I Know It's Over Part 11

It's not just the car. I'm slow at Sports 2 Go too. Brian, the manager, makes cracks about it all morning. By noon I'm completely sick of it and it must show in my face because he claps me on the back and says, "Why don't you take your break early? Re-energize yourself."

"I have to take lunch at one," I tell him. "Somebody's meeting me."

"Oooh," Brian croons. "Maybe she's the problem."

"Yeah, and maybe it's you," I retort. Okay, so maybe I did sound a little panicked, but is that any reason for him to act like he knows it all?

Brian's eyebrows leap up in surprise. "Steady there, Nick. This is just friendly banter. You're normally right on the ball-not like some of the other guys in here. n.o.body knows that better than I do, buddy."

I nod at the ground and try to figure out what normal Nick would say to that. "Man." I rub my forehead. "Sorry. I'm seriously burnt out. I think I need a vacation."

"Yo, this is your vacation," Grayson says on his way by to grab a pair of shoes from the stockroom. Grayson, as you probably have already guessed, is still an a.s.shole. He mostly stays out of my way and I mostly stay out of his. It's an arrangement that's been working for the past three weeks, but for some reason today's the day he decides to start talking to me again.

As soon as Brian fades into the background, Grayson's by my side, straightening the men's sportswear on the sale rack. "Bossman's really on your back today," he comments. I shrug and step aside to avoid being stampeded by a sudden rush of customers. "So what's with you today? You all right, man?"

I shake my head. Spending the day after Christmas at the mall is not my idea of a good time. Between rabid customers knocking merchandise off the shelves and b.i.t.c.hing about the lousy sale prices, Brian's "friendly banter," and my approaching lunch hour, I'm about as f.u.c.ked up as I can be without completely losing it.

"Why don't you take off?" Grayson suggests. "Store won't fall apart without you, you know. You tell the man you gotta take care of some s.h.i.+t. An emergency."

"Someone's meeting me here at one." I guess Grayson missed that part of the conversation.

"Oh, yeah?" I wait for him to make his own "friendly banter" about that, but he just adds, "Then you go when they get here. Do I have to figure this all out for you?" He cracks a smile when I look at him.

"You're doing an okay job so far." I fire a smile back. The conversation actually calms me down for fifteen whole minutes.

I circulate through the store, looking for people to help, and a woman flags me down in sports accessories. The boy with her must be about ten years old and the woman speaks to me like I'm her shrink. She's all worried because she wants to get her kid interested in sports, but he hates everything he tries and shouldn't there be something out there for him? I could easily mess with her-say something like, "Well, have you tried chess or backgammon?" but then the kid would feel bad. Clearly he's got bigger problems than sports, you know, like his mother spilling his personal info in the middle of a sports store.

Shouldn't these things be obvious?

I give the woman and her kid a spiel about the individuality of sports and how some people are really into the team thing while others prefer solo stuff. I explain that some people like aggressive games while others are into strategy. There are some people who will play anything and some people who need to find their exact fit. It's like anything else really. Some people have a calling, one thing they were born to be (like Sasha with forensics), while others can explore a spectrum of options. A contemplative expression slips over the woman's face as she listens to me. She's buying it, I can tell, and I explain why hockey is the best sport for me. Skating. Speed. The team. The kid is staring at me too, but it's her I'm getting to. For some reason she needs to hear this and when I finish, she thanks me and walks out of the store without buying anything.

It's busier than ever in the mall and I stare out into the crowd, trying to catch sight of Sasha, although it's not one o'clock yet. I get edgier with each pa.s.sing second. I haven't decided what to say yet, but I know how I feel. I'm not ready to have a kid. There's no possible way I can be someone's dad.

The minutes crawl by. One o'clock hits and still no Sasha. I hold it together for eighteen more minutes and then I break. How can she be late today? I'm hanging on by a thread, nerves shooting through my veins and making me half crazy, and she's late. I stalk towards the cash register, calling Brian's name. He c.o.c.ks his head as he eyes me.

"I'm taking lunch now," I tell him. My company T-s.h.i.+rt is stuck to my back and my forehead is wet.

"Go on," he says, and I walk out of the store and stop by the fountain. Sasha's cell phone number is burned into my brain and I fish my phone out of my pocket and punch in her number.

She picks up on the first ring. "Nick?"

"Where are you? I've been waiting since one."

"It's positive," she announces hollowly. "I took another test this morning and it's positive."

"s.h.i.+t." It's what I expected, but that doesn't make it any easier. I grip the phone tighter. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," she says quietly. "Yeah."

"You need to get over here. We need to talk."

"Nick, I can't...all those people. I can't deal with going anywhere today and you don't know anyway, do you? You don't know what to say to me or what I should do. It all comes down to me and I need to stay here and think right now."

