Scoring big, p.4
Scoring Big, page 4
“Uh.” I’m not educated and never considered myself smart, but I’m intrigued. “Doesn’t gender arise from…well…”
“Sexuality and gender are actually socially constructed concepts,” she says. “And they can vary through someone’s life and in different social settings.”
“Okay.” I nod, thinking about that. “I guess I can get that.”
Her lips curve into a smile full of appreciation and goddammit if it doesn’t make me feel like I’m ten feet tall. “I didn’t actually finish my degree.” Her faces scrunches up briefly. “Some shit happened and that’s when I moved to Europe.”
“Well, that’s got me curious. What kind of shit? Oh, wait. You don’t want to talk about it.”
“Eh.”
“That means it was a dude.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, yeah. It’s fine, it was years ago. I was involved with this guy who I thought was ‘the one’…” She makes air quotes. “He was a portfolio manager at a big investment house. Turns out he was defrauding investors. He’s still in prison.”
“Jesus.” I gape at her.
“Yeah.” She sighs. “Ah well.”
I shake my head. “That must have been a shock.”
“It was. I had no idea. I still don’t know how I could have been such an idiot.”
“I’m sure he didn’t want you to know what he was doing.”
“True.” She pauses. “And what about you and your ex-wife? How long were you married?”
“Five years. Five years too long.” I give a dry chuckle.
“Can I ask what happened?”
“It wasn’t dramatic. She fell in love with someone else. She didn’t cheat on me, at least. She was honest about it.” I lift one shoulder. “We were never really suited.”
“Ah.”
“We thought we were. I thought it was sick, living in the big city, lots of money in my bank account, dating a Broadway actress. Well, now she’s a Broadway actress. At the time, she was doing off-Broadway stuff. We got married because she was pregnant with Quinn.”
“Ah.” Her faces softens. “I’m sure Quinn makes it all worthwhile.”
“Absolutely. Quinn’s the best thing in my life.” I pause. “That sounds pathetic.”
“No.” She slowly shakes her head. “No, it doesn’t. She’s your daughter. She should be the best thing in your life.”
“Yeah. I really miss her during the season, although I do see her. Just not as much. I guess…it’s been a while since I’ve been single and lately…” I trail off. I barely know Carly. How to scare off a woman on your first date: tell her you’re looking for something serious. I keep my mouth shut. “Well, I’m lucky to have her.”
“I agree. She’s a sweetheart.”
“Thanks. She wants a tattoo like you have.” I gesture at her delicate ankle, but the boot hides the ink. I noticed the swirling script on a ribbon tied into a flowing bow yesterday.
Carly glances down. “Oh.”
“What does it say?”
“C’est la vie.”
She says it with what sounds like a perfect French accent.
“I wanted it to say ‘shit happens,’ but my friend convinced me I’d regret that.”
I grin. “Quinn would definitely want a tattoo that says ‘shit happens.’”
“Um, yeah, I noticed she has a bit of a trucker vocabulary.”
I lift a hand. “All my fault. I’ve tried to watch my language around her but fuck, it’s hard. I’m a hockey player.”
She gives me a mock-reproving glance. “Come on. It can’t be that hard.”
“I’m getting better at it. But she’s picked up a few things. Anyway, the tattoo is nice.”
“I got it done in France. It’s a reminder to me that stuff happens, but that’s life.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I peer at her empty cup. “More coffee?”
“Sure. But I’ll get it.”
“Ugh.”
She smiles at my frustrated noise. When she returns, I say, “I’d suggest going for a walk, but that’s not happening right now.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure it’s aggravating to not be able to do what you want.”
“It really fucking is. And it’ll only be worse if I have to have the surgery.”
“More surgery?”
“This was just an injection. We’re trying to avoid surgery if possible. It’ll take a few weeks to see if this worked but if not, I’ll have to have my meniscus repaired.”
“Oh. Damn.”
“Yeah. And the more time that passes, the closer we get to training camp, which means I may not be able to play right away.”
“What does that mean for you?” She eyes me curiously. “Would you not make the team? Would that mean you’re out for a whole year?”
“No. I can start when I can play, when I get medical clearance. I just hate not being able to play. And it could mean playing in the minor league for a while.” And of course worrying that I’ll never be able to play again and my career could be over. Without hockey, I don’t have much else going for me, so that’s a little unnerving. Okay, terrifying.
But I don’t lay all that on her.
“Understandable,” she says.
“On the other hand, it might work out for the best if it’s when Quinn is back at school, because then she’ll be back with her mother and I won’t have to worry about looking after her.”
“True. I’m sorry you’re going through that.”
“Eh. It happens.” I pause. “C’est la vie.”
We share a smile and damn, she’s so pretty and caring and she gets my weird sense of humor and I’m really having fun. It’s different talking to someone other than Quinn or my teammates and I want more of it.
5
CARLY
For dinner, I eat the steak and mushroom pie I picked up at Queen of Tarts before I left earlier. Lexi, Imani, and Lorelie are all home, making the tiny kitchen crowded. I don’t even know these women, I only know Gianna, and they’re nice enough, but I can tell they’re frustrated by me and my stuff being around. This gives me a feeling of pressure. I have to get out of here. I guess there’s always a hotel. I really need a job first.
