Page 6

6

RILEY

“ H old for eight, Riley,” my pilates instructor, Mischa, coaches. “Seven, six, core tighter, four, eyes forward, chin up, and one. You can relax now.”

I let out a groan as I rest my body. I started taking pilates classes in college with Momma. At first I scoffed at it because I’d never seen a man take a class, but then after a few classes I realized just how much it helped me on the ice. Especially with my balance. Now I incorporate it with my team training and have even gotten some of the rookies and vets to join in on a few classes.

Mischa walks me through two more sequences on the reformer and then runs me through a cool down. Despite my reputation, okay that’s totally warranted to some level, I’m respectful to the women in my teammates lives. Mischa is firm and it’s something I see in her husband, Coach Anderson. When hockey is going to the wayside, I can always count on the Anderson’s to hopefully set me right. They’re the ultimate successful, fit couple. Not that I need a fit couple to be the blueprint. Mischa and Coach Anderson both played volleyball and hockey in college, respectively. How they met was through a blind date and have been together for fifteen years.

I sit on the reformer and take small sips of water as she wipes down the other machines and gathers up equipment from class. It’s a small class as she only takes on five per round, but she’s effective and worth the price we pay.

“Any plans for today, Riley?” Mischa asks over the coffeehouse music that’s playing through the speakers. Some can argue that Mischa’s husband is why she’s so successful. And while that may have been true in the beginning she’s earned herself a well-deserved spot in the fitness community on her own. Her classes book out a month in advance and have waitlists ten, sometimes twenty, people deep.

I close the cap on my water bottle and stand up. “Momma and Pops are having a barbecue later this afternoon so I’m headed there.”

When I feel turned around, that’s when my routine and behavior fall apart. It’s been like that since my parents passed away. But as I got older my routine was only possible with structure. College classes, conditioning, practice, games, and repeat. This past year was the first time my routine was less structured since college and for that my reputation hit the lowest it had ever been. I made a poor choice with the company I kept and that led me to needing a new publicist and agent.

“Oh my god, please bring us a plate,” Mischa begs.

“Only if you let me take Kylie out for ice cream.” I bargain with her and slip on my tennis shoes. Because as soon as I utter the Anderson’s, Momma will immediately put a container aside for them. In the year that I’ve been with Columbus, the Anderson’s have taken me under their wing. I was rowdy my first month playing and when Coach texted me his address for a more personal meeting, things shifted. I slowly felt myself come back down from the air of arrogance that formed around me. Yes, Momma and Pops are in the same city, but Mischa and Coach understand this life better than them. And when their oldest, Kylie, dogpiled me that first day, I unconsciously knew that I’d have to display some sort of maturity where they were concerned. Did that always work? Clearly not considering the situation I’m in.

“Deal,” she says over her shoulder and wiggles her eyebrows. “Jared and I could use the alone time.”

“Yuck! You expect me to look him in the eyes now?” I joke, but also cringe, as knowing this about my coach is a step too far. The guys and I may say some outlandish things in the locker room, but coach talk is strictly off-limits.

Mischa’s laughter fills the studio as we walk to the front desk to look over my training schedule and her class times. One of the perks of Mischa teaching is that Coach gives her our practice, travel, and game schedule for the whole season so I can pick my classes before they’re on the schedule for the public. Mischa’s are the only classes I’ll take. Not because the others aren't effective, but because she doesn’t fawn over us athletes that come in. And as a former athlete herself, her workouts are tailored to our specific needs.

“Three classes a week? Are you sure?”

“It’s off-season and I have nothing but time.”

Mischa looks at me like Momma does when I’m overdoing it. “Fine but just make sure you’re taking your days off seriously.”

“I promise Mom,” I tease and quickly duck out of the studio as she throws a pen at me.

My laughter fades as the summer sun bounces off the downtown buildings, adding to the late-June heat, while I walk down the street to my car. The downtown area is bustling with groups of friends headed to brunch and family’s strolling the area with their little ones to the splash pad that’s a street over. A twinge of jealousy at the friend groups and families hits because I wonder if I’ll ever have that.

My parents were the best example of love. Combine them with Momma and Pops and I saw first-hand how their friendship and love was impenetrable. I grew up around love and people in love. I grew up wanting that. And despite my parents being gone, I still want that. But, again, it leaves me wondering if I’ll ever have that.

I shake off the jealousy and sorrow when I get to my car and my phone buzzes with some rental listings from my realtor. He’s someone I went to high school with who is the only one I trust when finding me a new place. In this case, a second place located in Cincinnati based on the amount of events that Sarah has lined up for me.

Sam: A few lofts have been put up for rent. You’ll find one-bedroom and two-bedroom units. I wasn’t sure what style you wanted so both are included.

Me: Thanks. I’ll take a look later today.

My drive home takes about ten minutes. Sasha and Pixie rush me when I walk through demanding a second meal, despite them getting fed a little over an hour ago. They say the way through a man’s heart is his stomach, but that also applies to women no matter the species. I bypass the kitchen, much to their loud protests, and head to my bathroom to get ready for the barbecue. I think about the new future and the way my career should head. At twenty-three I feel neither successful nor unsuccessful. I just feel settled. Like I’ve already plateaued. And it’s not a good feeling for a hockey player who has yet to reach his peak. I know I have more to give than what I’m currently giving. And I’m hoping with this change on the professional side, that settled feeling will disappear.

An hour later and I’m dressed in olive green cargo shorts, a white graphic tee and some worn Nikes, ready to head out the door. I feed the girls, because I’m a sucker, I scoop my keys out of the bowl and make the walk to my car.

