Page 121 of This Wild Heart

The morning of the first preseason game, I found myself in Doc’s office, flipping through one of theCalvin and Hobbescomics he loved so damn much. Life lessons in an innocuous package were far easier to apply, he’d said. Like taking your vitamins when they tasted like candy.

He never pressed too hard when I wasn’t ready to talk, and considering I’d come to his office about three times a week since Anya went back to Seattle, he was getting very good at reading me. It hit me that morning that she’d been gone longer than we were together, and I hadn’t felt right since.

He must have seen in my face that we weren’t diving too deeply.

“You feel ready to play?”

I pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah. No one needs me to be perfect, but they do need me to show up.”

“Exactly.” He tapped his temple. “More often than not, the biggest struggle we face is the one that takes place up here. No one can fight it for you, but you’re taking all the right steps, Parker.”

I smoothed my hands up and down my thighs. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing great. You should be very proud of yourself,” he told me, and the paternal tone hit something inside me. It was impossible to deny that part of me would always crave that.

I was learning that I didn’t need it to move forward. You could feel the absence of something, miss it like a limb, and still not get stuck in the past. Guilt and shame and fear, they were all just feelings. Just because they were uncomfortable didn’t mean we should try to block them out.

Instead, I could learn from what they were telling me. Inform my choices moving forward.

“Thank you.” I stood and extended my hand.

Dr. Alex clasped it firmly and shook. Before he released it, he tapped a finger to my temple. “Play it out in here before the whistle blows. You know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, sir.”

So I did just that. I slid my headphones on my ears and made my way down to the field. It was empty save for some custodial staff in the stands. I sat in the end zone, my back against the goalpost, and closed my eyes.

Play it out in your mind. See the thing you want to happen.

Each snap. Each throw. Each run. Each win. Each step closer to the thing we all wanted.

My heart rate slowed, my body relaxed. The longer I imagined it, the easier it became. I didn’t see myself making mistakes, didn’t replay what went wrong. It was the best possible version of everything that might happen, which was why I couldn’t stop what came next.

The game was over. The celebrations had begun. A trophy being passed around.

Confetti in the air, blue and green and white.

Leo in my arms.

Anya by my side.

I pried my eyes open and stared down the green expanse in front of me, the vision fading as I pulled myself back to the present, a lingering ache in the area around my heart at how badly I wanted that. Would she, if I asked?

There was no point in pretending anymore that I didn’t.

Instead of berating myself for how badly I still missed her, I let myself sit for another few minutes and settle into a bit. Live in the tension of that feeling: something Dr. Alex told me.

The thought of losing someone—even if it wasn’t to death—would always touch a bruise for me. It didn’t matter if it was a year from now, ten or twenty. Was I capable of living the rest of my life, just me and my son, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to poke that bruise every day?

Capable, yes.

I didn’t want to just be capable of managing my life. I didn’t want to just exist in it. Not anymore. When I closed my eyes, there was one best outcome for my son and me, and it was her.

It might take days or weeks or months to rebuild a better, stronger foundation than the one we’d started with. And I could wait for that. Could wait if she needed time.

The utter rightness of it was intoxicating, and I found myself smiling as I leaned my head back against the goalpost. It was a little bit more than two hours before game time, and they’d be opening the doors soon.

With my body loose and my mind centered, I walked back to the locker room to get ready.

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