Page 69 of Offside for Christmas
"So?"
"So you never smile. It's unnerving." Mac’s grin was wide. "You're in love with her."
Cole nearly dropped his water bottle. "I'm not—"
"Dude. You hum during warm-ups. You helped me pick out a Christmas present for my mom. You're different. Happier. And it's because of her." Mac clapped him on the shoulder. "So what's the plan? Have you talked about what happens next?"
The question landed like a hit to the chest. "I don't know."
Once he got home Cole sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over a contact he should have deleted three years ago.
Grandma - Home
He shouldn't do this. It was pathetic. The number had probably been reassigned by now—some stranger in Chicago would answer, confused, and Cole would have to stumble through an apology before hanging up like an idiot.
But it was 4 PM, and he'd just been at practice, but all he could think about was Ellie. He’d see her later that evening, but all he could think was: I wish Grandma could meet her.
His thumb pressed the call button before he could stop himself.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then: "You've reached Rosa Hansen. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll call you back. God bless!"
Cole's breath left him in a rush.
Eight months of phone bills, sixty dollars a month, just to hear this. Just to hear her voice say "God bless" one more time.
Her voice. Warm and slightly accented, that cheerful tone she used for everyone, even telemarketers. He'd forgotten how she sounded when she smiled. How could he have forgotten that?
The beep sounded.
"Hi, Grandma." His voice came out rough. "It's me. Cole. I know you're not—I know you can't—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
He sat there in the silence, phone pressed to his ear, eyes burning.
"I'm in Vermont. This tiny town called Evergreen Cove. You'd love it, actually. It's like someone took every Christmas movie you ever made me watch and turned it into a real place. Lights everywhere. They even have carolers." He laughed, but it came out wet.
The apartment was too quiet. Just him and the ghost of her voice and four years of things he never got to say.
"I met someone," he continued, softer now. "Her name's Ellie. She's... she's really something, Grandma. She's tough and funny and she doesn't take any of my shit. Calls me out when I'm being an asshole. Makes me want to be better." He pressed his palm against his eyes. "She reminds me of you, actually. The way she sees people. Really sees them."
A car passed outside, headlights briefly sweeping across the wall, it was getting dark.
"I'm scared," Cole admitted to the voicemail, to the empty room, to the grandmother who would never hear this. "I'm so fucking scared of losing her. Of losing anyone else. I don't think I could survive it again. When you died, I—" His voice cracked. "I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell you that you saved me. That everything good in me came from you."
One silent tear tracked down his face.
"I miss you. I miss your cooking and your terrible jokes and the way you'd smack my hand when I tried to steal cookies before dinner. I miss you telling me to quit hockey if I wasn't happy, that life's too short to be miserable. I miss having someone who loved me no matter how badly I screwed up."
The voicemail beeped—time limit reached—and cut him off.
Cole pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen through blurred vision. The call had ended. Just like everything else.
He should hang up. Stop torturing himself.
Instead, he pressed redial.
"You've reached Rosa Hansen. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll call you back. God bless!"
