by Sarina Bowen
“Kids are really good at visualization,” the shrink says with a shrug. “When you were six, you could picture it. But it would be years before you’d have the strength and muscle control to score a winning goal, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“So there you are, moving up through the ranks of club hockey and college hockey. Then straight to the majors. All that training and muscle development and skill. Your trip to greatness was smoother than some other guys face.”
“It was,” I admit. “Thanks to hard work and a healthy dose of luck.”
He nods. “You never slacked off on the hard work. But lately it feels like your luck is a little slippery, no?”
“Maybe,” I concede.
“Your wife leaves you. Then you get traded to a team that doesn’t appreciate you.”
This is a trap. You can’t trash-talk your teammates to a guy who knows them better than you do. “There are days when that seems true.”
He smiles. “It’s been a long time since you had to employ visualization, Mark. But I think it can really help you. I’m going to give you some exercises.”
“Great,” I say, because it sounds like he might let me out of this room soon if I agree.
His smile widens. “The trick, though, is that you actually have to do them.”
“Sure. You mean, like, sitting around and trying to picture Castro passing to me when I’m open?”
“Exactly like that.” He flips to a fresh page on his legal pad and clicks his pen. “You’ll start with just five minutes. You’ll close your eyes and play a mental film for yourself. A repetitive highlight reel, basically.”
Fucking Brooklyn. I knew meditation would come up. “Okay.”
“I need you to humor me.” He’s scribbling on the page. “I’ll send you an email tonight with complete instructions. Then you’ll come and see me again in two weeks. We’ll talk about how it’s going.”
Oof. “Sure thing.”
He puts the pen down. “Getting traded is very disruptive, Mark. Everyone knows that.”
“Uh-huh.” They know it. But if it doesn’t work out, they’ll just trade you again anyway.
“You can make this work. I can help you.”
“Thanks,” I say tightly. I shake his hand and leave his claustrophobic little office.
Visualization. What a crock.
I’m halfway up the block when I realize he didn’t make me talk about my divorce. So that’s a small mercy. Although I could have poked a giant hole in his visualization theories.
Early on, Jordanna and I spent a whole lot of time visualizing what our happy future together should look like. A house full of kids. A big, loud family like the one she grew up in. We were really good at visualizing. So good at it that we bought a big house in the suburbs, with a big backyard that was just waiting for a sandbox and a swing set.
And it didn’t do a lick of good. Visualization is a big load of bullshit. Nobody knows that better than me.
Twenty-One
Who’s with Me?
Bess
“We have to get up,” I tell Tank as the clock ticks past eight a.m.
It’s not that I’m eager to break the spell. We’ve just made sleepy love in my bed, and, given the choice, I’d never get up. But now the sun is shining down on us, and I need to shower and head into my office. This working girl has to review several contracts and return about a hundred phone calls.
Prince Charming is a busy man, too. “You have to go to practice, and then get on the jet,” I remind him.
“So you say,” he mumbles. His hand is a steady weight on my hip, and his solid back is pressed against my chest. “Your bed is my favorite place in the world, though. I really don’t want to leave.”
My heart doubles in size, of course. “But we can’t always have what we want.”
Tank runs a hand down my thigh, and it feels dreamy. “Should I order some breakfast from the deli? I brought my gym clothes with me so that I could go straight to practice.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Of course.” I’d have breakfast with Tank every day, given the choice.
“There’s no chance you have eggs and bacon in that little refrigerator of yours, right?”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “When I told you I don’t cook, I wasn’t kidding.”
“But that means different things to different people,” he points out. “I can’t manage a crown roast, but I cook eggs all the time.”
And now I feel incompetent, and I hate feeling incompetent. “I’ve never been much of a breakfast person.”
“What’s not to like about breakfast?”
“It’s too early in the day,” I say, even though meal timing isn’t really my issue.
My lack of skill in the kitchen is directly related to my shitty childhood. I’d gone hungry in the mornings because I’d been too afraid of my father to ask for things like cereal and milk when we ran out. Dave and I had never woken him up. We knew better. I remember tiptoeing around the house before school, my brother trying to tame the knots in my hair with an old brush of my mother’s. He’d done his best. But we’d been little kids when my mother died of a drug overdose, and my dad hadn’t cared enough to step up and run a household.
Those memories are grim, and I keep them to myself. Tank knows that Dave is my only family, but I’ve never discussed why. Tank likes spending time with me because we have fun. My past isn’t fun, though. He doesn’t want to hear about my harrowing childhood.
“What do you want from the deli?” Tank asks, finally sitting up.
“Scrambled egg, bacon, and cheese on a roll. Large coffee.”
He snorts. “That sounds like a girl who enjoys breakfast.”
“Once in a while, I guess.”
He slaps me playfully on the butt as I head into the shower. When I’m just about finished under the life-giving spray of hot water, the bathroom door opens. “Can I hop in after you?”
“Of course.” I step out, and he hands me my towel.
Our hips brush as we trade places in my tiny bathroom, and Tank takes the opportunity to press a kiss to my neck. “Open the door if the deli guys buzz, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling suddenly shy. I like the closeness a little too much, and I don’t want him to read it on my face.
