Page 13 of The Legend Next Door
The people pleaser in me rushes to the forefront. It can’t let this stand. My beautiful, sad, famous ex-hockey player neighbor can’t possibly be exposed to the notion that people exist who don’t like hockey. He’s been through so much already. No. I can’t allow it.
“Are you kidding me?” I say with so much gusto that even I’m surprised. I’m not entirely sure where I’m going with this, but I am interested to find out. “I like hockey. I love it. I live and breathe the game, as a matter of fact.”Ah, I see.Stand back, people. Watch and learn. This is how you flirt with straight guys who are into sports. Not that I’m flirting with Ben, obviously. That would be ridiculous. “Lovethe sport.Hugefan. I’m probably your biggest fan, actually.”
“Uh-huh.” His head is still bowed, and he tilts it to get a better look at me. The corners of his lips quiver and he gives me a look that paralyzes my larynx. “Is that right?”
I clear my throat thoroughly.
“Oh yes.” The way I say it gives me an inkling I’m going off-script, and the realization doesn’t set me at ease. Far from it, so I make a firm decision to stop. I find myself doubling down instead. “What’s not to love? You’ve got a horde of men with sticks and helmets and big baggy shorts, all beating the unholy hell out of a flat ball called a puck. You’ve got an ice rink. You’ve got two nets. And two dudes standing around making it their business to guard the nets. And, andice skating. You’ve got a ton of ice skating, and I think that really elevates the vibe. Makes it all skate-y, you know. All icy. All hockey-ish.”
“Hmm. You do sound like a fan.”
“Oh, believe me, I am.”
The tension at the corner of his mouth releases and his lips part. A soft, bubbling sound spills out of them. “So, who’s your team then, fanboy?”
“Great question! Thanks for asking.” I take a long sip of coffee and attempt to gather my thoughts. I sort through several of them, looking for something that might be helpful, intelligent—ideally. Those kinds of thoughts are not forthcoming. “I support, uh… Gosh, there are so many good ones, aren’t there? It’s hard to narrow it down. Um, wait, wait, I’ve got it. The Snakes. The Seattle Snakes. No.Shit. That’s not it. The Cobras?”
There’s that sound again. The soft one that flows out of Ben and lands lightly in my lap. “D’you mean Vipers?” he offers.
“The Seattle Vipers.That’sthe one. They’ve got the little snake on the logo, don’t they? Yeah. It’s super cute. I love that little thing. I’ve actually been thinking of getting a cap with it ’cause it’s not at all tacky and would probably go with quite a few of my tops, and also, obviously, because I’m such a huge fan.”
His eyes dance in amusement. “Well, it’s always nice to meet a fan of the game.”
“D’you want to see something cool, Jelly?” asks Luca, saving me from whatever the hell that was.
“You know I do,” I answer.
He dashes inside and returns at high speed. He drops a bundle of hockey sticks at my feet and holds a puck near my face.
“Absolutely not,” says Ben firmly. “We’ve talked about this. No playing with pucks anywhere but on the ice.”
Luca’s mouth pulls into a tight dot and his bottom lip juts out. It’s amusing. It’s such an obvious pout that he looks like an exaggerated, unhappy cartoon version of himself. He huffs once or twice, looking at Ben like he expects him to change his mind. Ben doesn’t. He’s nonplussed and calm. I get the feeling that repeated exposure to this look has left him immune.
Luca relents and goes back into the house, albeit at a much slower pace.
“How’s the unpacking going?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s hell. I’m at the point where almost every room is half done, and in my heart, I don’t believe I’ll ever see the end of boxes and packing paper.”
“Ugh, that’s the worst. Have you worked out if you like the house yet?”
He shakes his head and speaks quietly. “I don’t think I do. There are so many windows that I don’t know where to put my furniture. The floorboards scratch easily, and there aresomany curtains. Seriously, I’ve never seen this much fabric.”
His eyes are wide, his teeth exposed. I only did psychology for six months, so I’m far from an expert, but I’m pretty sure these are early warning signs that he’s on the verge of a full-blown case of curtain panic.
It’s a thing, okay. But don’t look it up. It’s not well-documented.
Ben leans closer to me and lowers his voice a little more. “Do you want to hear something really dumb?”
“Always,” I say with meaning. It’s true. My sense of the ridiculous is severely overdeveloped. I’ve always had a huge penchant for stupid things in general and, evidently, stupid things related to Ben Stirling in particular.
His shoulders drop and he looks like he did yesterday when he told me his wife had passed away. I feel a change in the mood in the air around him. It’s a subtle shift, but it’s there. Small talk falls away and is replaced with something significant.
“Since Liz died, these kinds of things are different. They’re other. They used to be life-admin. You know, that annoying, unavoidable shit you have to deal with. The crap you chip away at until eventually it’s done, and then you go to sleep and start all over again the next day.” When he talks, I don’t just hear it. I feel it in my bones. The sadness, the loneliness, the overwhelm. “It doesn’t feel like that anymore. It feels big now. Really big, and really unmanageable, and really…” His voice trails off and his jaw clicks.
He looks down at his hands and his chest heaves as an uneven breath comes out in a rush. His lips move like he can taste a word but can’t bring himself to say it.
“Scary,” I say for him.
