Page 68 of Tainted Love

“Hey,” he replies, his voice echoing through the receiver. “What time can I come over tonight?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” I say with a tinge of frustration. “I’m not in the same state right now.”

“What do you mean you’re not in the same state?” His tone is concerned, his worry evident.

“I’m actually in Colorado.” Silence. I can almost see him furrowing his brow in confusion on the other end of the line.

“Why are you in Colorado?”

“It turns out I’ve been selected to pitch an advertising campaign for the Mountaineers,” I reply, feeling a sense of accomplishment. More silence. Instead of filling it, I gaze at the breathtaking view from the large windows. The snow-capped peaks stretched toward the endless expanse of blue sky. This is a world away from my usual routine, but I’m beginning to feel exhilarated by this unexpected opportunity.

After a beat, he speaks.“And why would the Mountaineers want you?” his animosity toward me seeps through the phone line.

“Excuse me,” I retort sharply. “You might want to reconsider how you’re speaking to me right now.”

The tension between us is tangible as we both take a moment to collect ourselves before continuing the conversation.

“No, I just mean...you work for a small firm in another state. Why would the Mountaineers want you to pitch a campaign for them? It doesn’t make sense.”

My silence speaks volumes, and soon, he fills in the blanks on his own. “Michael Tazman,” he says bitterly. “Now it makes sense.”

Matt knows little about Michael besides that we disappeared from the wedding together for a while, and we’ve known one another for most of our lives. Matt has been visibly uncomfortable with our long-standing “friendship."

“Yes, he brought up my name,” I tell him calmly, trying not to let his doubts affect me. “But it won’t change anything. If I get this job, it will be because of my hard work.”

“When will you be back?” he asks, sounding defeated.

“I’m going to have to stay here for the next few days,” I reply, knowing my prolonged absence will only add to his insecurities. “I’m pitching for the job on Friday.”

“So, you won’t be coming home this week?” The disappointment in his voice hangs like a cloud over our conversation.

“Yep. I will be locked in this conference room or a hotel,” I reply, looking around the expansive space.

“I’m sure Tazman loves that,” Matt says sarcastically, unable to hide his true feelings.

“Look, Matt. The whole jealousy thing is getting old,” I snap, as frustration from our previous arguments resurfaces. “We’ve been together a matter of weeks, and you’ve brought it up more than once. It’s clear you don’t trust me or respect me.”

“Why don’t you just admit that you have feelings for the guy, Sascha.” he accuses, his voice heavy with insecurity.

“Okay. I’m not going to have this fight with you right now. I have a job to do, and I need to focus on it. I’m sorry I’m giving you such short notice, but this is the notice I got as well. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs.

“Goodbye.” My words are final as I take a deep breath and try to push aside my emotions for the sake of my upcoming pitch, but I can’t force myself to focus. The feelings of the day swirl and distract me like a raging storm, and I find myself pacing back and forth in the spacious conference room. With each step, the carpet fibers bend and wear under the weight of my black heels and troubled mind. I mutter, trying to rationalize my emotions like a madman pleading his case to an unseen jury.

Exhibit A—Matt doesn’t trust me. Exhibit B—my ambition threatens Matt. Exhibit C—Matt wants me to be someone I’m not. Exhibit D—Matt is boring in the bedroom. So I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what the fuck I’m doing with this man when we are so clearly not well-matched?

My mind races as I finish my summation argument, the jury of my subconscious already reaching a verdict. Matt needs to go. The thought of breaking up with him over the phone makes me cringe, but I refuse to prolong this. I can’t bear the idea of returning home and enduring days of difficult conversations like the one I just had.

With a heavy sigh, I slump into the plush chair and stare at the blank whiteboard. Our phone call has stifled my creativity. My thoughts are scattered, and I feel completely drained. Should I continue to sit here and grow more frustrated, or take Jerry’s suggestion to watch the game?

Strangely, the thought of watching the game excites me, offering a much-needed distraction for my restless mind and body. I use the bathroom in the hallway to freshen up a bit before venturing out into the expanse of this building.

As I make my way toward the ice, or the direction I think is the ice, I can’t help but take in the sheer size and grandeur of the building. Its towering walls stretch endlessly into the sky, while its sprawling layout covers a vast expanse of land.

On one side is the administrative wing, filled with multiple floors of sleek conference rooms, bustling office spaces, and rows of cubicles. I navigate through the maze-like hallways and ride elevators until I finally reach the heart of the building—the ice. As soon as the elevator door opens with a familiar ding, the sights and sounds of a hockey game hit me in the face in full effect, the nostalgia almost knocking me off my feet.

The music is loud, the beer is flowing, and from the looks of the lines, the food is being sold at record paces. It’s unmistakable that there’s about to be a hockey game. Although I’ve never been to a professional game, butterflies spark to life in my stomach. I’m unsure why, but I’ve always felt this way when I watched Michael play. He’s a force of nature off the ice; on the ice, he’s a God amongst men. Not that I would ever admit that to him. His ego can’t take any more stroking, and I’ve declared that I will never stroke any other part of him, either.