Page 37

Chapter 37

Olli

Today’s the day. All this work, all this publicity, all this chatter and speculation . . . Today. It all comes down to today.

Not that I’m gonna frame it like that in my head, as a BFD or anything. Or that I’m gonna sit at my kitchen counter and drink way more coffee than someone like me should ever even consider consuming.

I do it anyway.

I’m on my second cup of java, scrolling away on my phone because holy Hera is there a lot of Ice Out social media exposure—well done Syd!—when my own face stares up at me from beneath my black Rays helmet.

My stomach thrusts violently against my ribs at the sight.

Scroll away, scroll away , my mind says, and I should, I know I should. Hearing the things people say about you, post all over social media, it’s never a good idea. Just knowing that crap exists, that it’s out there for anyone to see and believe, is enough to drive a person mad.

But when it’s there at my fingertips, how can I not look?

The Instagram caption snags me. Can questionable would-be star James save the Dingoes after falling so flat?

My fingers go white around my phone. I don’t recognize the account—some kind of sports reporter—but it’s a whole damned article. About me. About why I’m here .

Talent like James’s doesn’t come around much, but his blatant inconsistency makes it clear he’ll never be more than a minor-league has-been . . .

I pull a deep breath in through my nose. Exhale through my mouth. Like mom taught me. Like therapists have reinforced my whole life. Breathe. Let the thoughts go.

But I can’t.

James missed several games with the Rays before being traded to the down-and-out Dingoes. It’s only the latest in a long career of quick turnarounds and last-minute trades . . .

Breathe, Olli. Keep breathing. Stop reading. But, of course, I don’t. Would you stop reading, given an article detailing all your faults and shortcomings?

We’re drawn to the things that reflect the darkness inside of us.

Leading to questions about what’s so wrong with James that he can’t hold a position on a team longer than one season . . .

Bile burns the back of my throat.

Fuck you. Fuck you all. Fuck you for writing that. Fuck the four hundred and twenty-seven people who’ve commented. For judging what you don’t know. Fuck all these people who get involved with things that have nothing to do with them.

We’re all human. We all have dreams. We all make mistakes.

Some of us see them written out across the internet, in newspapers, everywhere we turn, so we start to believe them, the worst of them, the dark and terrible things people say. So we question our mistakes every night, in every dream, in every waking nightmare.

Fuck me for continuing to read.

James’s last game with the Rays ended with him benched after a shockingly sub-par performance and a subsequent barrage of missed practices . . .

No. No, I don’t need to read my worst moments illustrated through someone else’s eyes, filtered through their opinions, their bias, their impression. No. Screw that. No.

But the next words catch my attention .

The Dingoes have been rotating through a lineup of starry-eyed young hopefuls and washed-out has-beens like James. But this latest publicity ploy suggests they may be trying a last-ditch tactic for their salvation . . .

I slam my phone face down.

The words ring in my head, the air billowing my lungs too hard, too fast. There was a time I wouldn’t have cared about something like this. When I would have skated even harder to prove exactly how wrong they were.

But not today. Not with the darkness lurking just around the corner, so close, ready to pounce.

My hands shake, and I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the caffeine. I can’t fucking do this .

Jesus, Olls. Get a hold of yourself. You read one little hate article on social media and what, throw the towel in?

I exhale in an extended, slow sigh. Forcing out all the air, until my lungs collapse. I need to get out of this house. Need to get to the rink. Breathe in the icy air and the smell of old sweat baked into older pads. Hear the cut of skates and the crash of pucks.

Need to be in the same place where Nat is, even if he’s just a glimpse of tattoos and backwards hat across the ice. I just need to not be alone with myself.

So I climb into the truck and head to the rink. It’s three hours before showtime, so the building’s quiet. The rest of the team hasn’t shown up yet, and nobody appears to be scheduled right now, so the ice gleams wide and white and empty.

The watery shimmer beneath the pale lights tells me it’s been freshly cut, that Nat was here recently, though I don’t see him as I walk along the glass. Not that I’m looking for him specifically.

Not that I’ve checked my phone again .

I go against my better judgment, send him another text. What do you think are the odds the Zamboni driver would let us shoot some pucks out on the ice?

Surely something jokey and fun like that warrants a response ?

I don’t know, but I head into the locker room for more deep breathing and a quick vinyasa flow. Not sure when the rest of the guys will be rolling into the rink, but I need to get my head on straight well before that.

Which is sort of ironic, right, coming from a guy who’s currently upside down.

I flip back over onto my feet. Check my phone for the bajillionth time.

Nothing.

The emotions inside me are a twist I can’t fully sort out—frustration, maybe. Concern. And of course, the constant anxiety of oh, God, I’ve screwed something up and now he hates me . . .

Which is totally ridiculous and I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t help but replay our last interaction over and over in my mind. Trying to search out what I did wrong, something that might explain his silence—

But it’s like Dr. Huxley is always telling me: I gotta stop framing it from my perspective. Making it about me. Essentially, putting myself at the center of everyone’s universe.

That’s what social anxiety does, but the reality is that it probably has nothing to do with me at all. Hell, he’s probably more nervous than I am, and here I am, making it all about me.

I wince, tug my sneakers on, and decide, once and for all, I’m gonna be a good friend. So I head towards the Zam room at the back.

“Yo, Mouse!” I pat my knuckles against the Staff Only door before I can second-guess myself. “It’s Aspen. Let me—”

The door opens.

Only, it’s not Nat framed in the doorway. It’s a vaguely familiar bearded dude I think I can label as the rink manager and roughly name Jerry. Jeremiah? Joey? Something like that—“Hey! Um. Sorry. I thought Nat would be back here. You know where he is?”

The manager—Jerry or Joe or whatever—shakes his head. “Not here.”

“What?” My stomach plummets.

“Called out sick. Sorry kid.” J-man shrugs. “You got his number? ”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice going very, very small. “Thanks.”

He closes the door.

I stand in front of it anyway, like I’m waiting for a better outcome. Without realizing I’ve reached for it, I find my phone in my hand, the screen lit up. Nothing.

Nat hasn’t texted. Nothing to say, hey I’m sick, hey I don’t know if I can do this, hey I won’t be there . . .

Dr. Huxley would tell me not to jump to conclusions—not to assume it’s got anything to do with me. But how can I not assume that, after everything that’s happened between us? After all we’ve done and said? After I dragged him off the ice, sat him down, and told him he needed to be more, better, different?

A cold pit of black opens wide inside of me. A big, yawning cavern of emptiness. Where there should be passion and energy and life there is . . . doubt.

The true Olli James.