"That's not fair," I protest. "I can't keep doing this, Sasha, pretending everything's okay when it's all I can think about. We need to make some decisions, the two of us, and we can't do it over the phone." I pull at the back of my T-s.h.i.+rt and wipe my forehead. "If you're not coming here, I'm coming there."

"Don't," she commands. "Not now."

"You're kind of limiting my options," I say bitterly.

"Fine, come over!" she cries. "Help me tell the folks. They'll be glad to see you, I'm sure."

"Sasha." I say her name gently. I need her to calm down. "Don't you think we should get some things straight before you tell them? Do you even know what you want to do?"

"No, but it sounds like you do."

"I know we're not ready. We're sixteen. You can't tell me you're ready for your whole life to change." My throat shrinks as the words slip out. "Maybe we can take care of this ourselves. Maybe they don't even have to know."

Sasha's silent on the other end of the phone. I have no idea what's going through her mind and that scares me. "Nick, I don't know if I can do that." Her voice is brittle. "You think you can just make this disappear. Maybe that would work for you, but it's not that easy for me. I need to talk to my mom." She sniffles into the quiet between us and it's such an awful sound that I'm almost relieved when she finally whispers, "I told you first because you have the right to know, but I can't get through this on my own."

"You're not on your own, Sasha."

"No? I woke up this morning, walked to the drugstore, and bought a pregnancy test. Me. On my own. You say you can't think about anything else, but I'm living it. It's with me every moment."

I draw in a long breath, like I'm testing out a new pair of lungs. "So what happens now?"

"I tell my mother," she repeats.

"When can I see you?"

"I'll call you in a couple days, okay? When I'm ready."

"And that's it? I'm out of it. Don't call me, I'll call you."

"It's not like that," she says. "I just need some time to figure out what's best for me."

I can't believe she's doing this again, shutting me out like this isn't even about me. "Okay, so do it, but don't act like I'm on the outside of this, Sasha. I know it's your decision, but it affects me too. This is about us whether you like it or not."

"I know." She says that like she hasn't heard a word. "I'll call you in a few days. I promise."

A couple days, a few days, next thing you know it'll be a week. What am I supposed to do until I hear from her? Press end. Get lunch in the food court. Go back to Sports 2 Go and pretend you give a s.h.i.+t about the post-Christmas blowout sale. That's what the voice tells me, but I can't do it. The sound of Sasha hanging up echoes in my ear and I keep holding on, cell phone pressed against my ear and my s.h.i.+rt melting into my back. I keep holding on. The sound dies and then there's just silence. I keep holding on.

fourteen.

Keelor and I lean against the boards and watch the Zamboni flood the ice. Keelor is permanently wired when it comes to hockey. He can't wait to get out there and he bursts onto the ice the moment the Zamboni doors are closed. Gavin is right behind him. Me, I'm not in a hurry for this practice; my impatience comes from somewhere else. I don't even know what I'm doing here; that's the truth. I'm no good at anything since Sasha told me on Christmas Eve. I'm just waiting. It's only been one day since she said she'd call and I can't stand it anymore.

I drag my a.s.s out onto the ice and Coach Howes orchestrates the warm-up. We run lines. Skate hard from the goal line to the blue line and back. Red line. Goal line. Far blue line. Goal line. And finally all the way down the ice. Coach Howes blows his whistle. "Drop!" he orders. "Push-ups." Everyone knifes to a stop and falls to the ice. My body isn't anywhere near tired and I do the push-ups without thinking. Coach blows the whistle again. Circles this time. Two laps forward and two laps backwards for every circle on the ice. My feet know what to do and they do it. I've been playing hockey for so long that the basics come naturally.

The shooting drills are a different story. Every pa.s.s is in my teammates' skates and my shots couldn't hit the side of a barn. No one except the coach gives a s.h.i.+t if you're c.r.a.p in practice, but I keep my eyes down in the dressing room afterwards. I don't want to talk to anyone and I don't want to listen. Keelor's busy ribbing Gavin about something, but just when I think I might pull off my invisible man trick, he pulls me aside and asks if I'm going to Marc Guerreau's New Year's Eve party.

I've received at least fifteen messages about this party in the past twenty-four hours, but it's the last thing on my mind. "I don't know," I tell him. "Maybe."

"You have other plans?" he says mockingly. "Come on, Nick. It'll be good for you. All of us are going-Gavin, Hunter, Scotty, Vix, Dani."

"Nathan?"

Keelor shrugs. "Ask him." I can tell you right now there's zero possibility Nathan will be at Marc's party. It's not his crowd anymore; bringing up his name to Keelor is a reflex action from years gone by.

I shrug like it doesn't matter anyway. I have no intention of showing up and Keelor knows it.

"We'll pick you up," he says. "No excuses."

