Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Just like that, I can see a new future. One I haven’t planned for or prepped for or researched. But maybe that’s part of me exploring new skills.
I don’t mean this skill. I mean another one—I’m learning to leap.
43
A DAMN FINE BAGEL
Wesley
Funny how I never noticed the room under the staircase much before. I barely paid attention to it for the first several months I lived here.
Now it’s all I see.
It taunts me. It lures me, and I have to fight the pull. I give her space. I avoid her. I stay upstairs when she’s downstairs.
I don’t know what to say or do when I see her. I guess this is why there’s a roomie rule in the first place. Because it is complicated when you cross it.
When things go south—like they did two nights ago—you’re still stuck together, walking uncomfortably around each other.
But a little while after she leaves on Sunday—I’m pretty sure she’s going to that pole class with her friends, and I hate that she’s not going to be sending me a picture—I get out of bed, get dressed, and head downstairs to make my way to morning skate. The problem is…that door.
To her room. It’s halfway open.
I stop in the entrance to it, press my palm against the white wood of the door lightly, till it creaks open. I look inside. My chest aches at the signs of Josie.
The white sweatshirt I bought her the night we met is tossed on the bed. The black scarf she left behind hangs from the closet door. Pillows are arranged in a whole new way on the window seat.
I lift my nose in the air and draw a big inhale. I can smell the remnants of her cinnamon scent. On the bureau, there’s a pad of blue paper, like the one she used to leave me notes on.
My chest hollows, and I press my fingers against my temple. I wish I had the courage to grab that paper and write her a note. But what would I even say?
I’m sorry?
I miss you?
I’m a mess?
That’s all true, and she knows all that, so I tear myself away from her room, trudge to the kitchen, and yank open the fridge.
But it all looks so boring.
I flip my middle finger at the prepared food, then trudge down to the garage, peel out quickly, and stop at a nearby bagel shop for a pineapple smoothie and a toasted sesame bagel. That’s a damn fine breakfast.
An hour later, I’m dead focused on the rink during morning skate, passing to Asher, Hugo, and Alexei. Shooting on Max. Flicking the puck under a low bar, then racing behind the net and slapping the disc under it again and again. Practice makes perfect. Muscle memory. Discipline.
Midway through, Coach blows the whistle and calls me over.
“Bryant, why don’t you get out there with Winters and Weston?”
He gestures to the other end of the rink. Naturally Christian is here, since he never misses practice. Chase is too. “But that’s…first line,” I point out so helpfully, like Coach doesn’t know the intricacies of his lineup.
“I’m aware. You’ve got great chemistry with the second line. Chemistry doesn’t come overnight on the hockey rink. You’ve got to get out there and work with them.”
He points to me and I turn back around, flying toward the other two guys. I’m not sure what to make of this direction, but I am sure it’s not my place to question it. I run the drills with Christian and Chase until we’re done thirty minutes later.
In the locker room, Asher tips his chin toward me as he laces his shoes. “You want to grab some dinner after the game tonight?”
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug.
He stares me down. “Dude, what’s with you? You’re not your usual self.”
I could deny it. But instead I scratch my jaw, shrug, and say heavily, “Yeah. I know.”
He seems to give that some thought, nodding a few times, but when we leave a couple minutes later, he claps me on the shoulder in the corridor. “Remember, it’s a game. Just have fun. That’s what you got to do at the end of the day.”
Then he offers me a fist for knocking. Since you don’t leave a teammate hanging, I knock back. Asher has the right attitude. He always has. He has an easy way about him and a carefree attitude, and it works. My stomach twists, and I don’t normally put myself out there, but impulsively, I ask, “How do I do that?”
“Stop trying to be perfect. Just get out there and play.”
It’s good advice. Truly it is. After I go home and nap in the deathly quiet house where I miss Josie more by the hour, I return to the rink. I do my best to focus on just that.
Fun.
Hockey used to be fun once upon a time. Then it became work. Then it became pressure. Then it became performance. Then it became the relentless pursuit of perfection. But during the last few months, I’ve learned how to have fun again, thanks to Josie.