“Momma? Pops?” I ask when I walk into the house through the garage.

“Kitchen, honey,” Momma calls out.

I hang my keys on the hook by the door to the garage and walk in the direction I heard her call out from. Momma is at the kitchen island scooping out what looks like cookie dough and my mouth starts watering. A bowl slides to the left and it’s a cup of cookie dough.

“Thanks, Momma.” I say gratefully with a kiss on her cheek and lean next to her against the counter. I tower over her at 6’3” with her petite 5’4” but the height difference is even worse when I’m in my skates.

My diet is strict during the regular season but the off-season, while it’s still strict, I let go of a small part of that control. Cookie dough is my number one weakness and Momma always sets a bowl off to the side for me when she bakes a batch.

Momma has her hair in box braids with gold cuffs placed throughout as beads on the end of her hair clack as she rolls out dough balls and places them on the baking sheet. With the summer heat and today’s guests, she’s in a long dress that comes down to her hot pink painted toenails. Where I turn red as a lobster if I’m out in the sun for too long, that’s not what can be said for Momma. Her rich bronze complexion from her time already spent out by the pool emphasizes the garden of tattooed flowers on her left arm. I guess you could say I got the love of ink from both Momma and Pops as most of their tattoos are older than I am.

“What’s new?” She asks without looking up from her scooping out the dough.

I pop my finger out of my mouth and chew the dough before answering her. “Sam sent me some rental listings for Cincinnati.”

That gets her attention and she looks at me with alarm. “What do you mean?”

“Sarah, my publicist, has me lined up for events to attend there. Some of them don’t end until late and instead of driving back home tired, it’d be better to stay somewhere familiar instead of wasting money on a hotel room so much.”

Unconsciously, the accident scarred me. I have a perfect driving record, take my car in for regular maintenance, I don’t speed too bad, if I talk on the phone it’s with Bluetooth, and I never drive if I’m too tired. That was the number one thought running through my head when the apartment listings were coming through.

“Doesn’t she know you live here?”

“Mm-hmm. I see her strategy but until it starts working, I have the right to reserve judgment.”

The more I think about these events, the more I doubt they’ll actually work. Sports fans are notoriously loyal to their teams. So having an athlete from Columbus infiltrate their space in Cincinnati is cause for worry. I hang out in the kitchen keeping Momma company and finish my cookie dough before heading outside to join Pops by the grill. The smell of charcoal greets me when I step into the backyard.

“Hey, Pops,” I greet as I walk up next to him.

He swings his arm around my shoulder and presses a chaste kiss to the side of my head. Pops has done that since before my mom and dad passed away. Once they became my legal guardians, he promised to keep showing the affection he always showed me. Like I said, I thrive on routine and Pops showing me this affection is part of that routine. Some would say he’s the bald version of Denzel Washington. Only with a lot of tattoos covering every inch of visible skin.

“How’s the off-season treating you? You have a new agent?”

“Publicist, but until I have a new agent she’ll be my temporary agent as well.” I say and bring a chair closer to the grill, lowering my body into it. My muscles are screaming a bit from the pilates class this morning. “I met her, my publicist, earlier this week.”

“A she?” Pops asks with mild curiosity and raised bushy eyebrows focused on me.

I guess you could say I had a lot of “girlfriends” in high school. If “girlfriend” is classified as making out under the football bleachers and copping a feel with a new girl every week, then sure. That surely didn’t let up in college but I was more intentional about my hookups so I know the reason Pops is giving me that look.

“Yep.” I pop the p . “She’s firmly off-limits, so you don’t need to worry about me screwing it up. But I almost doubted her ability until I saw her client roster.”

Noise coming through the open windows of the house filters out to us, signaling guests arriving. Pops hovers his hand over the grill to make sure the temperature is right before placing some burgers and hot dogs on the grates. Once he closes the lid, he turns to me.

“Don’t let your Momma hear you say that,” Pops warns.

“I know.”

He looks up and into the kitchen with warmth in his eyes anytime he looks at Momma. It’s almost sickening how in love they still are. Most relationships fizzle out after a few years. But not these two. With thirty years together, they’ve countlessly proven to me that a relationship with the right person can be long-lasting. “Who’s on her list?”

“Mason Brooks, Nate Holloway, and Conrad Spencer.” I rattle off.

Pop lets a whistle fly. “That’s some list.”

“Agreed,” I say and trail off as some of Pops’s friends come strolling out of the house. I like their friends. They rallied around us when I lost my parents. But I think they’re still unused to me being a professional athlete. And name dropping big names would only give me a headache when I have to field denial after denial about if I can score tickets to any of their games.

The day passes by in a blur of conversation, corn hole, and more food than I usually eat in a day. Afternoon turns into night and I start to say my goodbyes to my parents and their friends. Momma packs up two to-go boxes, one for me and one for the Anderson’s. With another round of thirty-minute goodbyes, I’m in my car and headed back to my condo.

Evenings when I come home to a quiet condo, I wish I had someone there to greet me. I see some of the veterans on the team with their long-term girlfriends or wives and families waiting for them with open arms. It’s never bothered me as much, because I’d rather spend time playing the game I love than be hurt by someone who claims to love me when all they want is to get to the top. And I know Momma and Pops would love to see me in a stable relationship. But until that person comes along, the one who doesn’t want just my name to get them places, I’ll gladly settle for hockey, my family, my cats, and fantasizing about my publicist.