I have an interview tomorrow for a dispatch position with a portable toilet company. I don’t know why they offered me an interview; I don’t have any dispatch experience. But they offered me an interview and I need to go, even if just for the experience. I can get ready for that.
But I keep thinking about Nate.
I really like him. I’m really attracted to him. I agreed to see him again, although we didn’t set an exact time.
Huddled into a corner of the couch that is also my bed, I try to make myself small and unobtrusive as I apply for more positions, then look for rooms for rent. I could get a room in a four-bedroom apartment shared with others. Maybe I should go have a look and see what it’s like.
I make that arrangement for the day after tomorrow, then go back to the new article I started. I sent a few queries but haven’t heard back yet. Somehow I manage to focus on work until Gianna gets home.
“How was the coffee date?” she asks.
“It was…really great.”
She pauses and gives me a look. “Really. You didn’t sound very sure last night.”
“I know.” I blow out a breath. “I don’t want to make too much of it. Because the last thing I need right now is a relationship. And I’m still kind of leery. Because of Jeff. Like, I don’t know how to judge people anymore.”
“I guess that’s understandable.”
“And I didn’t come back to New York to find a man.” I came back because…because I had nowhere else to go.
Pathetic.
I need a purpose in my life. I need to find out who I am, on my own, responsible solely for myself.
“I should be working. Writing. Job hunting,” I go on. “Why would someone like him be interested in me? Homeless and unemployed, with an ex who’s in prison.”
Gianna laughs. “You won’t be homeless and unemployed for long. And your ex being in prison has nothing to do with you. You’re a smart, loyal, determined woman. Plus you’re beautiful. Why wouldn’t he be interested in you?”
“Aw, thanks.” I make a face. “I guess I’m feeling a little doubtful about myself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. We all have ups and downs in our lives, and I know you, you won’t stay down for long.”
I smile at my friend. “I appreciate the kind words. And you’re right.” I square my shoulders. “I applied for more jobs and Thursday I’m going to look at an apartment. And Nate asked to see me again. And I’m going to.”
“Good! That’s exciting!”
When Gianna’s in her room and I’m tucked into my makeshift bed on her couch, I pull out my phone. I have Nate’s number but we haven’t communicated yet. I type in a text message.
CARLY: Hi Nate, this is Carly. I have a job interview tomorrow and I’m looking at an apartment on Thursday, so maybe we could go out Friday?
I send it. Then add, If you’re still interested.
Shit. I add another message. And if that works for you.
Now he’ll think I’m an idiot. I close my eyes, my phone on my chest. I start when it vibrates. I pick it up and peer at it.
NATE: Definitely still interested. Let me see what I can work out.
Right, he’d have to find a babysitter for Quinn.
CARLY: Sounds good.
I set my phone on the table and turn the lamp off. I settle into my bed with my usual shifting, adjusting, sighing, and turning over. I’m just starting to drift to sleep when my phone buzzes again.
I should ignore it. It’s bedtime.
Do I ignore it? No, I do not.
I stretch an arm out to grab it and read the message.
NATE: Okay we’re set for Friday night. I can pick you up or we can meet nearby.
I smile, a little rush of pleasure running through me.
CARLY: I can meet you in front of your place.
NATE: Perfect. How about 6:15
CARLY: See you then.
I have a date with a hot hockey player. No job. No home. No problem!
The job interview goes okay. The apartment viewing, not so much. It’s in Harlem, which is okay except I have no idea where I’ll be working, but I guess that doesn’t matter. The place itself is fine but there’s only one bathroom so I’d have to share with three other people. I’d also be sharing the kitchen and living space. The couple the apartment belongs to use the main bedroom and there’s a female tenant in another. The room comes with a bed and a desk and chair. It would be perfect except that the while the woman showed me the place, her partner walked out of their bedroom in his tighty-whities and a motorcycle helmet.
I blinked a few times at him as he walked into the kitchen, shoved his hand down his underwear to scratch, then opened the fridge with that hand and pulled out a beer.
I don’t even want to think about why he needs a motorcycle helmet.
I just don’t know if I can do it.
I left with a non-committal response and started looking on my phone as I took the subway back to Gianna’s. I’m not going to be able to be choosy, but surely there’s something better.
I spend Friday looking at a few more places—Brooklyn, Hamilton Heights, one in Astoria that was actually pretty nice but expensive. None of these places will rent to me without a job, though.
Then I get ready for my date. I’m not in the best mood. My search for a job and a home is depressing me. I almost think of canceling, if only for Nate’s sake, but hopefully going out will cheer me up.
I dress in loose jeans, a blue and white sleeveless shirt with a wrap waist that I tie into a big bow, and pointy-toed red flats since I’m walking. It’s gorgeous summer evening so I add my sunglasses and a small cross body bag.
