Page 53 of Like A Daydream
“The pop-culture references you come up with,” she says, laughing.
“Listen, you can’t tell me that Halfway Thereisn’ta banger,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I can’t, and I definitely won’t, even though I’m ride or die for ‘Til I Forget About You,” she says with a grin. “You’re just so weird.”
“I’ll take weird,” he replies, “it’s better than what that guy was calling me earlier.”
He pulls a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, and she drops her hand into her lap. He reaches over and takes it between his, circling the back of it with his thumb.
He’s clingy and needs physical touch when he gets upset, got it.
She scoots closer, her side pressed up against his, and he shifts so his arm is around her shoulders and pulls her to him.
“Everyone in the country is looking at you,” he says with a sigh, “and comparing you to other players. JT and I were pitted against each other a lot because of our similar playing styles and stats.
“It was too much,” he shakes his head, “plus with my dad there was always the pressure to be the best. He never made it to the professional level, so he was living through me. If I played poorly during a game, I didn’t even want to call home. It was never yelling or anger, it was just the disappointment that I didn’t want to hear.”
“I’m sure he was proud of you, no matter what,” Danielle says, furrowing her brow.
“I know he was, in his own way,” Andrew says, “but when you’re under that strain it’s hard to hear a disappointing recap every time you lose a game, especially when they had put so much into making sure I was able to play the sport I loved at a high level. I felt like I owed it to them to be the best, so I guess that’s where it all kind of started.”
“Why hockey?” she asks. He shrugs.
“I grew up around it, kind of like JT,” he replies, “my dad played for a rec team after blowing his knee out in college and ending his shot at being drafted, my uncles all played through college for Herb Brooks because it was in their blood and they didn’t want to give it up. My mom’s dad coached after missing his shot at the Olympics in the 60’s. It wasn’t really an expectation that I played, but I was skating before I could walk, I think.”
She fiddles with one of the beads on his bracelet with her free hand, and he smiles.
“And when I started playing, I knew that it was what I was meant for,” he says, “I loved it so much. It’s loud and exciting, and your team becomes your family. It teaches you sportsmanship and how to conduct yourself on and off the ice.”
He pauses, and she looks up at him. His eyes are full of concentration, and there’s passion etched at the edges. He takes a breath and continues,
“Its fast, and when you’re out there, it feels like you’re flying. The ice is the only place in the world that makes sense, even when the game is out of my control. Knowing that I have a team who has my back feels good.”
“The salary isn’t half bad, either,” Danielle teases.
“The salary is not half bad,” he agrees, “but even if I wasn’t getting paid what I do, I would still play. It’s a part of who I am. It’s been in my blood for so long, I don’t know what I would do without playing, or it taking up some part of my life.”
“Do you still love it?” She leans her head against his shoulder as she asks.
“I think I do,” he says, “I think right now I’m going through a crisis, but I know that it’ll be right there waiting for me once I find my way back to why I loved it so much in the first place.”
“Do you have panic attacks a lot because of it?”
He shakes his head.
“I put a lot of effort into settling, and grounding myself when it happens. I think today it was just because I haven’t had to deal with that for a while.”
“Is that what Cara meant at the beginning of the summer, when she said I shouldn’t hire you?”
“Probably. If you’re in the hockey world at all, you would know how bad it got after I missed that shot,” he says, “and she’s a huge fan, apparently. She was just looking out for you, and your store.”
“She’s in the hockey world, alright,” she says, “her brother is in the NHL or the AHL or something.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Petrov.”
“No shit.” he says, eyes widening. “Her brother isn’t Mikhail, is he?”
