The Tales of a Professional Hockey Player

Chapter 11: Reading

~Ben~

During my senior year of high school, my math teacher had the habit of naming things differently than anyone else. For example, he named the quadratic formula Bertha because he found it funny to tell us to use Bertha when solving an equation. He was a man who liked to tease his students, even finding nicknames for some of us. I was Dishes Girl. Why? Because one of his favorite expression was "doing the dishes." For him, "doing the dishes" was resolving the easy part of an equation. You had found out how to solve the "hard and complicated" part and all that was left to do was the additions and subtractions. The first day of the year, he had us solve a bunch of equations we learned the previous year to evaluate our level, and I was the only one who got them all right. He made me solve them on the board and explain how I got that result. After that, every time someone got an answer wrong, he asked me to solve it. I got the nickname when I solved an equation with less steps than him. "You're better at doing the dishes than me," he said. "I'll call you Dishes Girl and it'll be the best compliment you could have ever gotten from me," he added, shaking my hand. I became Dishes Girl after that day.

I close the book as images of Eleanor angrily telling me about other students calling her Dishes Girl fill my mind. I remember her coming to the arena after school one day, I had never seen her so angry. She was the only one in her class who had solved a problem in the exam, so her teacher, Mr. Lloyd, made her solve it in front of the class. I don't remember exactly what had happened after that, but it was something along the lines of some guy in her class, thinking she had better grades because she was the teacher's favorite student, calling her "Dishes Girl" in the cafeteria in front of everyone. I have about four chapters left to her book. I only put it down to eat and when I'm in charge of Ophelia since I started reading it three days ago. I laughed and cried, but I mostly feel nostalgic. Reading about the happy memories we have made me remember how good we were together. Eager to learn where she's going with this, I continue.

Mr. Lloyd, that was his name, used to tell us that, when we were at the point of doing the dishes, we were up to a good start. I remember him telling us, at the end of the year, that, if we had made it this far, the rest would just be dishes. We would be doing dishes for the rest of our lives, meaning that we had made it past every hard thing part. We were left with the fun and easy things. Call me naïve, but I believed him, for a short while at least. I believed him because, at that moment in my life, everything was easy. Ben had made it to Major Junior, I was accepted to university even if I had applied late, and we were finally moving in together. Everything was as easy as doing the dishes. It stayed that way for about a minute. After that minute, everything fell on us like a ton of brick, breaking the bones of Ben and I's relationship. We became ashes in a world that wouldn't allow us to grieve. He had to go back to Germany for work and I had to take care of our baby. Now, every time I do the dishes, I think about Mr. Lloyd and what he meant by "you're up to a good start." Did he mean that we would be able to overcome every obstacle if we had made it through high school or did he mean that everything would be easy from then on? If I ever see him again, I'll nicely tell him to stop giving seventeen-year-olds false hopes about the future. Because, no, everything won't be as easy as doing the dishes. Life will be filled with compromises and having to sit in cold and empty arenas as you watch your boyfriend shot pucks into nets, pretending that, yeah, you totally noticed that the last one was perfect. You'll have to pretend to care about things you'll never care about, and you'll be disappointed when he or she won't do the same. You'll wonder if you were made for more until you'll be left with less. Then, and only then, you'll see that life is as easy as doing the dishes. It's us who overthink too much. I fell in love with Ben without asking myself too many questions. It's when I started doing so that we began having problems. I hate myself for it.

I am unable to read the last few lines of the chapter. I close the book, having to resist the urge to throw it on the wall. "You'll have to pretend to care about things you'll never care about." She's talking about hockey; I know she is. I remember telling her about what had happened at practice or relating a game to her on the phone. She always sounded excited and happy for me. Did she always fake it? I can't imagine that she never cared about what I told her. She kept asking questions. I clearly remember her face when we learned about the draft to Major Junior, she was as excited as me. I refuse to believe that my girlfriend faked her reactions every time I talked about hockey. I then remember all the times she told me about the book she was reading. How she liked the story and the characters. I was interested, but as much as she probably wanted me to be. Is it what she means by that sentence? She always used to tell me that us having different passions was good, but did she wish our passions looked more alike?

Without realizing what I was doing, I got up and started walking towards Eleanor's room. I am now in front of her door, hesitating to knock. "Never have a life changing conversation angry, Benny," my mother always used to tell me. I try to convince myself that I am not angry before knocking on the door.

"I know it's late, but I needed to talk to you," I say as she opens the door. She's wearing black pajama shorts and a white t-shirt. Her hair is all over the place like it usually is on mornings. "How much of it did you fake?" I ask as she moves away to let me enter the room.

"What? Could you please lower the volume? Ophelia's sleeping." Maybe coming here at a quarter to one am wasn't the best idea. She rubs her eyes and motion for me to follow her on the balcony.

"How much of it did you fake?" I ask again as she sits on the white plastic chair. I decide against sitting down, thinking I have more power if I stand.

"How much of what did I fake? You're not making any sense." She sounds tired, as if she hadn't gotten a good night of sleep in a while.

"Us," I confront. "How much of us did you fake? How many times did you pretend to be happy for something you didn't care about?" I add, my voice raising against my will.

"Where is this coming from, Ben? It's one am for god's sake!"

"You'll have to pretend to care about things you'll never care about. You wrote this about me." When I quote the line from her book, she finally understands.

"You read my book?" She sounds surprised which angers me more. I nod, my eyes closed to calm myself down. I don't want a screaming match. You get nowhere during a screaming match except knowing who screams louder.

"How much of it did you not care about, El? Tell me." She rubs her eyes with her hands again.

"I never faked, Ben. I just wasn't as excited as you thought," she says, looking at me directly in the eyes for the first time in a really long time. "Just like you weren't that exited to hear about the new poetry collection I had bought. We both pretended at one point or another. That's how relationships work," she adds softly when she sees the sadness in my eyes. She hasn't spoken to me this way since before Germany. It feels good to hear that voice coming out of her mouth again.

"All the time you said you didn't mind about me not attending an event or something like that, you didn't mind? You never hated me for leaving?" She closes her eyes as I stare at her, waiting.

"I never hated you, I hated hockey. And yes, I was sad when you missed prom or when you couldn't attend readings or stuff like that, but I understood because you had your own passion. I had mine and you had yours and that was ok," she answers, grabbing my hand to bring me down to her level. I cautiously sit on the second plastic chair that I am afraid will break under my weight. I get what she means, but thinking back at it, I see how much more she had to give up compared to me. It was always her to had to stay behind when I had to leave and she's the one who took care of our daughter when I decided to go to Germany.

"Maybe. But reading your book made me see how much you had to sacrifice for my passion to be front and center. I'm sorry for that." She smiles at me for the first time. Maybe coming here at one am wasn't the worst idea after all. We're both too tired to scream.

"You wanna know something?" I nod. "That's why I didn't go to Germany. I was done putting you first, and I think it was a way to punish you for everything I had to sacrifice for hockey. I'm sorry for that too," she says, breaking my already broken heart.

"Why didn't you tell me that?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I loved you, I stayed quiet, and it was ok for a while. I didn't mind putting you first, until I did." Her hand is still on mine, and, for the first time, I am the one who wants to pull away.

"You said loved." 

New chapter!! I am a little upset at Wattpad to be honest, you guys. I wanted to enter the Wattys with The Tales of a Future Hockey Wife, but, unfortunately, I live in the only province where you can't enter the contest. There is no explanation whatsoever, so it sucks... Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter. xx