After getting dressed, and texting Eric that I’m running late, I go into my miniature kitchen to pour two glasses of orange juice. Breakfasting with Tank feels so domestic. Hell, I’ll sign up for a class on cooking eggs if it meant spending more time with him.
I wonder if that’s a thing? Cooking for domestic dummies. Maybe he’d enroll with me.
Although it sounds a little pushy. Like I’m planning a life with him. But you can’t rush a man who’s just getting out of a terrible relationship. Hey, now that your divorce is final, let’s talk about the future. On the other hand, I can’t avoid wishing for things. And that feels a little dishonest, too.
So I really can’t win.
Tank is singing in the shower. I recognize the song as “Aint No Man” by the Avett Brothers. He doesn’t know all the words, so he has to improvise with some “bop bop” here and there.
I can’t help but smile as Tank hits the high notes. And my hungry heart wants to know—if he’s comfortable enough with me to sing in my shower, does that mean we’re on the road to a long-term relationship?
I don’t know how to turn off that part of me that’s always looking for a sign.
A knock on my door distracts me. God, I love New York. Delivery is so fast. I run over and flip the lock and open the door.
Only to find Jason Castro and Anton Bayer standing there.
“Hi,” I squeak. “I thought you were the deli guy.”
“No! I got—” Castro starts.
“Bop bop boppy bop,” sings Tank from the bathroom.
Castro blanches. He opens his mouth to continue. And then closes it again.
I can almost see the synapses connecting behind his eyes. Surpr
ise morphs into a darker expression as the truth slowly dawns.
This is partly why I don’t have a personal life. I spend all my time trying to make sure that thirty-five athletes believe they’re the center of my world. And they are. Usually.
The sound of the shower cuts off. “Is the food here, baby?” Tank’s voice calls.
“Um...” Words fail me, because I’m busy watching my clients’ eyes widen even further. “That’s, uh…” My jaw slams shut, because I’m just making things worse. We all know whose voice that is. “Is there an emergency of some kind?” I ask, trying to redirect the conversation. This pair never turns up at my door.
“Um…” Castro echoes. He doesn’t know what to say, either.
“He got a call from Sports Illustrated,” Anton says. “They want him for the body issue.”
I blink, hoping Tank stays in the bathroom so this doesn’t get any more awkward. “Congratulations,” I say haltingly.
“Thanks,” Castro says slowly, his eyes darting over my shoulder. “I, uh, wondered what you thought. Georgia says it’s up to me. But will it help me land future endorsements, or hurt because I’m doing it for free?”
“It will help!” I say brightly. “Let’s talk about it later today.”
“We’re heading out on a road trip,” Castro says. “That’s why I…” He clears his throat. “We’ll talk on the phone, maybe.”
“Sorry, Bess,” Anton has the good nature to say. “I didn’t know you and Tank were…”
My face is in flames when Eric comes into view on the landing behind the players. “I’m sorry, boss. I tried to stop them. I knew you were keeping it on the lowdown.”
“Wait. This is an ongoing thing?” Castro asks. “Since when?”
“Pretty sure that’s none of our business, man,” Anton says with a grin.
“Nine years ago!” Tank helpfully supplies from somewhere behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s standing in the doorway to my bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “And then September.”
“Yeah. We met a long time ago,” I stammer.
Castro’s eyes narrow. “You told me you don’t date players.”
“Guys,” Eric says quietly. “I’m going downstairs. Who’s with me?”
Nobody moves.
“Tank is the only player I’ve ever dated,” I say, feeling the need to explain myself. I can almost feel Jane Pines looking over my shoulder, whispering, I told you so.
“I’m that irresistible,” Tank says from the bedroom.
“Does your brother know?” Castro asks.
“No!” I yelp. “It hasn’t come up. God, don’t—” I stop myself before I say something snippy to my client. “It’s private,” I say in a low voice.
“Okay. Sorry.” He sighs. “The whole thing is none of my business.”
“Rightio!” says Tank from the bedroom.
The door buzzer goes off, and I leap a foot into the air, because I’m standing right beside it.
“Sounds like your food is here,” Eric says. “Come on, boys. Let’s let the lady have breakfast.”
“Can I call you when you land?” I ask Castro. “We’ll talk about your photo op.”
“Sure,” he says quickly. “No problem.” He follows Eric and Anton down the stairs.
Tank emerges from my bedroom in workout clothes, just in time to tip the deliveryman. I close the door and lean against it like I’m trying to shut out the world.
“You okay?” Tank asks, pulling food items out of the paper bag and setting them on the coffee table that I finally purchased with Rebecca’s help.
“Yup,” I say quickly.
He looks up, studying me with those clear green eyes. “I’m sorry, Bess. I know you’re a private person.”
I sit down beside him on the sofa and sigh. “That’s a nice way of putting it. ‘Private person’ sounds better than ‘paranoid and prudish.’”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.
“I know.” It’s true, even if my terrified heart doesn’t always believe it.
