Page 28 of Whirlwind
“Only because it’s the first time. Once I know how you drive, I’ll either be okay, or never ride with you again.”
“Past trauma with a car accident?”
“Nope, just one of my quirks,” I say, trying to sound casual about it.
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” he says. “Quirks are good. They make us interesting. Imagine if we were all the same, it’d be like living in some sort of Stepford world.”
“Aren’t you too young to know about Stepford living?” I ask.
“Technically, sure. But I love horror. Movies, books, you name it. I readRosemary’s Babyon a plane to hockey camp as a teenager. It sent me down an Ira Levine rabbit hole. Besides, I’m an old twenty-nine years of age.”
“That’s hardly even old by hockey standards.”
“You’d think so, but they’re drafting younger and younger these days. Soon enough, we’ll have sixteen-year-olds in the league.”
“I can’t argue. The average age in the NHL is twenty-eight.”
“Is it?” he asks, carefully looking for traffic before taking a right turn.
“Yeah, and peak is between twenty-seven and twenty-eight. Unless you’re a defenseman, then it’s about a year older. But you’re a forward, so you’re past your prime. Statistically.”
“Well, shit.”
“Sorry,” I say, once again feeling like I said something I shouldn’t have. I scoot farther toward the door, turning to look at the window instead of at him. “It’s not like it means anything, though. Not really. Gretzky was thirty-eight when he retired.”
Of course, not every player is a Wayne Gretzky, but I keep that to myself. Tyson is an excellent player when he’s on his game. I looked at his stats the other day—his first few seasons were far above what’s expected of the average player. When he was dating Isla, he was considered one of the hottest new players in the league.
His performance has fallen over the last two seasons. I don’t know if it had to do with Isla, but if he loved her, it would make sense. Personal lives take a toll on your work life. Or so I believe. I’ve never had much of a personal life to contend with.
“Don’t apologize, you’re only speaking the truth. It’s a good reminder that I need to keep my head in the game and on mycareer if I want to keep playing. Which I do, for as long as I can, anyway,” he says. “What are some of your other quirks?”
“I spew facts and data at random and often without forethought or consideration,” I say, and he laughs. “Do you have quirks?”
“Of course.”
“Like what?”
“My favorite thing to do when I’m stressed out is eat an entire pint of ice cream,” he says, and I turn back to look at him skeptically. That’s not weird at all. But then, he continues, “It has to be rocky road, and I have to eat in a bath that’s so hot my skin turns red.”
“Why?”
“The ice cream is nostalgic, it’s my dad’s favorite and he never goes a night without eating it. The hot bath…maybe so I can feel something other than my thoughts.”
“Is this something you do often?”
“Nah, I don’t get stressed out easily. But when I do, I get messy. That’s what Lottie calls it.”
“You and your sister are close?” I ask.
“We are. She’s my best friend. Has been since she was born,” he says.
I picture him as a little boy, peeking over her crib to watch her nap, or holding her hand while they walked in a park. He seems like the type to have been overly protective.
“What’s another quirk of yours?”
“I don’t like quiet. I don’t mean sound as much as just in general. I need constant stimulation. It’s why my house is busy. Maybe you caught on to that already,” I say.
“I assumed by the fact that you had the television on, and I could hear music playing from somewhere else in the house.”
