Page 23 of Taking It To Overtime
“It’s amazing in here,” I say. “When did the renovations happen?”
It’s not the space it used to be. The lights are new, as are the windows letting in the natural sun. Despite the brightness, the air conditioning is chilly enough that Birdie has a knit cardigan looped over her shoulders even despite her long—sleeved button-up shirt. The hardwood floors gleam under matching, un-stained area rugs.
“You’d probably know better than I do,” she says, laughing until she notices my frown. “Oh, I don’t mean… not that you aren’t incredibly generous…. I wasn’t even thinking I about the money… I meant…” she stops, blows a breath out of her mouth and gives a little shake before apologizing. “Robbie was the one who donated the funds after the mold issue, probably four years ago now? I just assumed you knew.”
“Robbie Oakes?”
“It’s so nice to know you two found your way back to each other. I thought he was your one, even back in high school.” She blushes. “I was secretly jealous of you two.” Her eyes widen and more hair falls loose as she shakes her head. “Sorry, not like that. I didn’t have a thing for Robbie. He was just so nice, even to me, but I meant the connection you guys shared. I wanted that. Hopeless romantic, I know.”
I smile, hoping she takes the hint to breathe. Poor thing. I don’t remember her being this anxious in high school. I’m not sure I remember her talking much at all.
The instinct pushing at my brain is to deny the relationship, but I’m the one who wanted to play along. To deny it now would really twist up my plan to not complicate this one tiny trip. And even if, in hindsight, the ruse is the most complicated of all? Well, it’s too late to change that now.
“You saw the photos?” I say, ducking my head so she doesn’t think I’m mad.
“Photos?” Birdie shakes her head. “My mama ran into your mama at the grocery store last night. No one likes a gossip, but she mentioned he picked you up at Genosa and brought you home. I might have let too many romance novels go to my head.”
“If you did, then so did I.” I wink at her and she pushes her glasses right back up the bridge of her nose. “It’s almost like a fairytale, the way we crossed paths again after all this time.”
Well, that, and that we’re one-hundred percent fictional.
“That’s beautiful,” Birdie sighs, and it is. Or it would be if it were true. “It’s funny how some things stay the same.” She gives me a shy smile.
I ask her to direct me to the romance section and she does, handing me a list of fifteen of her favorite authors. A few names are on my list of favorites as well, a few I’m familiar with but haven’t read, and some are complete unknowns. It’s not an immense collection of books, only two shelves, but they’re packed floor-to-ceiling with a range of titles and I have my ereader with me. Always do.
I pull a couple of Birdie’s suggestions off the shelf, thumbing through the first few pages to get a feel for the writing. I catch myself lingering over a recent title. Three times I pull the book from the shelf, read the back, and slide it back into place beside its sisters. I can’t pretend I don’t know why it’s caught my eye, this paperback with a shirtless man plastered across the cover. I can pretend it’s something in the title, or that it’s on the list from Birdie—it isn’t. I checked twice—but I added the book to my stack for one reason only. It’s the stick with chunky white lettering. The one with tape painstakingly wrapped around the curved blade. A hockey romance.
I remember Robbie’s hands cupping mine as he showed me how to lay the tape just so. It became a game-day tradition. I’d sit in the V between his legs and use fresh tape, making each fold and cut absolutely perfect. I don’t remember when I starteddrawing my name down the inside of his wrist before laying a kiss on his open palm.
“One for luck,” I used to say. “Take it with you.” And then he’d press that hand to his heart. I’d catch him out on the ice, repeating the movement. Pressing his hand across his heart during the anthem, kissing the dark bulk of his glove, then turning out into the stands, pointing to me.
Who tapes your stick for you now? Who are you pointing to now?
The questions circled in the core of my brain for months after he left. Years, if I’m being honest. Especially after I recognized the same pre-game ritual—the same kiss and point—this time toward the anonymity of the camera. Those were the dark ages. The ones where I avoided any mention of him in the media for fear I would spiral out of control. Where my new best friend Tandy checked everything for me on the off-chance he’d be there, his name mentioned.
And then he signed to Atlanta and scored a natural hat trick in his third NHL game, which left him as the prime candidate for the night’s interviews, especially after his team pulled out the win. Tandy had climbed into my twin bed with me that night, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close. Then she cued up the sports coverage and showed me a sweat-slicked Robbie Oakes, arms crossed with his hands jammed into his armpits, stubble and glower unable to dampen his grin as he talked to the camera about his first few games in the big leagues.
I remember trying to leave my room, twisting my body to escape as his honey voice seeped back into my bones and tears burned behind my eyes. Tandy had thrown her weight into keeping me in place, rubbing a hand softly over my hair as she insisted I wait, wait, just wait.
The channel cut to three clips of Robbie Oakes standing along the team bench, hand fisted against his heart during theanthem, only to point directly at the camera as the last notes faded out.
“Talk to us about any pre-game rituals you have in place. After tonight, and your first three nights on the ice, I think we can all agree they should become permanent,” the reporter shoved her microphone up into Robbie’s face.
I’d frozen there on the bed, pressed hard against my new friend’s side, trying valiantly to hold back the tears as my heart felt like it was cracking into a million unfixable shards. Robbie leaned into the microphone, the smile wiped from his mouth, and I watched his lips more than I heard the words.“I get dressed, tape up my stick, and hit the ice just like every other guy out here.”
I’d cried then, sloppy fat tears that soaked the top of my t-shirt and the shoulders of Tandy’s. I was probably reading too much into things. It probably meant nothing, but what I heard was that I hadn’t been replaced. Not even two years later. I hadn’t been replaced, but Robbie was also right. He’d let me go so we could both chase our dreams. Dreams that needed our entire focus. He’d achieved his. It was my turn to do the same.
Robbie wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t biding his time. Wallowing in heartbreak would not bring him back. It was just going to hold me back inmylife. It was time to pull up my big girl panties and make my own opportunities happen.
A week later, I walked for Cooper Wells, and my life changed too.
I add the hockey romance to my pile, then add the other two in the series.
There’s no denying that Robbie Oakes is still unfairly attractive, and thanks to my brilliance, I can’t spend the next few days avoiding him. At least these books will offer me some form of tension outlet. The kind I can take care of myself at the end of a long, hot day.
Birdie is still seated at the counter when I go to check out. She smiles and waves me over, and I wait while she checks out books for the older man in front of me. He has a stack of titles on birds of the northeast and bird watching. His hands shake as he pulls his library card out of his wallet.
“No need, Mr. Porter,” Birdie says, stilling his trembling fingers, “I can look you right up on the computer.” He smiles and tucks the wallet away, leaning heavily on his glossy cane.
