Page 77 of Bombshells
Twenty-Five
The New Guy on Jeopardy
ANTON
It’s game day again. I’m lying on the bed of a hotel room in Calgary, fingering the strings of the travel guitar that I always bring with me on road trips.
An hour ago we ate lunch in a hotel banquet room, and now it’s time to rest up before the game. But I’m too bored to go to sleep.
I didn’t even know that was possible. But here we are.
This season is turning out exactly like I planned. My stats are good. All mentions of me in the sports news are for points, not shenanigans. Management likes me again.
In other ways, it’s a total letdown.
I honestly believed that if I worked out every day, went to bed early, skated hard and drank one or fewer light beers every day, that I would come to exist on some higher plane. I thought that mastering my baser desires would be so satisfying that I wouldn’t miss late nights, drunken pool games, and bad decisions.
Don’t get me wrong—it feels good to show up for practice well-rested and headache free. And as we roll toward December, I’ve already got three goals and four assists.
But God, I’m boring. I’ve binged every single decent TV show. I’ve finally learned the guitar part to “Every Breath You Take.” And I’ve called my mother every week just to say hello.
I pick up the phone and dial her again. At least I’m a good son.
“Are you okay, Anton?” she asks when she picks up.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“I never hear from you this often. Is there something you’re trying to tell me? You have a gambling addiction? You witnessed a murder? You’re gay?”
“No! Jeez, Mom.”
“I was pretty sure that last idea was far-fetched. But I’d love you no matter what.”
“Thanks,” I grunt. “I’m just twitchy.”
“So… is it meth?”
“Mom!”
She laughs. “Sorry. I know that’s not funny. And I guess that means you’re having girl trouble.”
“Nah. Not exactly.” The moment I say it, I know it’s a mistake.
“Aha!” she pounces. “What’s her name?”
“There is no girl. I mean, there is. But it’s not going to be a thing.”
“Why not?” she presses. “And you forgot to tell me her name.”
“It’s Sylvie.”
“Sylvia?”
“No, just Sylvie. It’s French. She was born in Quebec.”
She makes a sound of pure delight. “So what is it about this Sylvie that’s got you so tied up in knots that you’re willing to call your mother all the time?”
“I’m not tied up in knots,” I grumble. “I’m just sick of my own company. I promised myself—no women, no boozing, no scandal. I don’t know what’s left to do.”
