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Chapter 30

Guy

The day I’d long dreaded finally came. It was over three years after we broke up.

Kitty was thriving. She was acting and writing for SNL. I was genuinely so proud of my Kitty. We were both doing the things we’d wanted to do our whole lives. At least we’d accomplished the objective for us breaking up.

That’s who she still was to me. My Kitty.

I had her few seconds on the SNL intro memorized. She looked over her shoulder, flicking her long, dark hair with a silly look on her face, then laughing and showing her true smile. It was a smile I knew well. It was the one she gave when she was truly happy and comfortable. But the best part was that she wore the bird necklace I’d sent her all those years before in the shot. I wondered if she meant it as a sign to me.

That first summer after she was cast, she went on a standup tour called Wannabe Pop Star. She dressed like a pop star, in a sparkly bodysuit with tall glittering boots, showing off those incredible legs of hers.

I bought a front-row seat for every single show as my weird way of showing support, but I never got up the nerve to go. Part of me said I’d just distract her. Another part of me was just plain scared. What if she didn’t still love me the way I loved her? I didn’t think my heart could survive the rejection.

Still, I kept my options open. Would she take me back if I could play for New York or New Jersey? I had my agent look into it, to start putting feelers out. I wouldn’t be able to move out of my entry-level contract until I was twenty-seven. These were what-ifs for years in the future.

Mostly, I was really dedicated to not distracting her. I had a burner social media account to watch her standup posts. I didn’t want her to see my face in her followers, so @funnyfan96 I was. I left nice comments about how funny she was. If someone was mean to her, I turned into a bulldog defending her viciously.

Not that she really needed my help. She was so good, she even got a Netflix stand-up special. I watched it a gross number of times. When Branson caught me watching it again on a flight, he intervened.

“You ever going to call her?”

“We talk sometimes,” I said, brushing him off. “She knows I’m proud of her.”

“Bro,” Branson said, looking at me more seriously. “Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like therapy, man.” He eyed me cautiously. “You’re running through women like water. I heard a rumor you had SNL on while you fucked one of them.”

My cheeks heated. It was true. It wasn’t my fault that Kitty’s show was on during prime fucking hours. It wasn’t my fault that I looked for Kitty in every woman I had sex with. Sometimes I’d squint and try to imagine the eyes looking back at me were hers. I tried to mentally trick myself that it was her and not some almost-stranger.

“Guess I need my agent to lock up my NDAs a little tighter.”

Branson sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Guy, I’m just worried about you. I’m afraid you’re never going to get over her.”

“What if I don’t want to get over her? What if I know it’s going to work out again?” I snapped.

One of our other teammates, Schneider, leaned over. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“Know. What?” I bit out.

“Shut the fuck up, Schneider!” Branson warned.

“What are you keeping from me?”

“Look, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” Branson started.

“Tell me what?!” I demanded, fully yelling.

Branson put a hand on my shoulder. “Deep breaths, Guy.”

My eyes searched his, my heart sinking as the realization ran over my body like a cracked egg. “Who?” I whispered.

“Her castmate, Clark Sanders.”

I stopped breathing. I thought I had noticed chemistry in their scenes together, but told myself I was just jealous. I pulled out my phone and googled both of their names. Sure enough, there were paparazzi photos of them. Her feet in his lap at an awards ceremony, a laugh coming from her pretty lips. Their hands laced in Central Park. The two of them masked together in a deli.

The worst part of it all was she looked like she was in love. I knew what she looked like in love. I’d seen that face reflected back at me.

She hadn’t told me. Frank hadn’t told me. Both Gattos betrayed me.

The rest of the flight was a fever dream. People talked to me, but I didn’t hear them. Branson told our social media manager not to take any pictures of me. He also made me drink water. Coach didn’t bother making me put my suit back on to deplane.

When we landed in Seattle, Branson took me home. After he sat with me for a few hours, essentially holding a vigil for my shattered heart, I sent him home to be with Mel and the baby. Being the good friend he is, he refused to leave me alone. He had me pack for a stayover at his place. That’s how worried about me he was.

He was right to be worried. I was a walking nightmare. He must have given Mel a heads-up because she was ready for us with a frozen pizza and some wings. She didn’t even flinch when I cried into my plate. Not that I could care. I had no shame. I was completely broken.

Kitty was moving on without me. Everything in my whole body hurt.

My playing was abysmal, too. My legs felt like lead on the ice at morning skate the next day. I wiped out of my own accord a few times, and no one said a word. Coach started to bark at me, but someone quickly pulled him aside and mumbled something to shut him up. After practice, Coach called me into his office. I expected the reaming of the century.

Instead, when I sat in the chair in front of his desk, he gave me a sympathetic look.

“You want to be a healthy scratch or an upper body injury for tomorrow, Stelle?”

“Coach? I don’t understand,” I said, genuinely baffled. “I’m not sick.”

“You look like hell.”

“It won’t affect my playing, Coach,” I argued. “I’m not injured. What upper body injury are you talking about?”

“Come on. Don’t make me spell it out.”

I looked at him with a shrug. I really didn’t understand.

“Your head’s not on right. I think you need to take a little time off to get it back together. Maybe talk to the team shrink. You could hurt yourself playing when you’re like this.”

I was embarrassed. Kitty and I had split up three years before and I was still that torn up over her. But while we’d split up, she was always mine to me. Why couldn’t everyone get that?

I’d been silent for too long.

“I’ve been there before, Stelle. I wish someone had given me some time.”

“You have?”

“The woman before my wife. She cheated on me, though. You learn to love again.”

That statement made nausea churn hot in my gut. I wouldn’t love again. I’d only love Kitty.

But I took the time off, and I had a few long sessions with the team psychologist. I’d met with her once before, but it was brief and strictly focused on hockey. This time, I spilled it all out. Papa leaving. Maman dying. Kitty and I getting together. Kitty and I falling apart. My continued hopes that Kitty would come back to me someday. The women I killed time with in between what I hoped was our split and getting back together.

I told her how I really believed Kitty was coming back.

The therapist encouraged me to take the time to mourn all the things I’d lost. She told me it was okay to take some time and space from talking to Kitty as a friend, or to talk if I needed the closure. I couldn’t fathom closure, because that would mean it was over. I chose to put distance between us.

She had me write about my feelings. I wrote about how much I missed Maman. I wrote about how I resented Papa for not being able to try harder for us. I looked through old pictures of me and Kitty, and sadly, looked at some pictures of her with him . Did I even know Kitty anymore?

But in a way, I felt like I did. We still texted sometimes, when one of us did something noteworthy. We remained each other’s biggest fans.

I looked over my shelf filled with hats she’d sent me every time I got a hat trick, along with the snow globe she gave me right before we broke up. Every single time, she showed that she was still paying attention and still cared.

True to Kitty’s way of being, the hats were all silly. One, an I LOVE NY hat. Another was a really douchey-looking fedora with a peacock feather in the band. One was so big I had to design a special shelf for it, an oversized cowboy hat. I picked the ridiculous fedora off the shelf and decided I’d start wearing it with my suits for games. She still wore her bird necklace, even while she was with him. I considered that a victory. So I’d wear her hat when I knew I’d be photographed.

Maybe then she’d know how much I still loved her every day. Maybe someday soon, I could figure out a way to win her back.

And never let her go again. Because I only had one more time of trying left in me.

Part 5: The Return