Page 128 of The Import Slot
“You didn’t even want to come here,” Liam says, stepping onto the balcony. “Don’t tell me you’d actually stay?”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming here to get fucking married!” I yell.
“Yeah, but I’m not a first-round draft pick with my entire career in front of me,” Liam says. I sit on one of the patio chairs and pick a puck up, playing with it in my hands. “What would Mom say?” he asks, and I watch him pace back and forth. Is he limping?
“Wait. What strings did you pull? How did you get here early?”
He doesn’t look at me, which is a massive red flag.
“It’s your knee, isn’t it?” I say, but his silence is answer enough. “Was it that check you took from Lasko on Tuesday?”
He’s had a minor problem with his knee, which he’s avoided having surgery on, so far.
“You saw that?” Liam asks.
“I see it all. I watch all your games.”
“Yeah. It was. No point lying to you, but it was fine until afterwards,” Liam says.
I snicker. “No point lying to me again, you mean?”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about it,” he says. “I’m sorry about everything, bro. I’m sorry for lying, sorry for not telling you about the wedding. But I’m so grateful that you helped me out. I haven’t even thanked you properly. I’ve been such a fucking idiot, but I owe you.”
“No, you don’t. We’re even,” I say because we definitely are now.
Liam saved my career. No one knows except us two, but I got into a spot of trouble when we were kids. He took the fall for me, saving me from getting disqualified from playing when there was a scout about. God knows what would have happened otherwise.
Despite it all, I got to live my dream, and yeah, it was a risk coming here. I practically committed career suicide, but I’d do it again for Liam and I know he’d do the same for me.
That’s our secret that we’ll take to the grave.
“Fuck,” I say, and we sit in silence for a moment, both of us standing at the railing, looking out at the city.
It feels like the perfect opportunity to mess about, so I grab one stick and pass it to Liam, taking the other myself. We pass a puck back and forth for a while in silence.
“I am sorry I lied,” he says. I know he is. “So, are you actually wanting to stay, bud?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know. I don’t know if it’d feel any different if I hadn’t met Jen, but things are so much more chill here, and I love how I can fully enjoy the game again. Besides, it’s Winnipeg—”
Liam laughs, opening his mouth to reply, but then double takes. “Jen’s out,” he says, nodding toward the window as Danny pushes open the balcony door. I shove my stick toward him, and he grabs it.
I head inside, hovering by the fridge as I watch Jen deep in conversation with Becca. Their heads are together, whispering. Vicky then joins in after handing them a bottle of beer each.
It all felt so simple when I asked her to come with me; now, the reality seems tricky. Yes, I could make her as comfortable as possible; get her a car, and get a new place if she wanted it, but how would she feel when I’m on the road for an enormous chunk of the season? Knowing Jen, she’d like to come and watch every away game. I’m not even sure that would be possible if she worked. Fuck. We’d have to think about legal status in Canada and all that, too, unless—
“You okay, mate?” Bettsy reaches for the fridge door and pulls it open, dipping his hand in to grab a beer. “Want one?”
I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t, but we don’t have a game until the day after Boxing Day, so I nod, and he hands me a bottle he’s just popped the cap off of. I take a long swill, then another one and finish the rest of the bottle before Bettsy can put the bottle opener down. He doesn’t say anything; instead, he slips his freshly uncapped bottle into my hand and takes my empty.
My eyes are still fixed on Jen. We need to figure out what the fuck we’re doing, and I know Jen will just keep to her word and come with me, but at what cost? Her happiness? Fuck. This whole thing is becoming a mess because I couldn’t focus on hockey, but I had kept my focus, really. I’m playing great, I’m supporting my teammates, and I’m having fun.
I down the second bottle and take a third from the fridge, replenishing the shelf following Jen’s ‘one in, one out’ rule, a policy which has been slacking.
I brace myself to talk to her, but I’m interrupted by Becca, who stands up and calls for everyone’s attention.
“Right, this is called ‘Ring of Fire’,” Becca announces, pulling out a pack of cards. She places them on the table, making a circle and putting a cup in the middle before she relays the rules. Ultimately, every single number of the deck has an action associated.
The last thing I want to do is play a drinking game, but if it keeps the peace, I’ll bite.