Nate is sitting out front on the low wall around the garden and fountains, looking at his phone. I apparently dressed appropriately, because we sort of match—he’s wearing jeans, a button-down blue and white striped shirt and brown leather loafers. He looks up as I approach and smiles. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I stand in front of him smiling like a fool. Jeez. I’m already cheered up and I’ve only just laid eyes on him.
He stands and looks at his phone again. “Our Uber should be here any second.”
“Hey! No crutches!”
“I ditched ’em.”
“Is that okay? How’s your knee?”
“It’s okay. I’m not sure if the treatment has helped, though.” He makes a face.
“Oh. How long will it take until you know?”
“The doc said two or three weeks. Next week I start physical therapy.”
Our car arrives and we climb in.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Chelsea Piers.”
“Ooookay.”
“For a jazz cruise.”
My mouth falls open and my eyes pop wide. “Seriously? That is awesome.”
“I hope so.” His smile widens as his eyes move over my face. “Then dinner after.”
“I’m excited!”
He tips his head, still smiling. “Good. Me too.”
The car slogs through Friday evening traffic to Chelsea Piers, where we make our way to the dock for the cruise. I take my complimentary glass of champagne and we find a place to sit near a window. The boat is beautiful, all gleaming light wood with glass tables and green upholstered booths. The low sun gilds everything and glints off the brass saxophone of one of the musicians.
“I’ve never done anything like this,” I tell him as we glide out into the harbor. “When I lived here before, I was a broke college student.” I pause. “Now I’m a broke adult.”
He laughs. “I haven’t done this either.”
“Where is Quinn? With her mom?”
“No, my friend Bergie and his wife are looking after her. They have two kids.”
“Oh, that’s nice you have someone who can babysit.”
“Yeah.”
“Is he a hockey player, too?”
“Yep. He’s the captain of the team.”
“Ah.”
“I’m an alternate captain.”
“Oooh. What do the captain and alternate captain do? Does that mean you’re the best players?”
“No.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of champagne, the jazz trio of sax, keyboard and drums serenading us with a Cole Porter song. “The captains are the only players who can talk to the officials, so if they call a bad penalty or miss an offside we can talk to them about it and get an explanation at least. Sometimes the team captain organizes social events or team meetings.” He pauses. “It’s also about leadership. Leading by example. Working hard, showing the rookies how to succeed.”
“How long have you been playing?”
“My whole life?”
I smile. “How long professionally?”
“Uh…ten years. I got drafted when I was eighteen, and I played two seasons in the AHL—the minor league.”
“So you’re a veteran.”
“I am.” He grins, then rubs his mouth.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just worry about whether my knee will ever get better. I’m a veteran, which means I’m not a young pup anymore and things don’t heal up like they used to.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Oh yeah, you’re over the hill.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five. I took a couple of years away from school before I started college.”
“A baby.”
“Oh, come on. And I’m kidding. You’re not old.”
“In hockey, that’s ancient. Okay, I’m exaggerating. I actually feel like I’ve been playing my best hockey the last couple of seasons.”
A jazzy piano tune starts, and I move my shoulders to the rhythm of “Mine” by George Gershwin.
“Another drink?” Nate asks.
“That would be lovely.”
We cruise past the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, One World Trade tower, and countless sailboats on the water. As the sun lowers in the sky, it glints off various high rises, creating an amazing panorama.
“I’m in heaven,” I say. “Sipping champagne, listening to jazz, looking at this beautiful scenery. I can almost forget my life is a shambles.”
His forehead creases and he leans closer. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Now it’s my turn to exaggerate.” I roll my eyes. “I just feel a little lost at the moment. My job hunt isn’t going well, and neither is my apartment hunt.” I tell him about some of the places I looked at, but I don’t want to whine and ruin our evening, so I keep it brief. “I had an interview the other day with a portable toilet company!”
He barks out a laugh. “What?”
I grin. “Hey, it’s honest work. But I didn’t get the job. I’ve applied for a bunch more, though.”
“What do you want to do?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.” I make a face. “My college courses don’t prepare me for much. I’ve thought of going back to school, but I’d have to take something practical. Maybe some business courses.” I shrug.
“Didn’t you say you worked as a nanny?”
“Yeah. For three years. I don’t want to do that again.” My firm tone ends that line of conversation.
The cruise is about an hour and a half and then we disembark. “I made a dinner reservation,” Nate says. “Are you hungry?”
“I definitely am.”
He leads the way to the restaurant a few blocks away in the Meatpacking District.
“Is your knee okay to walk?” I ask as we stroll the sidewalk.
“I feel it a bit, but it’s fine. My quads and hamstrings are powerful.”
I laugh, even though I’m sure that’s true.
Inside the brasserie, the lighting is dim and the atmosphere urbane with lamps on each table and Edison bulbs lining the wood beams above us. We’re shown to a small booth and we both order glasses of red wine, then sip them while we look over the menu. We agree to skip the raw bar, although I feel a bit uncool doing that. Perhaps I should develop a taste for oysters and tuna poke but since Nate isn’t a fan either, I’m okay with it. He orders whipped feta for us to share to start and then the prime rib, and I get roasted seabass.
