Page 86 of Puck to the Heart
And I put a pin in that train of thought—I could not get hard in the fucking gym.
Mindlessly, I gathered my stuff and went to hide somewhere to think. An icy shower should help temper the suddenly raging lust licking through him. If only it would help the spinning hamster wheels in my brain, too.
The shower didnothelp, and now we were five minutes out from the final game on the East Coast, and I still didn’t have my head on straight.
Dante joked around to lighten the mood, but I snapped, cursing my friend up one side and down the other. I apologized as soon as my vision cleared again, but I still made a complete ass of myself.
Great way to start the game, Cap.
Ugh. Shit.Fuck.
The game was a disaster. I still hesitated, second-guessing every shot, unable to pass or score, leaving myself open all night with nothing to show for it. No magical solution presented itself at the breaks, so instead of encouraging or inspiring my teammates, I beat myself up.
We lost. Again.
It wasn’t entirely my fault; we were all professionals. But the balance of the entire team was off due to my poor leadership. And I still didn’t know how to be better. Logically, I knew nothing would change overnight. If I didn’t improve over the course of three games, maybe I wouldn’t get better at all.
If Trip were still around, I would ask him how he did it. But if Trip hadn’t broken his leg, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask for advice.
With new resolve easing my mood enough to get back to the hotel without snapping at anyone, but not enough to feel like any less of a failure, I went through my new routine of lying in the dark and mentally flagellating myself over every mistake.
* * *
Trip invitedme over within thirty seconds of me sending a message. He must’ve been lonely in his convalescence. Probably bored out of his mind without hours of training and games and travel.
Nana sent me to Trip’s with a pound cake, still warm from the oven. Trip opened the door on crutches, and I stood there on the threshold, frozen, suddenly grateful I never had such a serious injury. Then I mentally knocked on wood, threw pretend salt over my shoulder, and crossed my fingers so I didn’t accidentally think it into being.
“Don’t mind the Barbies,” Trip said, sliding a few errant dolls aside with the rubber tip of a crutch as we passed a room filled with drawings and toys.
The hallway opened to a sunny room made of floor to ceiling windows. Fingerprints and stickers covered the lower couple of feet of glass. Trip gestured to a large sofa, using the crutches to position himself at an angle before dropping down to lean on a corner.
“How’s it going? Those last few games were brutal.”
I winced and pushed my hands through my hair. “Yeah. It was bad. How are things here?” Trip’s eyes were dull, but with the pain meds he was on, I didn’t blame him for being less alert.
“Bored as hell. Ready to get back on the horse, so to speak.” A wry look twisted Trip’s features; his blue-grey eyes shadowed for a moment. But don’t worry about me.” Typical deflection, but if Trip wasn’t ready to talk, I wouldn’t press. “You’re here for advice, huh?”
The urge to sink to my knees and beg for help was strong, but I resisted. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Cap.”
Trip nudged the toe of my sneaker with a crutch. I pulled my foot back, mock affronted at the nonexistent smudge on the pristine leather. “You’re the captain, now.”
“Only on a trial basis. And I’m not sure I should be.”
“Why not?” Trip settled back into the cushions, leaning his crutches on the arm of the sofa.
“You saw the games. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“What happened? You’re not playing like you usually do.” Trip leveled me with a stare, bringing me back to earlier, stupider days.
“It’s like something is…”
“Missing?”
Idly, I traced the petals of the sprawling flowers in my tattoo, my mind following the lines rather than my thoughts. The pain of the tattoos was a dull memory, the buzz and burn of the needle dragging along skin an outlet for the roiling anger and hurt and yawning uncertainty residing in my chest. “I guess. I just don’t know what.”
My former captain seemed thoughtful, commanding, “Let’s have coffee. Bring that.” Trip rose jerkily from the couch and pointed to the boxed cake still in my hands. “Come on.”
The Harrison family kitchen was colorful and warm. Inviting. It reminded me of the kitchen in Nana’s old house before we moved. Not my parents’ house; cooking never gave them the joy it gave Nana. Though every now and then, when I needed a hit of nostalgia, I’d eat a can of SpaghettiOs with a handful of Goldfish. It didn’t taste the same as when I was ten, but the memories of my parents working at the kitchen table while I ate and read fantasy books weren’t about the flavor.
