Page 29 of The Import Slot
“I want to say yes, but I can’t,” she says.
“Why?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “What are your plans after the season? I don’t mean to blow one date out of proportion but say we go, hit it off and all that. Where does it leave us in eight months? And that’s if you make the playoffs.”
“We will make the playoffs,” I say, but I know where she’s coming from. I understand.
“I’m not a casual-relationship person, Ryan,” she says. “I want to have fun, but what if I get too attached?” Her eyes dart away.
Shit. I’m worried about the same thing, but I can’t help it. I’m infatuated, and I don’t know what to do. “Jen, let me ask you,” I say. She looks at me again expectantly. “Do you feel this between us? Or am I just imagining it?”
I’m referring to the tension, the chemistry, the pull between us. A mix of things that I’ve never felt before, not to mention how attracted to her I am. I feel like I’ve had a permanent erection since I first saw her and I have questioned my intentions: is this just another sexual conquest? But deep down, I know it’s something more. Before I’ve even kissed her, I know that it’ll be my undoing and likely hers too, if I’ve read it right.
“I know that day at the coffee shop; you weren’t looking at me because you recognised me,” I say.
She lets out a breath but doesn’t respond. Instead, she nods before she leans in a bit closer, but then that voice springs back into my mind, that voice that’s telling me I need to focus on hockey, then GTFO as soon as the season is over.
“You know, you’re right,” I say, almost breaking my heart. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“We can be friends,” Jen offers, and I nod, stepping back.
I guess being friends with Jen is better than not being anything with Jen.
I don’t know what to say next, so I offer her a drink.
“I’ll make a brew,” she says, moving toward the kitchen. She fills the kettle and flicks it to boil as the door flings open.
“Ryan!” Danny calls. I follow his voice, and he’s standing in the hallway outside the apartment, chatting with a delivery driver. “There are some boxes for you. It looks like someone’s sent you the rest of your stuff.”
The rest of my stuff? I didn’t ask for anything else to follow me. I’m confused until we bring the boxes in.
Curious, I grab a knife from the kitchen drawer and break through the packing tape. As soon as I open the flaps of box number one, I see what’s happening. My dad has sent a load of my hockey things. Trophies, old gloves, and jerseys. It’s his way of getting me to consider what I’ve supposedly given up, I guess. To him, coming to the UK was me hanging my skates up.
I briefly rummage through the rest of the boxes before turning to Danny and Jen, who are watching me from the kitchen counter.
“Jen, the junior team could do with money. I’ve got a few things here you can auction, sell, whatever, to make some money for them,” I say, pulling out one of my first Jets jerseys.
“Ryan, you can’t!” Jen exclaims, rounding the counter and standing next to the boxes. “These are your memories.”
I get it. She’s right, but they could offer a lot more.
“Please,” I say.
“We don’t accept,” she says. “Honestly, just sign a few pictures. They will sell. That’ll be enough,” she pauses, “Just leave it a few weeks at least. See how you feel then.”
I reluctantly agree and close the boxes up before spotting my favourite thing of all time. I pick it up, turn it over a few times, and hold it in my palm. Going into my room, I grab a stick and a pair of gloves before setting myself in the open space between the sofa and the dining table. I drop the puck on the floor, my first-NHL-goal puck, slip the gloves on, take my stick, position my hands and dribble, grateful for the hardwood floor. I can feel Danny’s and Jen’s eyes on me. They don’t say anything, but I know they’re watching. At this moment, I realise Jen is right, being friends is best for us. I need to focus.
I remember scoring that first goal against Florida, my NHL debut. It was the second period, 11:42, and I recall it all. Who I was on the ice, with the sound of the crowd, and the feel of my teammates surrounding me after I one-timed it into the upper left corner, straight off the face-off. This puck symbolised what I’d worked all my life for, how much I’d sacrificed, and how much I wanted to keep living that dream.
Danny’s talking to Jen, and I hear her say goodbye before the front door slams, but I rudely don’t pay any attention. I’m in my zone and I need to focus on it. Hockey is all I’m here for—just hockey.
Chapter 9
Jenna
Thefamiliarsmellofsweaty hockey players hits my nose as soon as I open the double doors. I’m early for the junior practice again, but it’s on purpose if I’m being honest. The more I tell myself that I want to just be friends with Ryan, the more I think about him and find excuses to see him.
I spot him by his form and how he moves his hips when he skates. His warm-up jersey creeps up at the wrist when he shoots and I peek at the tattoo that covers his forearm. My uncle clears his throat behind me.
