And what the hell, a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie.
I slide my tray down the line in the executive cafeteria, also located on the bottom floor of the arena. I have a grand total of twenty minutes to eat lunch and get back up to the weight room, where I’m doing a strength training session with Max Fournier, who looks to be a shoo-in for the starting goalie slot now that Ryker Evans has retired. Fournier tore his ACL season before last, had a terrific rehab, but wants to up his game as far as his core strength. So I put together a plan for him and we have our first session today, which I’m excited about, because although I love tending to acute injuries, I really get a kick out of helping players with their conditioning.
I pay for my meal and grab the closest table. The cafeteria is deserted because it’s almost two p.m., which means this could be a late lunch or an early dinner for me. The morning drills are done and most of the players have left, but they’re due back for a practice scrimmage in a few hours.
While I really want to eat my cookie first, I force myself toward the tuna salad, thinking maybe that will fill me up and dissuade me from the cookie after. I can afford the calories for sure, because no matter how busy my day is, I usually budget time for getting in at least a half-hour workout of my own, but for some reason, cookies and sweets seem to congregate around my hips.
Just as I place the first bite of tuna in my mouth, I hear, “Up for some company?”
That voice. Rich, deep, and rough.
I don’t even need to glance up, but I do, meeting Hawke’s bright blue eyes dead on. He has his hair pulled back into a short ponytail, one lock at his forehead having sprung free to hang down over his eyebrow. His face is open and affable, which is still taking a bit to get used to. Ever since last week when I iced his knee, the tension that had existed between us seems completely gone. And that’s all on Hawke. He extended an olive branch to me and I took it, and as of now, we seem to be existing on a polite and friendly basis. I see him around the locker room or training rooms and he always waves or says hello. He has me tape his knee up every day before practice and we make small talk, usually about current events or something funny that’s happened in the news. All very easy and nonthreatening, and it’s put me completely at ease with him.
But there is a downside to this renewed yet casual friendship.
And that’s the way in which this new cordiality between us only serves to highlight the void that still exists. Every time he gives me a friendly greeting, I remember the days when he greeted me every morning by rolling over in bed and kissing me soundly. Every time I tape his knee, I realize how cold, clinical, and unfeeling my touch is upon his skin, especially when Hawke and I used to be all about the passionate touch. All those things tear me up inside, because I went a long, long time missing those things about Hawke after I called it off with him.
And then there came the inevitable time from deep within my misery when I realized I had probably played it all wrong. I had cut ties with him as a means of punishment—both to him and myself—but after a few weeks of reasoned thought, I knew I had made a mistake. I missed him so damn much and I had to believe that he knew I didn’t mean it when I told him I didn’t love him. Surely he knew that wasn’t really me. Surely he understood that people don’t just love one day, and the next it’s gone.
So I called him and left a voicemail, asking him to please call me so we could talk. I waited two days before I called again. Left another message.
I never tried to call back after that. He was making it clear he didn’t want to talk, but that didn’t mean I was giving up. So I sent him an email and then I waited patiently, because Hawke wasn’t much of an emailer. In fact, he tended to eschew all social media, so there was no telling when he might ultimately see my email.
But he never wrote back.
And then I gave up.