I read back over the texts two more times, my mouth involuntarily pulling upward in a smile. I can just imagine her throwing her hat at the TV to celebrate my hat trick.
Hilarious.
My thumb idly grazes over her words on the screen and I take stock of the warmth they bring to me. It’s the first time I’ve had a friend who has taken pride in what I do. I’ve certainly never had a family member do it. I don’t recall my dad ever handing out praise and I’m not even sure if Cam has seen one of my games.
And Sutton…well, I suppose she may be the first friend I’ve ever had. Even though my thoughts where she’s concerned stray far past what would be considered friendly.
It’s getting late and I have no clue if she’ll see this tonight, but I go ahead and text her back.
Thx. So it appears you’re a real hockey fan now, huh?
I hit the send button then swing my legs off the bed to grab a water from the mini-fridge. Before I can even stand up, I get a text back.
Yup. My fav player is #67.
Leaning back onto the bed, I forget the water and decide to engage in some conversation with the lovely Miss Price. Before I can respond though, she says,
I dont understand why that goal was disallowed.
Ah. She wants to learn some hockey but that’s too complicated to do by text. So before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her name in my contacts and hit her number.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey, Mr. Hat Trick.”
“Hey, Miss Curious About Hockey.”
“You played awesome tonight,” she gushes. “I was so confused when people started throwing hats on the ice. I had to go Google what in the hell a hat trick was.”
Chuckling, I say, “Then I’m surprised you didn’t Google your question about that disallowed goal.”
“Nah. Why would I do that when I have an inside connection to a real live professional hockey player.”
“Good point,” I tell her. “So, you can normally deflect a puck off your stick into the net, but it won’t be allowed if you raise your stick higher than the crossbar on the net.”
“What’s the purpose behind that?”
“An attempt to keep players safe…keep sticks away from faces. They put in rules to make us keep our sticks down low to help prevent facial injuries.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” she says softly. “So, what are you doing right now?”
“Lying in bed. You?”“Same,” she murmurs and my imagination takes off. I can see her clear as day, lying na**d on a bed of satin with her red hair splayed out all around. My c**k twitches at the thought and I wonder if I could carry on a conversation with her while jacking off to that image in my mind.
Sutton interrupts those lewd thoughts though when she says, “Teach me something else.”
“Like what?”
“How about…teach me about the various penalties,” she suggests.
I settle back against the headboard of the hotel bed, mast***ation forgotten, and we talk for the next thirty minutes about hockey penalties and the resulting consequences. It’s only when she yawns into the phone that I realize it’s just past midnight and I have to be up in about five hours to get ready for my flight.
“It’s getting late,” I tell her. “We should catch some sleep.”
“You’re right. I can’t believe we talked that long.”
I could keep talking all night with her, I think to myself, and all of a sudden, I wonder for a fleeting but desperate moment, what it would be like to have someone like Sutton all to myself. To have someone who was mine, and I was hers, and we’d stay up for hours at night talking on the phone. I wonder because, sadly, I’ve never had a serious relationship with a woman in my entire life. I’ve never even had a five-minute conversation on the phone with a woman, much less a half-hour conversation.
“You still coming to watch our practice Sunday?”
“I’ll be there. Did you finish reading the binder?”
“Most of it. I’ve jotted down some ideas we can talk about when we meet.”
“Awesome,” she says. “Thanks for doing that, Alex.”
“No problem. Thanks for not bashing me over the head with that binder. I’ve given you a few reasons to do that.”
She giggles into the phone and f**k, if that isn’t like the best sound ever. “Okay, go get some sleep,” she tells me, her voice floating over me like soft cotton. “I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Good night,” I tell her.
“Good night, Alex.”
When I disconnect, I quickly set the alarm to get up at 5 A.M. and then flip off the lamp beside the bed, plunging the room into darkness.
It’s funny how my night had started so shitty, yet ended on such a positive note. How can a thirty-minute conversation with Sutton bring me out of my funk? And we talked about hockey of all things.
Hockey! That sport I f**king detest.
But for some reason, whenever I talk to her about it, it’s fun. It actually makes me happy to share my knowledge with her. I’d even go so far as to say that the conversation brought me f**king joy tonight.
Fucking joy. I can’t believe I’d use that and hockey in the same sentiment.
I’m beginning to understand that perhaps I need to peel my blinders back a little bit. My dad molded me out of muscle, bone and raw talent but as he pushed me forward, he never let me look around at the world. He never let me form my own opinions. He never let me experience any joys. By the time I’d left home for good at the age of sixteen to join the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, my dad’s influence had already damaged me greatly. My hatred for the sport had already been cemented, and I didn’t know any way to find happiness in hockey.