Page 72 of Goal Line
I pull off my mask and use my sleeve to wipe the water from my forehead and eyebrows. “Who’s Chloe?”
“My therapist. Well, technically, she’s a sports psychologist, but she’s actually a fucking miracle worker. Anyway, AJ asked me for her info, so I thought she’d mentioned her to you?”
“Ahhh, yeah, but she suggested I reach out to you for her info.”
“And yet you haven’t.” Zach raises his eyebrows.
After AJ and Drew, Zach’s now the third person to mention her to me in the past few weeks. “Talking to someone” goes against everything I was raised on—Hartmanns talk about our feelings plenty, but only to each other. The problem here, obviously, is that there’s no one in my family I can talk to about what was going on in my head during our last game, what I overheard my father tell AJ, or why my marriage is so complicated. Though, I’m not sure the latter would be Chloe’s area of expertise anyway.
“Will you text me her info?”
“Better yet,” Zach says, “I’ll text you both and introduce you. That way, you can’t just ignore my text with her info when I send it.”
“You’re a dick,” I say, but there’s absolutely no heat behind my words.
“I’m a dick who’s looking out for you. Meet with her, please. Just give it one meeting, and if it’s not a good fit, you never have to talk to her again.”
I stick my helmet back on my head, hoping to hide the emotions I’m feeling. I know Zach well enough to know thatif he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be pushing me to do something he thinks will be good for me. Something that might help me be a better player, or at least avoid another situation like what happened in Game 7.
Because, let’s face it, now that Eva is in my life in a much deeper and more permanent way, the chances of me letting my worries or my fears about her or the baby overwhelm me in the future have increased dramatically. If that’s how I reacted when she was “just a friend,” how would I react now that she’s my wife? Now that her baby will be my child, too?
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“Good man,” Zach says, elbowing me.
Luke
Sorry I didn’t see your text earlier. My phone was in the locker room while we practiced. I assume that’s a rhetorical question, and you’re welcome.
Iglance at the text as I ride the elevator up to my condo, wondering if I should be worried that I sent it nearly an hour ago before I hopped in the shower, packed up all my gear, and headed home from our practice facility. Maybe Eva fell back asleep?
In my entryway, I drop my keys and wallet into the bowl on the round table in the center of the curved space, and then walk into the open living area. As it always does on a sunny day, the view surprises me in the best way. The curved wall of glass at the corner of this building showcases a huge amount of the city. To the right is the top of the PrudentialTower with the Public Garden, Boston Common, and Beacon Hill beyond it. Straight ahead is the Charles River, winding between Boston and Cambridge. The river sparkles a deep blue in the bright sunshine, framed by the trees on each side, the brick buildings of Back Bay beneath us, and the soft white stone buildings of MIT across the river. From the other side of my condo, out the bedroom windows, I can see Fenway Park and the greenspace that makes up the connected parks of the Emerald Necklace.
I bought this place in the early spring, as soon as I landed in Boston after learning about the trade. Preston was the one who told me it was on the market, and luxury residences at the top of one of Boston’s newest and tallest skyscrapers are hard to come by, so we headed straight to meet his realtor after he picked me up at the airport.
It was a gross, overcast day where the city was covered in a dense layer of clouds and cold drizzle. But up here, we were immersed in those clouds, and there was nothing but white haziness outside. I loved that almost as much as I love the current view, so I purchased it without even seeing another place and moved in within the week.
I glance around the space, and then walk around the corner to make sure Eva’s not in the part of the kitchen near the stove, or in the butler’s pantry, but she’s not anywhere obvious.
“Eva?” I call out.
“Back here, in your room!” Her voice is faint from here, because the bedrooms are down a long hallway off the entryway. I head back there, and when I walk into my room, she’s sitting in one of the two swivel chairs in front of the windows. She has it turned to face the view, and her long,wet hair hangs down her back. Her feet are up on the seat, her knees bent with her chin resting on them, and her arms are wrapped around her legs.
I come up behind her, smoothing a hand over the top of her head, but she doesn’t look up at me. “What’s wrong, baby?”
She sniffles, and I turn the chair, dropping to my knees in front of her. Her face is streaked with dried tears, and her puffy eyes are tinged in red.
“Oh shit, Eva.” I reach out and stroke her cheek. “What happened?”
She lets out a choked laugh. “Literally nothing. I’m just emotional.”
“Pregnancy hormones?”
“Probably.”
“So you just got sad for no reason at all?”
She sighs, then says, “No. I was in the shower and I was noticing the curve of my belly, and it made me think of my mom’s comment about my body at dinner last night, and that made me think about the kind of relationship I want to have with my child...”