“Plus, I’m totally worth it.” He hands me a cup of coffee and then gives me a sexy smile.
“You really are,” I say quietly, and that feels even bigger than telling the whole world that Tank and I spend our free time together. I don’t usually tell Tank how I feel, because I’m afraid I won’t hear the same words back.
He sets his coffee down. “I’m gonna miss you when I’m gone, you know.”
My heart does a happy dance. “Same.”
“You’re off to Vermont tomorrow, right?”
“Eventually.” He pulls me in for a hug, and I sink luxuriously into it. “I guess I have to tell my brother that you and I have been hanging out. Because those boys are going to gossip. It’s only a matter of time.”
He chuckles, and I love the feel of his laughter against my chest. Making Tank laugh is basically my second favorite hobby. After stripping him naked. “Should I watch my back? Is Dave going to come for me?”
“Probably not.”
“Can you put better odds on it? I need to plan my month.” He kisses my forehead.
“Fifteen percent chance he kills you. Twenty percent of a maiming. Sixty percent chance you just get the stink eye for eternity.”
“And the remaining five percent?”
“Survey error.”
He laughs again. “Let’s eat these sandwiches while they’re still hot, okay? Might as well have a good meal before I die.”
“Good idea.”
“Did you happen to see who won the Caps game last night?” he asks.
“Philly. And Toronto took the Canes.”
“Really?” His eyes widen as he bites his sandwich.
I describe how the defense suffered, giving Toronto too many scoring opportunities, while he nods along. And I try not to fall any more in love than I already am.
Twenty-Two
Bad Juju
Tank
On the road, we have a morning off in Anaheim, so Coach puts an “optional” morning skate on the schedule.
If you’re me, that shit isn’t optional. The new guy who isn’t setting the world on fire yet can’t take the morning off. So I show up, skate hard, and then hit the weight room at the hotel where we’re staying.
Hotel workout rooms are a pretty mixed bag. Sometimes you find four pitiful stationary bikes and a handful of dumbbells. But this is California, where people care about fitness, and the place is equipped with two solid benches and two squat racks, both with a perfectly adequate number of plates.
I claim a squat rack and fish out my phone to put on some tunes. When you’re the first guy into the weight room, you get to pick the music. It’s one of those unwritten rules of the gym, along with wiping your sweat off the bench and replacing the weights on the rack when you’re done.
Moving my body feels good. I don’t think I could have made it through the last five months without skates, weights, and sweat. Today I’ve got “Aint No Man” by the Avett Brothers on the Bluetooth speakers, because that song always reminds me to keep my chin up.
So it doesn’t sit well with me when Anton—the young defenseman—starts trash-talking my music while we’re taking turns on the squat rack. “What is this…Texas music? I’m not sure we can have Texas music in the gym. It’s bad juju. We got that Dallas game coming up in January. We gotta stay sharp.”
I let out a beastly grunt as I rise out of my last squat, and then let the barbell drop onto the supports with a clang. “Fuck.” That set almost killed me, and it makes me feel old. “Pretty sure the Avett Brothers are from North Carolina. Which is nowhere near Texas.”
Anton towels off his hands and then shakes his head. “I hear a Texas twang. It’s a fact.”
“Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes.
“Say—you don’t have those little green underwear anymore, right?”
“Sorry?” I lean over to stretch out my quads.
“Those tiny green underwear from that ad yo
u shot? I think you gotta burn them. It’s the only way to get the Texas out of you.”
“Burn them? You’re insane.” I’m ninety percent sure I don’t have any of the underwear from that old photo shoot anymore. But I don’t want to give these idiots the satisfaction.
“We’re very superstitious,” Castro says from the bench press. “An underwear bonfire exorcism wouldn’t be crazy at all around here. It’s just, like, Tuesday, you know?”
“I hear the Texas twang,” Anton insists. “It’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Don’t touch that speaker,” I grumble.
My playlist moves on to a different song, and thankfully Anton shuts up. The room is getting a little crowded, and I’m grateful to be almost done with my workout. The music shifts to “I and Love and You.” It’s another great Avett Brothers song, and it’s about moving to Brooklyn, oddly enough.
The funny thing is that I always liked this song, even before the chorus became my reality. Life is weird.
“Now this is music,” Anton says. “Hear that, guys? This is a band that belongs in Brooklyn.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I should probably keep my mouth shut, but I just can’t. “It’s the same band.”
“What?”
“It’s the same band—the one you decided was Texas music.” I lift a forty-pound plate off the barbell and return it to the rack.
“Nah,” Anton says, shaking his big head. “No twang.”
“What?”
“It can’t be. I know twang, and I don’t hear twang.”
“The boy knows twang,” Castro says from the opposite corner, where he’s stretching. “He can feel the twang in his thang.”
These goofballs can choose their own music, because I’m out of here. “Y’all have a good day.”
“Oh God! He just y’alled us,” Anton hoots. “We’re gonna lose to Dallas if he doesn’t cut that shit out. First the twang and now the y’all.”
“Later!” I call over my shoulder as I head for the showers.