"Whatever."

"Hey, f.u.c.k whatever, Nick. I'm serious. You're going to this party if I have to throw your a.s.s into the back of Gavin's car." Keelor's eyes are blazing. "You're a walking disaster, man. You gotta shake this. Something's gotta change."

He's serious, all right, but he doesn't have a clue. A New Year's Eve party won't solve my problem. "I said I'd be there, didn't I?" It's not worth an argument at this point. I can get out of it later.

I head for the shower and stand under the stream of hot water, wondering if Sasha's told her mother. Will her parents let me see her again? I need to see her.

It was different during my parents' divorce. My life felt unchanged when I was on the ice. Now I can't forget anything for more than a minute and it turns my judgment to s.h.i.+t. We lost our last game because I screwed up a perfect opportunity in the last minute of the third period. We were down 21 when the puck sprung loose in front of the Northam Blue's net. I was closest to the puck and I sped towards it, swung my stick back, and tried to slap it into the net while it was still in motion. That was the idea anyway, but I fanned on the shot and the puck dribbled into the corner. So much for our tie.

Sometimes the puck finds the net and sometimes it doesn't, but I've never had it quite this bad before. Somehow I have to get it together before the tournament in Buffalo tomorrow. I can't let this shake me up forever. It's not fair to the team and it's not doing me any good either.

I do the only thing that will help. I catch a ride home with Keelor's dad and start typing out an e-mail to Sasha. I know I'm supposed to leave her alone for a few days, but this is the best I can do. No voices. Just words.

There's a knock on the door before I get far. "Nicholas?" Mom peeks her head around the door. "Can we talk?"

"I'm kinda in the middle of something." I already have everything written out in my head and I don't want to forget.

"Put that aside for a few minutes," she says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

I stop typing and glare at her. "So you're not really asking."

"Don't be difficult." Her voice tenses. She used to sound like this a lot just before the divorce.

I drain any hint of expression from my face as I swing around in my chair. Mom sits down on the edge of my bed with her hands resting on her knees. "I'd like to know what's going on with you, Nicholas. You still haven't explained what happened on Christmas Eve. I'm glad you can talk to your father, but we should be able to talk, you and I. You're unhappy, that's obvious."

My chair creaks as I lean back and fold my arms in front of me. "Maybe it would help you if I talked about it," I say flatly. "But it wouldn't help me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't really want to know what's going on. You just think you do."

"That's not true, Nicholas." Mom's eyes soften as her neck cranes forward. "I do want to know."

And you know, I almost believe her. Almost but not quite. She probably still thinks this is about Dad and Bridgette-some big blowup we had on Christmas Eve and are in the middle of working through. Then she could be sympathetic and tell me that just because my father is self-centered at times doesn't mean that he doesn't love me.

"Mom, I'm trying to work things out for myself for now." I give her the responsible tone so she won't worry too much. "You can't fix everything for me anymore. There are things I need to take care of for myself."

Mom sighs and shakes her head. "I don't know what to say to you."

"Don't worry so much." I roll my eyes. "You take every little thing so seriously." Okay, I know that's not fair, and that this is no little thing but she keeps pus.h.i.+ng me.

"Every little thing," she repeats. The words make a pinging sound, like a leaky kitchen faucet.

"Here we go again." I mean it and I don't.

Mom marches indignantly out of the room, closing the door snugly behind her, and I stare at the barely begun e-mail, trying to recapture my thoughts. I had it perfect in my head a few minutes ago, but now I'll have to start over.

Sasha, I know you need time but I also need to hear from you. Maybe you think this is easy for me but it's not. I was never even over you and there you were at my house telling me you were pregnant. I was mad at you. I shouldn't have made you go. A lot of things should've happened differently than they did. I'm sorry for the things that are my fault and I want you to know that I do want what's best for you-not just what's best for me. I know you'll tell me when you figure that out and I know this is harder for you than it is for me but it isn't easy for me either. Nothing else matters right now. Please e me and let me know you're ok.

Nick I press send before I can change my mind and then IM Nathan and ask him what he's doing on New Year's. There's too much time to kill while I'm waiting for Sasha's reply. I feel like a monkey on speed, staring at the monitor with beady eyes and banging wildly on the keyboard. Next thing you know I'll start shrieking and jumping around the room and Holland will burst in, hand me a banana, and start speaking to me in sign language.

I go downstairs before that can happen. I don't want to run into Mom, but I'm going stir-crazy. Holland is talking on the phone and watching music videos in the living room. She tosses me the remote as I sit down and then walks away. I ride up and down the channels and land right where I started with Eminem's "Lose Yourself." It's his best song and the music pounds in my chest and grabs me by the throat.

