hal and Gray, I decided to walk home instead of calling an Uber. I should be ecstatic. I should be celebrating. And yet I’m not. I’m pining…again.

My article was retweeted by a very famous daytime host whose name starts with the letter E. It has garnered thousands of likes. Twenty five thousand to be exact. That’s a lot of eyeballs.

But back to the music. The Tri-Lakes has gone through a cultural revolution of sorts since I left for school, the music scene exploding, and most bars have one night a week they devote to showcasing local bands on the rise.

As big as the bar is, with its exposed red brick and industrial beams and pipes, it is packed. Both with locals and a large share of out-of-towners, the latter easily distinguishable by the designer clothes.