Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“When are you back?” he asks me, and I roll onto my back.
“We play tomorrow, then we are on the plane back,” I tell him. “Why?”
“Well, six months is a huge deal, and I think we should do something to acknowledge it,” he tells me.
“I’m not throwing myself a ‘I’ve been clean for six months’ party,” I say, grabbing the pillows to prop me up a touch.
“It’s not a party,” he says. “It’s a little mixer. It would be good for you to do it mentally. To see faces there that have been there holding you up.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him.
“Okay, can we even sit down and have a coffee or maybe a burger? I can order you a cupcake,” he says.
“I have to get up and get to the rink. Can we talk about this when I get back?” I tell him.
“Sure, and, Viktor? You can call me at any time of the night. It’s what I’m here for,” he reminds me and disconnects. I get up and take another shower and slip into jeans and a shirt, then head down to the bus taking us to practice. I go through the drills; I go through the motions. I make small talk, I grunt at most of them, and when I slip back into my room, I’m exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally.
The team goes out for dinner, but I pass on the invite and order room service instead. I have been binge watching 90 Day Fiancé. When I turn off the lights at nine p.m., I fall asleep right away. This time, when I wake up at two, I’m almost ready to fist pump, thinking of the five whole hours I slept. I turn on the television and switch the it to ’90 day fiancée’ and I grab my phone, sending Zoe a text.
Me: She’s fifty-three, and he’s twenty and from Nigeria. Why does she not see he’s using her?
I put my phone down, not thinking she’ll actually text me back. But two seconds later, my phone beeps.
Zoe: She just wants the D.
I smile at her answer and then text her back.
Me: What are you doing up?
Zoe: Why are you texting me?
I am about to text her back when the phone rings, and I see it’s her on FaceTime.
“What are you doing up?” she asks me as soon as her face comes through the phone.
“I could ask you the same,” I tell her, tucking pillows behind my head so I can sit up more.
“I’m working with a guy in Paris,” she says. “The time difference makes it hard for us, and he needs to get a place asap.” I look at her, and she looks like she woke up not too long ago. Her hair’s piled on her head, and she’s sitting at her desk instead of in her bed. “So what’s your excuse?”
“I’m a recovering addict,” I tell her. “The most I sleep straight is five hours.”
“When does it get better?” she asks me, looking at me.
Shrugging, I answer her. “I don’t know. It’s been almost six months.”
“That’s a big deal,” she says with a smile. “Six months doesn’t seem long, but it is.”
“Yeah, it’s a big deal,” I say. “Jeffrey wants to do a dinner and stuff.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” she asks and hides her mouth when she yawns.
“Because I still have a long way to go,” I answer her honestly.
“Yes,” she agrees, “but you’ve also come a long way.”
“Not going to lie. I never thought I would be this far in,” I tell her quietly. “It’s just I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Because …” I trail off.
“Because what?” she asks me, now leaning her cheek on her hand.
“Because what if I fuck up again, and then it’s …” I start saying.
“I mean, if you fuck up and have to start over, it’s almost like going to a wedding and getting them a nine-hundred-dollar gravy boat and then they get divorced and you sit there wondering who the fuck got the gravy boat. Then you wonder if you can ask for the gravy boat back because it cost you the same as it would to buy a new pair of shoes,” she says, her head shaking.
“Did you just compare my falling off the wagon to divorce?” I ask her and then shake my own head. “And are shoes really nine hundred dollars?”
“Yes,” she answers. “Wait here,” she says. She gets up, and she is suddenly moving with her phone, and she turns on a bright light. “See these shoes?” she says, holding up black booties with studs on them. “Fifteen hundred dollars.”
“I think my sister has those,” I say, looking at them. “Why are they so expensive?”
“Because it’s art,” she says with a smile, and for the next thirty minutes, she shows me all the shoes she could have bought with the money she spent on the gravy boat. “So, in the end, have the party.” She looks at me and now climbs into her bed. “When is it?”