Overnight Sensation(81)

“What does the girl want?” he asks, probably hoping to get to the end of this conversation. “Money?”

“Not exactly. See, she’s pretty happy to be alive and playing goalie for her college team. She was hoping to meet you when the team travels to Minnesota. Her name is Carrie, and she runs a campaign every year at her school so that other students know how important it is to check the organ-donation box on your driver’s license.”

“Oh,” he says slowly. “That’s a good cause.”

“It is,” Georgia agrees. “She’s in touch with another organ recipient, too. Both women feel a lot of gratitude toward Melissa. They’d like to meet you.”

“Me?” he asks. “Why? The other woman plays hockey, too? What are the odds?”

“No,” Georgia says quickly. “Only Carrie plays. The other girl—they’re just transplant buddies.”

He frowns. “She got a transplant, too? Of…?”

Georgia looks really uncomfortable now. “Eyes.” Her voice cracks on the word. “She was blind.”

“Eyes,” he repeats. “I see.” And then, as I watch, Jason’s face drains of color. His face turns white and then grey, and even his lips go pale. “Excuse me,” he grunts. Then he walks away from me without a backward glance, flinging the door open so hard that it bangs against the wall.

He disappears, and for a long moment afterward, Georgia and I just stare at the doorway where we last saw him.

“Holy cow,” Georgia says, recovering first. “I didn’t mean to upset him. I had to bring this to him, though. Didn’t I?” She turns to look at me with wide eyes.

“Sure,” I say, although I’m not sure about anything at all.

“There’s no road map for this,” Georgia says.

“Right? I’ll give him a few minutes and then track him down. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“Would you?” she asks. “Text me, okay?”

“Of course.”

Georgia leaves, still looking worried. I throw away my ice pack, gather up my things, and go in search of Jason.

But by the time I’ve checked the locker room and the equipment room, Jason is gone. He’s already on the team bus, from what Jimbo can tell me.

I check my phone. No messages.





31





Jason


I’m lying in bed in a luxurious room on an upper floor of the Fairmont Hotel. I’ve left the lights off and the drapes open, and the Silicon Valley sparkles out the window in the distance.

Only I’m not really here at all. I’m back in Quebec in a stadium with my juniors team. We just won our third tournament game in a row. I’m covered in sweat and grinning like a maniac. But then my coach pulls me aside. Come here, Castro. Sit down, son. There’s been an accident.

A car accident, as it turned out. And Lissa was just gone. I remember sitting there on the bench in the stinky locker room, trying to process what he was telling me.

But it took me hours to understand and another day or so to cry. Because your girlfriend can’t just up and die when there are so many complicated things between the two of you.

Except it turns out that she can.

Most people don’t learn this lesson at eighteen. Some people never learn it at all. I still envy everyone who doesn’t know what it’s like to have a major chunk of your world ripped away on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. It’s a kind of violence on your soul.

And violence always leaves a mark. I felt physically ill tonight when Georgia explained who wanted to meet me. Bile rose suddenly in my throat, and I fought it back all the way to the hotel.

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow. Lissa and I had starred in Romeo and Juliet at school in ninth grade. To this day I still have every line memorized. “A Shakespearean Tragedy” our local paper had titled the story of Lissa’s accident.

That play will forever be snarled with November and loss in my mind.

Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t meet somebody who has Melissa’s eyes. I’ll write a big fat check to whatever charity these girls are supporting. But I don’t want to meet them.

I roll over and stare at the hotel room ceiling. I need to pull myself together. That’s something I had to learn at eighteen, too. A man doesn’t fall apart. There are too many people depending on me. Even at eighteen, I had the dysfunctional mother of the deceased blubbering in my arms at the funeral. And my own family watching me warily—my mother soaking her way through a supply of tissues.

You don’t cry when anyone else is around. They need you to be okay. They’re counting on it.

Across the room, my phone lights up with another text. My parents always reach out after a game to let me know they watched. And my teammates are probably wondering why I’m not down at the bar.

Then there’s Heidi. This afternoon I slipped a hotel key into her pocket and told her to meet me here later if she could. But then I pulled a runner tonight after that weird little meeting with Georgia. Heidi is almost certainly wanting to know if I’m okay.

And I will be soon. I always am.





Sleep comes for me eventually. I drift through its shallowest waters before slipping under the surface entirely. I barely register the beep and click of my hotel room door opening. A few moments later, a soft body curves toward mine. My arm is lifted and then lowered again. My hand—relaxed in sleep—comes to rest on smooth skin.