Page 31 of Edging Coach
She wouldn’t care about that. Well, she would’ve been proud. For sure. But to her, if I put in my best effort, that was enough. The accolades were nice—but being kind to someone less well-off was more important. Trophies were lovely—but had I thanked the equipment manager? Being the best was laudable—but had I done everything I could to ensure the rest of the team had the same chances as I’d been gifted?
I picked up the remote. If I wanted to watch something, I was better off trying to do it now before Hairs came back. I powered on the television, and after a couple of clicks, was on the news desk. Radio-Canada was the French-language channel financially supported by the government. But not run by them, thank God. Nope. Radio-Canada and the Canadian Broadcast Corporation might get money from the federal government, but they also did brutal stories on said government and politicians. I loved that no one got spared—if they were up to no good, a strong chance existed that some intrepid journalist would ferret them out.
The words washed over me as I enjoyed the language—and accent—of my childhood. Being the child of a Quebecois woman living in Toronto always made life interesting for me. Straddling two worlds. I underwent a lot of teasing. Well, until my hockey talent became clear. Then everyone pretty much left me alone. After Mom died? No one said anything badagain. Well, unless they were on the opposing team on the ice. Then they didn’t give a shit if you’d buried your mother at the age of twelve.
A story about Montreal caught my notice. The goalie was being sent down.
Shit. If he’s tending tomorrow night, we’re fucked.
Except…why’s he being sent down?
Yeah, Montreal sucked this season. Hell, even Toronto was kicking their asses.
Deca being sent to Laval? Sucked donkey balls. He wasn’t the reason Montreal was doing badly. Nope, that was a top offensive line who couldn’t score on an empty net if their lives depended on it. Theysucked.If anyone should’ve been sent down, it was those three.
I turned off the television.
Silence descended.
Which felt weird because hotels often hadsomeambient noise. Something to remind me I wasn’t alone in the world—even if I sometimes felt like it.
I flipped off the lamp and let the light pollution of the city filter through the drapes where they didn’t quite meet in the middle.
After letting out the longest sigh in the entire history of the world, I texted him. Even though I knew I shouldn’t…I did.
You hear about Deca?
I held my breath as I waited. He probably had heard. Might be discussing it with Amy as I sent the text. Hell, she might see my name and?—
Yeah. His name’s on the roster for tomorrow night’s game.
Lots of bubbles followed, but no words.
So I waited.
And waited.
I considered ordering room service. I ran my fingers up and down the remote.
Still lots of bubbles. Still no words.
Finally, a ping.
He’s unfortunate.
What the fuck? He’d been typing for a good two minutes. I knew this. I’d watched the time on my phone as I kept tapping it to stay awake.
So…?
Are you alone?
Amy just left. Are you alone? Who is your roommate?
You don’t know? Fucking Hairs.
Then I reconsidered the wisdom of putting my animosity toward the guy in writing.
I mean, he’s a nice guy.
