Goodbye Chicago
756 Words
Marcus didn't respond to Adrian's text. Instead, he spent the next three days in a whirlwind of packing, paperwork, and goodbyes that left him too exhausted to think.
His apartment in Chicago was put up for sale. His furniture went into storage. His personal belongings fit into six boxes, which felt depressing when he really thought about it. Nine years in a city, and his entire life could be packed up in an afternoon.
Sarah came over to help, bringing her youngest daughter Emma, who was seven and was obsessed with hockey in the way only a child with an NHL uncle could be. Emma wore a miniature Predators jersey with Kane's number on the back, and every five minutes she'd ask questions like "Will you still be number seventeen?" and "Can I have a Wolves jersey too?" and "Why do you look so sad, Uncle Marcus?"
Kids were too perceptive for their own good.
"I'm not sad, Em," Marcus said, ruffling her hair. "Just tired."
"Mom says you have to go to Boston because of money stuff."
Marcus shot Sarah a look, but his sister just shrugged apologetically. "She asked. I wasn't going to lie to her."
"It's more complicated than that," Marcus said to Emma.
"Adult complicated or math complicated?"
"Definitely adult complicated."
Emma nodded sagely, as if this explained everything, and went back to playing with the mini hockey sticks Marcus had given her last Christmas.
Sarah waited until her daughter was out of earshot before saying, "You want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Is this about Adrian Cross?"
Marcus's hands stilled on the box he was taping shut. "Why would this be about Adrian Cross?"
"Because every time his name comes up, you get this look on your face. And I've seen clips of you two playing. Marcus, the tension is visible from space. There's something you're not telling me."
Sarah was three years younger than him, but they had been close even as kids. He had spent most of their childhood protecting her from bullies and their father's temper before their parents' separation. She knew him better than anyone, which made her both his greatest support and his biggest liability when it came to keeping secrets.
"It's ancient history," Marcus said finally. "From before the draft."
"How ancient?"
" Enough that it doesn't matter anymore."
Sarah studied him with those sharp hazel eyes that missed nothing. "But it still hurts."
It wasn't a question. Marcus taped the box with more force than necessary and said, "I'll be fine. It's just two years."
"Two years playing with someone who 'doesn't matter anymore'?" Sarah made air quotes with her fingers. "That's a special kind of hell, little brother."
"I've survived worse."
"Have you?"
Marcus thought about that; their father leaving when he was twelve, their mother having to work three jobs to help pay for Sarah's college while he played junior hockey, their mother's diagnosis, years of clawing his way up through the minor leagues, fighting for every shift, and every opportunity.
But none of that had felt quite like this—this particular blend of dread and longing, anger and regret.
"I'll let you know in two years," he said.
The flight to Boston was turbulent, which felt appropriate. Marcus sat in first class, staring at his laptop screen without seeing it, while other passengers slept or watched movies.
He should be reviewing game footage, studying the Wolves' playbook that Frank Delaney had sent over. Instead, he saw himself clicking on a folder on his laptop that he should have deleted years ago.
It contained three photos. The first was Marcus at nineteen, baby-faced and grinning, arm slung around another player at some summer charity event. The other player had blonde hair and blue eyes and a smile that could have lit up the arena.
The second was he and the same player, a year later, on a dock somewhere in the Adirondacks on a stolen weekend at someone's lake house. They were shirtless, sunburned, laughing at something outside the frame. The photo was slightly out of focus, taken on a timer they'd set up.
The third, was a more familiar version of Adrian asleep in a hotel room, morning light streaming across his bare shoulders. His face was peaceful in a way it never was when he was awake. Marcus had taken that one in Vancouver, three weeks before everything fell apart.
Marcus closed the laptop and pressed his forehead against the cold airplane window, watching clouds scroll past below.
- Writer