I love music that can do that. Just not now. I flick through channels for the next thirty minutes. Two minutes of Entourage, ninety seconds of Battlestar Galactica, three minutes of Miami Ink. After a while I don't even know what I'm watching. The flipping itself is the activity. I don't watch much TV normally. I don't have time and 90 percent of the shows suck anyway. Today is no exception and the therapeutic effects of flipping wear off fast. Maybe it's Maury that does it or maybe it's c.u.mulative. Whatever it is, I have to stop and check my messages.

I sprint upstairs to find Sasha's reply waiting in my in-box. The subject line's blank and I hold my breath as I open her e-mail: Thanks, Nick. I know this isn't easy for you. It's not that I want to keep you in the dark or that I don't want to talk to you. I'm just very confused right now. I talked to my mom after we got off the phone yesterday. She was more upset than mad-and not just because we were having s.e.x but because we should've been protecting ourselves properly and she wishes that I'd gone to her about that. She said if she'd known about the accident she could've taken me to the drugstore for Plan B pills.

When she asked what I wanted to do I didn't know what to say. She said some of the things you said about us being young and that having it would be very hard and she doesn't want things to be hard for me. She also asked if you'd be involved if I had it and I said I didn't really know. I know we need to talk about that and I promise I will try to consider your thoughts but first she's going to take me to a clinic to speak with a counselor.

I'm really scared but it helps that she knows-and that she said she'd be there for me no matter what I want to do. Maybe I shouldn't say this to you because I think it's what you want too and I haven't made up my mind yet but now I won't feel like such a bad person if I can't go through with it. Please give me a few more days and I promise I'll come by and talk to you about it.

My dad doesn't know anything yet. I'm not ready for that. Have you told your mom?

Sasha I don't reply right away. I sit down on my bed, the exact spot where Mom was sitting an hour ago. There's nothing else I can do; I have to let Sasha figure out what she wants. Things feel different now that her mother knows. I'm glad, I guess-relieved-but the bad feelings don't go. Maybe I should've told Sasha I'd be there for her no matter what. I mean, I can't picture it. Our kid. But I know that if it comes down to it, I won't be able to ignore it either. He or she will probably be at the school day care, three doors away from my math cla.s.s. Sasha will be running in and out of there all day, checking on the kid while she tries to keep up with everything. She'll have one of those giant diaper bag things people carry around and her parents will probably buy her a car to get them both to school. Her parents have money; they can do that. Money isn't the issue here. The issue is me running into Sasha and the baby in the parking lot and in the hall, acting like they don't have anything to do with me. It's not right.

So it looks like I'm in. Parental visits to the Jasinski house. Babysitting maybe. It's the only thing to do. And Sasha might not have the baby anyway. I crouch in front of the monitor and read her e-mail a second time. Her mom thinks it'd be better if she didn't have it. I'd feel the same way if I were her mother. She wants Sasha to have the perfect future and this isn't it. I'm the wrong guy and this is the wrong time. This isn't anything like her life is supposed to turn out. She's supposed to go to university, do Europe, and then start this incredible career. Abortion is so obviously the right thing to do that I feel like crying. This kid never had a chance from the start. They suction it out or something, right? I know it's not a real baby, but it's something and it's not its fault. But that's not the worst part about this. I don't want that to happen to Sasha. n.o.body should ever have to do that, but I can't stand to think about it happening to her.

I sit down at the computer and type out this e-mail: Sasha, I just want you to know that I'm ok with whatever you decide and that I will be involved if you decide to have it. I don't know if that changes anything but I wanted you to know.

Nick I mean it and that surprises me. Suddenly I also know that I can't go to Buffalo with the team. Not only that, but I can't say when I'll be able to play hockey again. I lunge for the phone and dial Coach Howes. The coach's usually solid voice bends with concern at my tight-lipped mention of personal problems. He's really bighearted about the whole thing and doesn't slam the door on the possibility of me rejoining the team later in the season. It helps me to hear that. They're not just a collection of hockey players; they're in the game together and that's rarer than you'd think. But the hardest part is breaking the news to Keelor. I know he won't let me do it without an explanation and my chest starts pounding again as I punch in his number, just like when I was listening to Eminem.

"I'm not going to Buffalo," I blurt out. "I already called the coach and told him. I'm quitting the team-at least for a while. They're calling up some guy to take my place. I don't know how-"

"Don't be an a.s.shole," Keelor cuts in. "Everybody has bad games, Nick. Okay, I know you've been having them a lot lately, but it won't last. You're too good to-"

"Shut up for a second, man. Just listen, all right?" I pause to make sure I have his attention. "This doesn't have anything to do with hockey. It's personal. Really personal. I don't want anyone else to know this, you get me?"

"Yeah, sure, Nick. Of course."

"Okay, then." I swallow hard. "It's Sasha-she's pregnant."