Page 74 of Lucky Laces
Especially since we have a game coming up against the Grizzlies.
Which I may or may not be cleared to play in.
Fuck.
This shit sucks.
Grumpy, but knowing it’s less to do with my injury and more to do with the reason that Smitty is here, I turn my focus out at the grass, the mature trees, the flowering bushes broken up by a meandering path that leads to a gazebo that houses my hot tub.
I hate that he’s here.
Not because I don’t like him—I don’t know him well but from what I’ve heard through the league’s gossip pipeline, he’s a nice guy who’s devoted to his team and wife.Something that’s supported by the fact that he’s here, that he’s in my house, having dropped everything because Dee made a call.
I just…hate that he’s here.
That hehasto be here.
I hate that Diana called in some favors from her previous coaching positions—assisting the Breakers and before that having positions on the support staff with the Grizzlies, the Gold, and the Rush.She’s worked hard to get where she is.
And now she’s pulling strings for me because my brain doesn’t work right.
Fuck.
I clench my beer bottle.
“That a hot tub?”Smitty asks (still loudly).
“Yup,” I mutter.
“Damn,” he says and glances at his wife.“We need to get one of those.”Back to me.“You put some good shit together back here.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though I had not one thing to do with the design of the yard or picking out the hot tub.It came this way when I bought it, along with the gardener in charge of upkeep.I just cut a check once a month.
I don’t tell Smitty that though.
I just scowl at my beer then lift it to my lips, taking a long sip, hoping the alcohol will soften the sharp edges of my shame.
I want to think that maybe this will help.
But I’m fucking scared to be hopeful when I’ve had so many years ofnothinghelping.
Of knowing I’m no good, that I’m broken.
That I’m dumb.
So while there’s a small sliver of hope this will be different, the rest of me is…
Resigned.
Knowing this will be the same fucking shit.
And now it won’t only be me who’s disappointed.DeeDee?—
“Beer’s good shit,” Smitty says (spoiler, it’s loud), lifting his beer and holding it out, the bottom angled toward me.
Waiting for me to tap my bottle against his.
To cheers this fucked-up meeting of minds.
