Page 89 of Puck Yes
On the way home, I swing by a nearby park and walk to the duck pond. Henry’s usually here at night. He keeps a tent near the ducks, and sleeps there. The older man comes by the restaurant most nights, and we give him food, when we have extras.
I find him on the bench, doing a crossword puzzle. “Henry. Didn’t see you tonight,” I say.
Looking up, he sets down the pencil. “This one is hard. It’s taking me some time.”
“No worries, man. But here’s some bread for you,” I say, then hand him the loaf.
He leans in to smell it. “Smells good.”
Well, at least Xander can bake well. “Enjoy. But don’t feed the ducks,” I say, pointing to the sign by the pond advising against it.
Henry gives me a look likeare you for real.“Kid, I know.”
I wave, then turn around. “See you soon.”
“See you soon,” he echoes as I leave with no food waste.
That’s one issue disposed of.
* * *
But isn’t it just the way things go—when you shake off one problem, another creeps up on you. Hayes’s mood starts worrying me as soon as we leave for Detroit. He keeps to himself on the plane. That’s no good for a guy who wants to feel like part of the team. Before the game, he’s all about his earbuds and his rock music. Fine, that’s not so strange—every guy has a different way they get into the zone. They do something before a game, then nab a much-needed assist on the game-winning goal, and that becomes their thing. Maybe quiet mode is Hayes’s thing.
But I’m not captain for nothing. My job isn’t just to look out for the guy I’m sharing a girl with. My job is to look out for the whole team. When a teammate is out of sorts, I’ve got to either pick him up or kick him in the pants.
I choose the former.
When the afternoon game ends in the early evening, the team jet takes us to Chicago in an hour, giving us plenty of time for dinner. I round up Dev, Brady, and a bunch of other guys and take them to my favorite Chicago pizza spot. The deep dish is approaching ten out of ten levels, but I’d like to think it’s my masterminding ways that loosen up my buddy. Over dinner, he and Brady shoot the shit about a home improvement project the new dad is working on, then they trade Netflix recs, with Brady admitting he’s a diehardBridgertonfan and Hayes confessing he’s aSchitt’s Creekkind of man.
That’s as good a lubricant as any. Back at the hotel, as the other guys peel away to their rooms, I steer Hayes to the lobby bar and a booth in the back. After we trade tips on the formidable Chicago defensemen we’ll be facing tomorrow—and whether any are better than Tom or Dimitry on our team—I cut to the chase. “What’s really going on with you?”
Hayes tilts his head, like he’s shocked I asked. But he doesn’t play the surprised game for long. With a heavy sigh, he takes another swig from the beer bottle, though he says nothing.
A year or so ago I might have stayed quiet. Hell, in my twenties, I might never have asked hard questions. But I’m thirty now, and I’m just not interested in miscommunication. Avoidance tactics don’t fly with me anymore.
I learned that the hard way. I sensed something was off during the last year of my relationship with Annika, but I never asked her about it. Figured if neither of us said anything, then nothing was truly wrong. But she was missing home, and I didn’t realize it. Didn’t ask her enough questions. Didn’t deal with the way we were drifting apart.
Doesn’t matter if this thing with the three of us is temporary. Doesn’t matter if there’s an end date bearing down on us. Happiness is fleeting, and I’m fucking enjoying it, so I’ll fight for it, dammit.
After I swallow some more scotch, I face him, point blank. “You’ve been quiet ever since Ivy gave us the socks.”
The label on the beer bottle must be fascinating because Hayes fiddles with it for a while, then finally looks up and meets my gaze. “It wasn’t the socks, man. It was talking to her before the game,” he says in a dead voice.
It’s like he’s already resigned himself to…whatever he’s resigned himself to. Concern weighs down my shoulders, but I push on. “And why was that a problem for you?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters.
“Bullshit.”
His jaw is set hard. “Why is that bullshit?”
I level a serious stare at him. “Because you fucking know what’s going on. You know what’s going on inside you, and you just don’t want to say it.”
It’s a challenge to his competitive side. We need to face this head-on, whateverthisis. It’s easier for Hayes to be quiet. He’s an only child. Silence is his friend. I’m the opposite. I need noise, boisterous conversation. “So talking to her before the game set you off?”
He shoves a hand through his hair, still agitated. “I just wanted to see her so badly,” he grumbles.
“And that’s getting you down?”