Page 70 of Love You Too

“This is scotch, neat. You sure you want that?” I ask him, half hoping he won’t take the empty seat next to me.

He nods at the bartender. “Make mine a double.” He regards mine. “Just like his.”

Swinging a leg over the barstool, Barrington makes it look harder than it needs to be. He’s in his mid-fifties but he stays fit, working out in the team gym for an hour each day. His hockey career ended early with an injury at around my age, and he’s been coaching ever since. I play the same position he did, so I’ve always felt a bit of kinship beyond our normal day-to-day.

“Good win tonight,” he says.

“Felt good,” I say, hoping that will be the end of the discussion.

“It was palpable, the rhythm. You’re building unity. It’s good to see.”

I nod and take a sip of my drink. The bartender brings Barrington his scotch, and he holds it up to clink my glass. Neither of us toasts to anything, but the clink of the crystal draws its own conclusions.

On the bar, my phone vibrates with a text.

Trix: Great win. I watched

It’s the first time I’ve heard from her since we spoke the other day, and even the generic congratulations feels like hope. My fingers itch to respond, but I still don’t know what to say to her.

I flip it over without responding, embarrassed that Barrington might see Trix’s name entered with heart emojis before and after her name. Like I’m a hapless high school freshman or some shit.

“Don’t mind me. Feel free to answer your phone,” Barrington says, raising an eyebrow as he sips his drink. Instead of responding, I take another drink from my glass. The whiskey burns my throat as it goes down, and somehow it feels right. Even with the win, I’m acting like an asshole toward Trix. Punishing her to punish myself.

“It’s fine. I can deal with it later.”

Barrington drums his fingers on the bar and looks up at the partial view of the TV. I’m not sure whether he’s interested in the sports highlights or just trying to avoid looking at me. Doesn’t stop him from talking to me, though. “Can I give you a word of advice?”

I can’t say no. He’s my coach.

“Sure.”

“Don’t neglect the people in your life.” He’s still looking at the TV. He can see slightly more of the screen than I can, but there must be something really absorbing going on. I glance up, but it’s only a news crawl of scores and two talking heads discussing baseball with subtitles. Not interesting to me.

“You mean the players?”

“Did I say the players?” His gaze snaps from the TV to my face so quickly that it creates its own wind.

The back of my neck feels hot, and I slap a hand back there to wipe what will be sweat in about two seconds. Barrington is the nicest guy in the world, but when he wants to make a point, it’sbest to get out of the way and listen. Otherwise, he gets testy. It’s a great quality in a coach, less so in a guy sitting on the next stool at a bar.

“Just thought maybe we were still talking about team morale.”

“We’re not. I think you’ve got that covered.”

It’s a relief, but he still sounds aggravated, so I haven’t fully exhaled in about a minute. I pull the napkin from under my drink and fold it into squares just to have something to do other than sweat on the hot seat.

My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it.

“Goddammit, Renaldi, if that’s your woman you’re ignoring, please stop being a dumbass and answer her.”

I blink heavily and think about my options. I can tell my coach to go fuck himself, which would not bode well for my career, or I can do what he’s telling me. The second option falls much closer to what I want to do, but I don’t trust myself not to lose my focus on the game.

“It’s Trix,” I admit, feeling like a naughty child who got caught with a stash of candy wrappers in his underwear drawer. And because I know Barrington won’t let the conversation drop until I’ve told him everything, I tell him everything. “The short version is that I love her, and I think she’s afraid I’m only with her out of obligation. Worst part is that I bailed on her ten years ago, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Now, here I am, not wanting to make the same mistake again.”

“So don’t make the same goddamn mistake, Renaldi. I don’t need a degree in psychology to tell you that one, but I’ve got one.”

This piece of information pulls me from my wallowing for enough time to push my chair back and take a good look at my coach. “You do?”

He nods and takes another sip of his drink. I do the same. We’ve both finished about half, and I’m already feeling the effects of the alcohol. Not drinking a drop for the past few months, combined with a hundred proof liquor, is making me alightweight. The kind who’s dangerously close to confessing way too much to his coach if he’s not careful.

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