After a career-ending fight, ex-professional-hockey-player-turned-Zamboni-driver Chase Cassidy has never looked back at the sport. He's perfectly content cleaning the ice between periods and chatting with fellow staff members, and running a pub outs...
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Spencer
"That doesn't make sense, Spencer. Tell me why we're over."
"Because you're an asshole, Brandon."
He makes a sputtering noise on the other end of the phone. "I—Spence—No."
I roll my eyes and use my strength to haul the suitcase up the cement stairs. After a weekend of listening to Brandon beg me to stay, I can't handle hearing his voice for another minute. His fraudulent claims are the bane of my headaches.
You need me in your life, Spence.
I'm the best you'll ever have.
Don't make a mistake.
My heels click against the pavement as a cool breeze flitters through my hair. The air smells of fried food, chicken shit, and decaying autumn leaves. It's a lovely fucking area. Ahead, I can see my childhood home. The West Estate is in the suburbs of Caledon, Ontario, next to the annual fairgrounds for the Harvest Festival. Forty-five minutes outside of Toronto.
"Spence," Brandon whines. His voice grates on my nerves. "We can work this out. Don't give up everything we've worked for."
I stop next to a planter. They're filled with yellow mums, bright and cheery against the cloudy aura this place possesses. My leg muscles are burning from the stairs, but the ache doesn't compare to the frustration building in my chest. As I catch my breath, I try to centre myself. I'm on the verge of yelling through my phone. This is the fifth call since the Toronto airport.
"Brandon," I say.
"Seriously! What happened, Spence? We're on good terms. We love each other. I don't see the issue!"
That's the problem, buddy.
When we met, Brandon was a good guy. He would leave me love notes, present me with surprise picnics in the meadow by our house, and fuck regularly. But the routine became too predictable, and the last straw was him telling me accepting a job as a journalist for the Toronto Maple Leafs, the very team my brother, Lennon West, plays for, wasn't a smart route.
Once I sat him down and told him this romance is a dying breed, his controlling side became visible. It was an eminent red flag.
The gaslighting was—and still is—impeccable.
"The issue is your incompetence," I reply. "I'm not in love with you anymore, Brandon. And you can't seem to accept that, therefore making you unsuccessful in the common sense department."
Again, he sputters on the other end, as if the connection between his tongue and brain is short circuiting.
"It's over," I continue, my voice softening. "Brandon. Quit gaslighting me. Although being a journalist specific to the Toronto Maple Leafs isn't my dream job, it's a step in the right direction. I need to—"
