Page 7 of Power Play

“Maybe he’s into men.”

“Maybe.” I sigh, irritated. “I was waiting to send my RSVP back.”

“Waiting?” Alana repeats. “For, what? Pigs to fly?”

Everyone else on this planet might annoy the hell out of me, but I love my family.

My parents sacrificed years of time and energy when I was a kid learning to skate. Mom drove me to the rink six days a week. Dad never missed one of my games, even the ones on the road in Ottawa in the dead of winter.

The older I’ve gotten, the more there’s been a different kind of pressure from them. The focus isn’t on my athletic achievements. They don’t care if I win the Stanley Cup or ride the bench for the rest of my career.

What’s happening off the ice is more important to them: when I’m going to settle down. A wedding of my own. Retiring so I can have a family.

It’s the subject of every get together. Christmas, birthdays. The one time I flew home for Mother’s Day and got a two-hour earful about the lack of women in my life.

The only time I can block it all out is when I’m on the ice. When I’m in the goal and tracking the puck for sixty minutes a night. It’s my safe space, but I also understand my job is always on the line.

One wrong move could cost me everything I’ve worked so hard for, so I don’t let myself get distracted.

I hold myself to high standards during the season.

No sex.

No women.

One drink a week and in bed by ten o’clock.

I don’t give a shit about the spotlight or attention or partying at clubs. I like minding my business. Showing up to the arena, playing good hockey, then going home to my quiet apartment and my cat.

It’s neurotic and obsessive. The guys call me boring. They tell me I’m missing out on things, but it works for me. My life is dedicated to the sport I’ve given so much of myself to, and it suits me just fine. So what if it hasn’t included fucking around or meeting someone and falling in love?

I’m happy enough not to want to bother with all the extra stuff, butfuckif hearing another hundred questions about why I’m traveling alone isn’t going to drive me insane.

“I’m coming,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Are you bringing a plus-one?” she asks. “Perhaps some girl who wants a free trip with an athlete and has no clue your middle name is Fredrick? I need exact numbers for food.”

Maybe I’m sick of the pity party people give me when they find out I’m single.

Maybe I’m so goddamn tired of answering the same question every day.

Maybe, subconsciously, I’m really fucking lonely. Terrified no one will ever love me because I’m too closed off. Too harsh. Too committed to my job. And I know dancing around that conversation is easier than giving it a name.

Whatever it is, it makes me blurt out a word I wish I could take back the second I say it.

“Yes.”

“Really? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” Alana lights up. “Are you going to tell me about her? A name? An astrological sign so I can see if you’re compatible?”

I shrug and grab my helmet. “It’s new.”

“What the hell, Liam? How can I stalk her on the internet if you don’t give me a name?”

“It’s a woman.” Being vague is good. Being vague gives me time to figure this shit out. To pretend I never said anything. “A nice woman.”

“They’d have to be a saint to put up with your ass.”

“I need to go. It’s time to warm up.”

---