Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
From the sincerity in his tone, I can tell he wants an honest answer. “I sensed you felt a little out of sync,” I say as the car chugs upward to the eighth floor.
“I did,” he says, but he sounds relieved that I noticed, or really, that I told him the truth. “But I’ve got to do better, Briar. People depend on me,” he says, and this is the side of him he doesn’t usually show. This is the side of himself he fakes for others. He’s being real with me though.
“And you will. It was a one-off game,” I try to assure him.
“You think so?”
“I know so,” I say as the car slows to a stop and I exit on my floor. “Everyone has a bad game. A bad class. A bad day. Even hockey studs like you.”
He laughs, and it sounds like he’s been carrying the world on his shoulders till now. “And I’m so freaking sore.”
I remember him telling me that, too, in Lucky Falls. That he feels beaten up after a game. “You should get a massage. Do it tomorrow. And get some rest tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, and there’s some light in his voice again. “I thought about you while I was on the ice.”
“So it’s my fault you guys didn’t play well?” I tease as I open the door to my new apartment and say hi to my pogo dog.
“Sounds about right,” he says.
“Well, the thinking about you is mutual,” I say playfully.
Hollis lets out a big breath, then like it costs him something, he says, “My mom told me I should call you.”
I startle. “Your mom knows about me?”
“Not really. But sort of. I just said I was thinking about a girl.”
Warmth blooms in my chest at his words. This makes me unreasonably happy. We talk for another fifteen or twenty minutes about his mom, and the game, and Chicago, and this TV show he’s watching and the music I’m listening to, and a funny video I saw, and the fact that the Sea Dogs won and my dad is probably thrilled. When the conversation winds down, he says, “I’ve missed this.”
“Me too.”
“This is us staying friends, right?” he asks, hopeful, but with real longing too.
“It sure is,” I say, and before I can even hang up, my other line is ringing and it’s Rhys. I say goodbye to Hollis and click over. “Hey, how are you?”
“I think I need to see a sports psychologist,” he blurts out.
I’m taken aback but ready to listen. “Why do you think that is?”
The sound of his footsteps carries over the phone. He must be pacing in his room. “I’m wound up, and I get stressed, and I have anxiety. Like athlete anxiety or something. Is that a thing? I think it’s a thing. Amira thinks it’s a thing. I have it. I have to deal with it.” He’s talking at Mach speed, serving up pieces of his soul for me. “I haven’t told anybody. I feel stupid about it. Really fucking stupid. Like a failure. And I stress, and I’m sure my stress is why we lost tonight.”
“You’re not a failure,” I assure him. “You’re the opposite. I’m really, really proud of you.”
“Why would you be proud of me?”
“Because you called me. Because you told me. Because you realized you needed to talk to someone. Probably a lot more athletes need it. It’s a stressful job. Hell, life can be stressful these days for anyone. And it’s not your fault the team lost. But you do put a lot of pressure on yourself and your agent is right. It’s a good idea, Rhys.”
After a pause, he asks, in a less frantic tone, “You don’t think it’s like a weakness?”
“No, Rhys. I think it’s a strength.”
We look up names together of sports psychologists in San Francisco and I stay on the phone as he sends out a few inquiries. When he’s done, it sounds like he can breathe again as he says, “I wish you were here tonight.”
“I wish I were too.”
When the call ends, I head to the bathroom to wash my face and slather on night cream. After I switch into jammies, I slide under a T.J. Maxx blanket onto my twin-size air mattress.
My phone rings one more time, probably Rhys calling me back, but Gavin’s name flashes across the screen. “Well, here you are,” I say, and I can’t hide the delight in my voice. I guess good things come in threes.
“Here I am,” he says, and he sounds mostly happy too.
“How are you doing? I saw your game,” I tell him.
“Not our finest showing.”
“Not every game has to be.”
“That’s what I tried to tell the guys, but none of them felt like listening. But I don’t want to talk about me. Or hockey. What are you up to tonight?”