"Looks like you can take the man out of the competition, but not the competition out of the man," Mateo says.
"Looks like," I agree.
A couple of parents shout their goodbyes, and he waves while still playing with the ball. I stare, context making his soccer skills more mesmerizing than when he was a stranger with a pile of short-notice fun in his trunk. Harper remains entrenched in gossip with her teammates, and when Mateo passes to me, I pass it back as easily as I had the night we met.
"So, you were one of the best centers to ever play in the NHL, but your daughter's one hell of a back," he says. "Is that because any early soccer skills she practicedwithyou meant she had to learn to defendagainstyou?"
"Nah. I thinkthatwas spite." I pout, but I know it's too fond to come across as anything but the adoration it is. "Even little Harper wasn't going to stand for me being an expert in something she could beat me at. If I remember correctly, she put her hands on her hips and said, 'I don't want to score like you do. I want to be the one to stop you.'"
"Well, she seems to have succeeded."
I want to believe Mateo is only talking about soccer, and it's possible he thinks he is. My next breath rattles in my chest anyway. Nodding gives me a moment to recover and a decent chance to begin an awkward goodbye, but now that he's had a second chance to watch me kick a ball around, I'm curious.
"When's the last time you were on ice?" I ask.
"On ice?"
"Have you skated before? Ever held a hockey stick? Shot a puck?"
Mateo's grin lands somewhere between mischievous and suspicious. "Ihaveskated, though it's been years, and I'm sure I'd be wobbly now. And no, nobody's put a stick in my hands."
"Somebody should take you skating and put a stick in your hands."
"Come on, Jamie. I know you didn't miss thewobblypart of that."
"Okay, then somebody should take you skating and hold you steady before they put a stick in your hands."
Harper returns to us then, sweaty and energized in a way I miss. She's got her backpack now, and I barely realize I have the soccer ball again before she takes it from me and kicks it back to Mateo. As she wipes her forehead with her arm, she begs to stop for pizza on our way home, and I agree, even while too much of my attention remains elsewhere. I don't miss it when Mateo fixes his little bun and never quite looks at me as he responds to what I’d said moments ago.
"I hope somebody does."
Hope is a bitch, but it's all we've got.
The next couple of weeks pass amid contradictions I can't control. The days leading up to Christmas bring joyful chaos and seasonal depression. My house is full of chatter when Harper's home and nearly silent when she's gone. And her soccer games are colder and darker, both dragged out on long tournament days, but I'm welcomed by the bright smiles of other parents and warmed by one careful hello.
Mateo and I haven't had a conversation since the evening I practically suggested a date at the rink. It's enough to be around him for now.
I haven't seen Danielle at all, which is typical. I've seen severalformer teammates—and a few favorite opponents—at hockey games, and even more at holiday parties. There, among a crowd of people who only sort of care, I'm the center of attention until I become easy to forget. I'm not stupid enough to think it hasn't always been that way.
Coming down from my bullshit highs, I've found myself at Kai's on a few mornings after. I’d texted him back then—after back-to-school night—to say that Mateo and I wouldn’t need those barstools anymore. Then I’d avoided him for weeks, and he’d let me. But for as many times as I've been lost, he has never failed to bring me home.
Back to something honest.
Back to the daughter who's laughed more in her childhood than I ever did in mine. I'm glad I did one thing right.
She's at her mom's until late on Christmas Eve. We both sleep in on Christmas morning, but wake up ready for gifts and waffles and far too much hot chocolate. In a few hours, we'll be expected at my parents' house, but for a while it's just Harper and me—and a text from Mateo.
Merry Christmas. I miss you.
I look up to find my kid busy with her own phone, giggling to herself. She and her friends entertain each other with stories about the presents they got, or the presents they didn't, and how much quality time their families will force on them in the name of holiday cheer. It gives me time to change Mateo's contact name toM—hardly a difficult code to crack, but slightly less damning at a glance—and then I tap out half a response.
Merry Christmas to you
Ignoring the rest, I mumble something to Harper and leave to take a shower.
Because there are some things I can count on, New Year's Evecomes days after that. Over the past week, I've been to a soccer game and a hockey game and to the bar twice. Now, Harper and Lizzie are at Kate's for the night, and I'm alone without believing for a second that it's a good idea. I try to get invested in any of the celebrations being broadcast from across the country, but nothing holds my attention for long. For a moment, I consider getting dressed just to take my clothes off with a stranger, but there are better levels of stupid within reach tonight.
I pour myself a strong drink. Then another. I watch old episodes of a melodramatic teen drama. A third drink is paired with the laziest version of a charcuterie board anyone has ever seen, and a fourth gets carried upstairs when I decide I don't want to fall asleep on the couch. I'm not drunk, but I'm not sober, and once it's officially January, I pick up my phone.