Work Text:
January 30th, approx. 10pm
Breakaway straight down the middle.
Deke left, deke right, he puts it in glove side on Chad Johnson, the Bruins’ backup goalie.
Danny’s old but he’s good, damn good.
I take another shot and turn up my stereo. The TV is on mute. The vodka sizzles down my throat and warms my chest. Thank god I’m home alone.
I sit down on the couch and watch him celebrate. He goes to the bench and Gallagher basically throws himself onto him. I don’t realize how hard I’m holding my beer until my hand cramps and I nearly drop my beer. My vision blurs.
He’s so good.
I put my beer down and I run my hands up and down my thighs. I can’t stop thinking of him. I close my eyes and imagine being in his arms. My stomach churns. I cough a little and a nasty taste erupts in my mouth. Fuck.
I kept going in and out until the game ended. Montreal won 4-1 against Boston. I got up and took another shot. I stumble and fall against the fridge, and drop my shot glass. I don’t realize that I’m crying until I put my forehead against the tile floor.
~~
I’ve been thinking hard about how I’m not going to the Olympics. It fucking sucks. I’m pissed. My ego is hurt and I’m forced to fucking hide it. But that’s not why I drink. I drink because Danny stole me.
I passed out on the floor and my neighbour made sure I was okay, since my stereo was turned all the way up for an hour. He almost called the cops. I drooled on myself.
I walk to my bedroom and flop into bed. I check my phone and no one has texted me all day. But I’m still pretty drunk so I’m lonely and want to talk to someone. The phone’s up to my face and it’s ringing.
“…hello?”
Fuck me I called Danny. Fuck fuck fuck
“Hi. Good goal.”
“Thanks, Claude? Why’d you call me? Are you coming up here during the break?”
“To congrats you. And maybe, I’m not sure.”
He sighs. “Have you been drinking?”
“A little bit.”
“We’re at the airport. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Always.”
“Alright. Á bientót, Clo.” He sounds like he pities me.
“Bonne chance, mon cher.” I keep my phone by my ear for a moment.
“…you hang up first.”
“No, you!”
“Clo, really.”
“Daniel, really.”
Danny laughs again.
“Á bientót. Ich liebe dich, Clo.”
“Ja ja ja, ich liebe dich.”
I breathe into the phone.
Danny hangs up first.
February 10th, morning
I leave tomorrow to see Danny. Two days after the drunk incident I told him I was coming. All he replied back with was “okay”. He’s probably mad at me because I ignored his texts for two weeks.
I’m staring into my suitcase, making sure everything is there. I’ll always feel like I’m forgetting something. Fuck it. I close it and head to the kitchen. I’m nervous. We both fucked up and I just want to make things right.
I take out a bottle of hard cider and pace around my place while slowly drinking it. I go from room to room, staring at our memories on the walls. There’s a great picture of us from Deutschland—we’re both smiling around a giant stein of beer. My hair is all over the place and Danny looks like he hasn’t slept in a very long time.
My phone goes off—it’s an email notification. I check it, and it’s Danny’s itinerary. I’m taking a flight out of Philly tomorrow morning and I’ll be up in Montreal by early afternoon and he’ll pick me up from the airport. He makes a note for me to wear a hat and lay low. I’m not sure what he has planned but I’m terrified. Not terrified because of any bodily harm but terrified because I don’t want to screw up something.
I fall onto the couch and turn on my stereo—this time it’s quiet and I turn on a Pandora station that some girl made when I brought her home. It’s made after the Killers—they’re an okay band, but then this Irish indie group plays. I forget the name of them but they make me drink more.
Danny doesn’t want to be alone, but I’m not sure if wants to be with me. He could do so much better. There are guys and girls better than me, without a big ego and a drinking problem. He could have anyone and anything but he chose me to lead on. I just want things to be okay. That’s all I want. And if Danny leaves or I leave, so be it.
I could find better.
The next day, approx. 10am
I take a taxi to the airport and the driver won’t shut the fuck up.
“Heading home for the Olympic break?”
“Yeah.” I say. Keep it short and simple.
“It’s going to be cold up there.”
No fuck, dumbass.
“Yeah.” My leg starts bouncing on the floor. We get to the airport in a shorter time that I’d anticipated, and I grab my belongings and toss the driver a twenty.
“What change do you want back?” He asks.
“Keep it. All of it.” I close the door and start walking away.
“I hope your family is okay, you seem nervous.” He calls after me, his voice carrying through the open window.
I stop in my tracks for a moment but I step into the airport. I pull my hat down a little and tighten my hoodie strings. I approach the clerk and hand her my reservations. She doesn’t recognize me, either that or she’s really tired.
“ID?” She asks politely.
I flip my wallet open and show her my ID. She doesn’t flinch. She types something and pushes the wallet back. She then hands me my ticket.
“Enjoy your flight to Montreal, Mr. Giroux.” She smiles at me. It’s a little knowing.
I nod and hurry to customs. There’s barely anyone here. I get up to the woman working customs and she sighs heavily, as if I’m a burden on her life. The first thing she does is point at my hat. I hesitantly pull it off, and she nods at me and I put it back on. I look around nervously and realize I’m still okay.
I get on the flight ten minutes before take-off. I’m one of the only people on the flight. Pre-flight bullshit begins and it’s over with. Once the plane is in the air, I plug in my headphones and open up Youtube. I listen to that band again and think of Danny. I don’t want to drink as much anymore, because I’m going home.