Page 12 of Cross Check
“You first,” he says.
“Your skating looks better from the last time our teams matched up. Your movements are controlled, and you’re more explosive in the offensive zone.”
“Holy shit. Really? Thank you. That’s a high compliment coming from you. I know your gameplay tends to be offense oriented. I’ve been working on my speed and precision in practice. A game environment is totally different from a scrimmage, obviously, but I appreciate you noticing and—” Grant runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. A soft chuckle tumbles out of him. “I’m rambling. Sorry.”
“No worries. Just wanted to let you know what you’re doing is working.”
“Thanks, Amelia. Shit. Sorry. Coach Green.” His grip tightens then relaxes on his stick. I have a suspicion he’s not someone who can sit still. “I’m always open to feedback if you see anything else I can improve.”
“That would make you a better player, and you’ve already beaten my team twice this season,” I say. “I can’t hand you another victory on a silver platter.”
“Fair enough.” He laughs again. “I’ll take what I can get, and I graciously accept your praise.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’ll see you next season, Everett.”
“Can’t wait, Coach,” Grant says.
I know he’s watching me walk away. I know he’s waiting for me to turn around and get in the last word—so am I—but I hold back. When I make it to the locker room without offering him another glance, I relax.
He might have won tonight’s game, but I’m going to win whatever is next.
SIX
AMELIA
MARCH, SIX SEASONS AGO
DC is one of my favorite places to visit, especially this time of year.
Tourists aren’t out in full force yet. The cherry blossoms will bloom soon. The air is cool but the sun is bright, and the unseasonably warm temperature makes being outside tolerable. I can run around the National Mall without working up a sweat.
It’s perfect.
I pause my workout to take a sip of my drink by the Lincoln Memorial. A young girl pedals toward me on a bike with no training wheels, and I shift out of her way. She wobbles to the side, but a man is there to catch her, narrowly avoiding hitting me in the process.
“Sorry about that,” he calls out.
“No problem,” I say, knowing that won’t ever be my life.
I won’t ever teach anyone how to ride a bike. There won’t be any first steps or hearing someone’s first words. No Mother’s Day cards or matching pajamas at Christmas.
I spent most of my twenties listening to my older sister describe the love she feels whenever she’s with her children. I waited to see if the desire to have kids of my own would ever creep up, but the feeling has never come.
It never will, and I’m okay with that.
I love my job. Coaching is what I want to do for the rest of my life. I thrive in the chaos of figuring out a player’s strength and watching hours of game film. I find joy in the down-to-the-wire plays and overtime wins.
What’s next for me outside of work is the uncertain part. I went on a handful of dates in July and August, each more disastrous than the last. No one made it to a second meetup, and I keep wondering if there’s something wrong with me.
I’m not disappointed by the romantic slump. I’m not hell-bent on finding someone to settle down with. Things don’t work out, and I’m fine. No tears. No social media stalking to figure out if he’s ghosting me because he’s married with a family.
Craving independence should bother me, but it doesn’t. I’m not scared to be alone. At the end of the day, maybe I’m just not meant to be a partner or a mother. Maybe I put too much energy into other parts of my life, and the well for personal connections is dry.
I’m perfectly at peace with coming home to an empty apartment. I have weekly dinners with Lainey and Sienna. I have my routines, and I’m happy.
That’s all that matters.
I pocket my water bottle in my running belt. I get in the zone as I start back up, only to run into something solid a few yards ahead. I fling out an arm to stop myself from tumbling into the Reflecting Pool, but fingers wrap around my wrist before I can go for a swim.
