Page 11 of Edging Coach
Said in my head in that French way my mother had. Because that way led to utter madness.
Right, like you wouldn’t get him under you again in an instant. A crook of his finger?—
Yeah, except I’d be doing the crooking. I’d demanded he kiss me last night. Because consent was a thing. Because I hadn’t actually believed he’d do it. Because once he had, I’d needed to dominate every fucking aspect of that amazing kiss.
The rain lashing my face and soaking my tracksuit ensured I didn’t get a boner. Another reason I was pounding the pavement as a way to work out my frustrations. If I took this amount of negative energy with me to the rink, I risked someone thinking I wasn’t happy to be here. Or, even worse, asking me if I was okay.
I fucking hated being asked if I wasokay. In some ways, I was always okay. I got up, exercised, then focused on hockey, French literature, or both. In other ways, since I was ten years old, I hadn’t been okay.
Fucking amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
Fucking ALS.
Fucking Lou Gehrig’s disease.
The doctors could call it a million different things, but it hadn’t mattered. As my mother lost her ability to walk, to feed herself, to communicate, and eventually to breathe, what the experts called it didn’t matter. She’d been gone thirteen years, and it still pierced my heart.
I checked both ways twice before crossing the street. I’d forgotten to wear something reflective, and my rain-soaked gray sweats were nearly black.
Putting one foot in front of the other was all I knew how to do.
Canada hadn’t had MAID back when Mom was in thefinal stages of her illness. When she was too sick for me to take care of her by myself. Medical Assistance in Dying was such a civilized thing. And if I ever had some terminal illness, I’d use it—to say goodbye to the world at a time of my own choosing. To not force my loved ones to suffer as I slowly died. I didn’t believe in an afterlife. One died, their body was disposed of, and their memory lived on in the hearts of those who loved them.
That way, I could tell myself my mother wasn’t really dead. Because she lived in every beat of my heart.
Which was also bullshit. Because no one would grieve for me. So I wouldn’t live on in anyone’s heart. Fuck, that was so pathetic.
I turned down a side street.
Dead end.
Sometimes that felt like the story of my life.
I sprinted to the end of the street, turned around, and walked back. I needed to check my watch to get my bearings. I hadn’t been running that long, and although the trip back to the hotel would be longer, I’d still have plenty of time to shower, eat breakfast, and make my way to the rink. Coach had said eleven, right? At least I was ninety-nine percent certain he’d been joking about six am. If things had changed, I figured someone would’ve texted me.
Kenny would mourn me. My former D partner would show up at my goddamn funeral and put a fucking rose next to my urn.Heck, if the service was fancy enough, he might even bring Amanda. If I lived a few more years, they might bring kids. He’d point to my photo and say,a long time ago, I was close to him. Then I met your mom and we sort of drifted apart.Well, he’d also quit playing hockey and completed an engineering degree at U of T. He hadn’t had my talent on the ice, that was for sure. Just like I couldn’t pass calculus to save my life.
Recite eighteenth-century French poetry? Sure. First principle? Not a chance.
I stopped to stretch even as I took stock.
Still no hint of daylight. Not surprising, given the time of year. I couldn’t wait for the light to come earlier. Nothing like running during a glorious sunrise. I’d read that some houses and condos in Abbotsford had a view of Mount Baker—the dormant volcano over in Washington State.Bet I won’t be able to afford rent on one of those places.
My biggest hope was that I wasn’t stuck with a bedroom facing an alley. But that had been all Mom had been able to afford during the lean years. She put me in hockey to curb some of my energy when I was about four. In a good year when she’d been able to afford the equipment. As happened to kids, I outgrew those skates and then the pads.
By then, I’d caught the notice of one of the coaches. They hooked Mom up with a local charity that helped kids like me stay in the sport. My stuff was secondhand, but it was always reliable. That I’d made it this far in my career was thanks to a bevy of really good people.
I checked my watch, figured out the quickest route back to the hotel, and started off at a light jog.
Jesus, does this rain ever let up?Not a downpour, but with an intensity and steadiness that rivaled some of the worst rainy days in Toronto. This time of year, though, Torontonians were up to their eyeballs in snow. Well, or spring-like weather. One never knew with this climate-change thing. One day sunny and warm—the next a polar vortex.
Out here, Abbotsford sometimes got cold. More often, they got atmospheric rivers—something I’d never heard of.
The hotel came into view, and I slicked my hair back—trying to avoid having the water run down my face as I enteredthe lobby. The doors swished open, and I was hit with a blast of hot air.
I blinked at the brightness of the lights. Then I nodded to the front desk clerk as I headed over to the elevators. If they thought it bizarre that someone went for a jog at six in the morning in the pouring rain, they kept that notion to themselves.
The elevator took me up to my floor. I was stripped and in the shower less than three minutes after hitting the door. My clothes were in a heap on the bathroom floor, and I’d hang them over the shower bar once I was out. I let the hot water seep into my muscles and, eventually, my bones. The brutal needles of shock on my skin slowly dissipated into something more like light tingles. I grabbed the shampoo and washed my hair. Then I used a nice floral-scented body wash to cleanse myself of the sweat.
