Page 39

Chapter 39

Olli

The music—“What It Takes” by Adelita’s Way—sets the rhythm to my vinyasa flow. It’s a little faster than I might normally go, which is good. I need the tempo to pick me up, get me moving, get my head and my heart out of the spiral.

Distraction.

I need distraction.

No idea how much longer I’ve got before the rest of the team floods the locker room with their noise and energy and chatter—and I know for a fact I don’t have that in me right now.

I’d settle for just getting my thoughts out of the darkest, deepest gutter of my mind.

. . . his blatant inconsistency . . .

Breathe innnnnn . . . let the thought goooooooo . . .

. . . shockingly sub-par performance . . ..

Breathe ouuuutttt . . . let the thought gooooo . . .

. . . what’s wrong with James . . .

Breathe, Olli, breathe. Let this crap go. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter .

No wonder Nat doesn’t want you . . .

I kick myself up into a handstand, breathing and breathing and praying or maybe begging that those thoughts will leave me alone—

. . . what’s wrong with James . . .

My body jerks sideways, and I crash to the ground. Tuck my head to save my neck, and the rubber flooring absorbs some of the impact, but it’s still jarring. I lie on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and let the words find me, over and over, peck at me like carrion crows over roadkill.

That’s what I feel like.

Roadkill.

Roadkill of my own thoughts. My own self-doubt.

Why did I think I could do this? Any of it? Why did I think I could show up and make something of this team and this town—when I can’t even pick myself up off the floor?

When my own career is clinging by the barest of threads, practically in ruins, and I can’t save that any more than I can save anything else.

And if I go out on that ice today, if I face the crowd, my team, Coach . . . they’ll all know. They’ll all know what a washed-up fraud I am. They’ll understand what that journalist clearly knew.

That I don’t have what it takes. Sure, I’m good. I’m really good. But I’m inconsistent as hell. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what truly matters—in a player, and especially a captain?

You want someone who’s going to be there, every single day, slogging it out and skating their all with the rest of the team. None of this half-in, half-out, who-knows-where-Olli-is bullcrap.

It’s why I’ve never stayed with a team more than a season.

Same with relationships.

It’s why I’ve never had one. Because how can I show up for someone else, when half the time I can’t even show up for myself?

When I go out on that ice in three hours, not just the team, not just my town, but the whole hockey community—thanks to Jesse and Syd—will know just what a screwup Olli James is.

I can’t do it.

I can’t show them my darkness.

I lie on the floor staring at the water-stained ceiling. I should give up now. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting, stop pretending, stop thinking I can be something more.

I should just accept— be —the sad, pathetic, lonely, loser Olli I really am inside. Let go of all these stupid dreams once and for all. Why did I think I could do this, I can’t do this, I can’t . . .

I’m in the blackest of black moods. Anxiety and depression war with hopeless resignation—this was my last shot. This team. This tournament. As much as I was Coach’s Hail Mary pass, so too was this team mine.

Neither of us connected.

I squeeze my eyes closed.

Am I being melodramatic? Sure.

I’m caught in a doom spiral and I really, really need to get myself out. Affirmations, gratitude, positive self-talk . . . bullcrap. I’m breathing, but it’s shallow, panicky sort of breathing. My hands are shaking and I need to go home.

But how can I leave? This night, this rink, this game . . . It's more than a dream. It’s the culmination of decades of hard work. It’s my entire life balanced on the brink of victory and defeat.

It’s me .

And if I give up now, if I walk out of this rink, away from this game, that’ll be it. A door closing somewhere inside of me. And how could I possibly let that happen when my whole life has been building up to this moment?

What happens when my dreams come crashing down around me and the one thing I thought I was meant to do—the sole reason I keep breathing through the dark days—when that vanishes, what will I do?

How do you redefine a life founded on one thing? One all-encompassing, all-consuming goal?

You don't.

But how can I keep chasing that dream, when I know nothing will ever be different? I’ll never change.

This is me. I’m hollow. Empty. Cleaned out. My chest aches like I want to cry, like I want to rip out my hair and scream or punch a wall or yell at the universe but I can’t even do any of those things because I’m so fucking hollow .

My chest aches and I’m broken and hollow and empty.

So I lie on the floor and close my eyes and let myself become the darkness. I give up. I let go—of purpose, destiny, dream. I let it break and crumble inside me and around me, feeling like my very heart has turned to dust.

My dream—my destiny—has been a lie.

Melodramatic? Yeah, I am. But honestly, if it weren’t for the overdramatic inner monologue making me feel like hell, I think I’d feel nothing at all, and that’s so much more frightening.

To be truly hollow . . . that’s when you know life has ceased to matter—that consequence itself has ceased to matter. I’d rather drown beneath the water than float lifeless on the surface, already dead.

I need to go home .

I pull a lung-bursting breath in through my nose. Hold it. Count. Release it slowly, slowly. Repeat, repeat, repeat until at least I’m not panicking. Until I can force myself to sit up. To climb shakily to my feet.

I head for the door. I feel like I’m moving someone else’s body, a marionette controlling puppet strings. My legs are lead, like my knees don’t bend right. Bones too heavy. Head foggy. Is my vision blurring?

I can’t tell anymore, don’t care, doesn’t matter. I make it through the front doors. Onto the sidewalk.

Some distant part of me registers that it’s started to snow, in pale little flakes that kiss the tip of my nose and crest of my cheeks. Doesn’t matter.

Except . . . Right there, on the snow-splatted sidewalk, is a pack of cigarettes.

Nat’s brand.

Like he pulled out his keys in such a hurry, he didn’t even notice when his addiction tumbled to the ground at his feet.

It hits me like an electric shock: that’s not like him .

And honestly, the more I think about it, outside of my anxiety, outside of my Olli-is-the-center-of-the-universe mentality, the more I know that none of this is the Nat I love.

A new feeling churns in my gut alongside the dark and doubt. More anxiety, but a different kind.

Something is wrong .

Without thought, I stoop, snatch Nat’s pack of cigarettes off the cement. And I walk, through that bone-chilling cold, across the parking lot.

It’s started to snow in earnest, and darkness seeps in along the edges of the world, and it’s really not like Nat to completely disappear without even a text.

Something’s wrong.

But . . . what?

I look down at the cigarettes in my hand. Something’s wrong, but what can I do about it? Whatever it is, Nat’s chosen not to tell me, to shut me out of his life—

No. Stop making it all about you, Olli.

Maybe he’s simply caught up in whatever’s going on, hasn’t had a chance to text. Or maybe he doesn’t want to make me have to choose—between him and this night. Between his life and my dream.

We both know this is where I belong. At this rink. Proving them all wrong. Proving that this is where I’m meant to be, that I have what it takes to make it all the way . . .

So why do I feel like crap?

Why does Nat not being here feel so wrong?

If this is what I’m meant to do, why do I have to choose the dream over someone who’s filled my flattened heart to three dimensions? Why does living a dream mean shutting everyone else out? Refusing to date, never making friends, never letting anyone get close.

Do I really want this dream if I can’t balance it with love—if it means being alone forever?

Dreams are so selfish, aren’t they?

He saved me that dark night, and now here I am, trying to justify not even finding out if he needs my help.

My teeth grit together. No. Dreams be damned. Right now, my dream is making sure Nat’s all right. Saving him, if need be, the way he saved me.

So I pull out my phone once again, open my texts. But this time, it’s not Nat I’m messaging.

Your dad needs me. Tell me where to be.