Page 11 of Playing for Keeps

His expression is typical: laughter. I can’t even tell if it’s Alder or Tucker at this point. I’m trying to yank his helmet off his dumb face when Coach blows a whistle, and I back off. “Gunnar. My office after.”

The rest of practice is depressing. I feel like I’m skating through half-melted ice, trying to stop a hailstorm with a colander. I say nothing in the locker room while I change out of my gear and hurry through another shower, making sure to scrub hard enough to scour off the stench of my goalie pads. After practice, I usually have a whole moisturizing ritual, but that will have to wait. My mind immediately flicks to a fantasy of Emerson rubbing my salve into my thighs, and that will have to wait, too.

I make my way to Coach’s office and sit waiting for him, my knee bouncing a thousand times a minute before he slides into his chair with a sigh. “What was that about, G Stag?”

I breathe in and out through my nose. “I’m not playing my best, Coach.”

“Well, that’s obvious. You’ve got bags under your eyes, and you’re twitchy. Where’s your focus?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got some personal stuff going on…and it’s not an excuse but I slept for shit because my brother kept calling me from England.”

He furrows his brow. “Which brother? There are more of you?” He mutters under his breath about thinking he had the whole family locked down, and I grin.

“My oldest brother doesn’t play hockey, sir. He was upset about, you know, the marriage thing.”

Coach frowns. “I saw something about that online. Or my daughter did.” I tap my fingers on my knees, looking down at the silicone wedding band I have yet to remove. It already feels like it belongs on my hand. I briefly notice that my hand looks like my dad’s hand now, with beat-up knuckles and a thick wedding band.

Coach taps his keyboard with his ring finger, which is similarly banded. “G Stag, I’ve been married for twenty-five years. Your home life is supposed to support your professional life, kid.” I nod as he talks. “I don’t need to explain the importance of mindset to you. You will leave this office and get your shit together, mentally. You will get back into your sleep routine, eat right, and show up to practice ready to perform. I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

When I don’t say anything, he raises his eyebrows until I clear my throat. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

Coach flicks a hand, dismissing me, and he’s glowering at his computer monitor by the time I shuffle out the door.

I opt for a guided meditation audio on my drive home, repeating after the computerized voice that I will act and move with intention. Except, instead of thinking about my game, I’m imagining bringing Emerson to a family dinner and introducing her to all the Stags. I’m actually excited at the idea of showing her off to them. She’s luscious, with curves for days and a dazzling smile she only lets out occasionally.

Thinking of her sitting in the Partners and Wives section of our games has me half hard, and imagining her with a G Stag jersey on takes me the rest of the way there.

I open the door to my—our—apartment and halt in my tracks when I hear music coming from the trophy room. She must be playing again.

I walk closer to the beautiful melody until I can just see through the open door. Emerson’s seated on a bench in the middle of the room, where she cleared out a space among the stacks of plaques and medals I haven’t yet taken the time to display properly. It’s like my past is her audience as she wraps her legs around that beautiful, red instrument. She’s wearing a sleeveless top, and I watch as one toned arm moves up and down the neck of the instrument and the other moves that hairy stick along the strings.

This isn’t a gentle or delicate process. Emerson digs in, swaying as she moves, gripping the instrument with visible effort. But the sound seems effortless, big and deep, mournful. I didn’t know I knew that word, but it’s what I’m hearing as she coaxes sad notes that hang in the air or dance around the room. I become aware that I’m holding my breath, gripping the door frame as I watch my wife create something incredible.

She plays a final deep, long note and opens her eyes, locking onto mine, and her face transforms into a smile. She’s happy to see me. I nearly faint, overcome by her talent and the fact that this stranger, my spouse, is glad that I’m nearby.

“Hey.” She sets her cello down on its side and rests the stick thing on top of it. “How was your day?” Emerson crosses the room to me, fluffing her hair and rolling her shoulders. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, like she’d been playing for hours. I wonder how salty she’d taste if I licked her.

But she’s waiting for an answer, so I clear my throat, shake my head, and smile back at her. “Better now that I got to hear that. What was that song called?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by a series of rapid-fire pings on my phone—texts with my parents’ custom sound effect.

I hold up a finger apologetically and slide my phone from my pocket. I groan and show the screen to Emerson.

MOM

I need to meet my daughter-in-law.

MOM

You don’t have a game on Sunday. Come to brunch.

MOM

This isn’t optional, Gunnar.

CHAPTER 7

EMERSON

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