Page 6 of Played
“Yes.” When he gives me a hard, measured stare, I hold up my hands. “I promise I am, Coach. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
That’s the other part of what’s been fucking with me. Since the fire at our training facility last week, I haven’t been able to find the journal my therapist insisted I keep. I hated it at first, but the activity soon became a lifeline for me. Became ... cathartic. Things I could never speak aloud, I wrote. Things people would look at me crazy for ever admitting, I could include in that book because no one would ever see it but me. That shit changed with the fire.
The last place I remember having it was in the bag I carried to the locker room. My duffel bag went home with me. But the journal? Nowhere to be found. And the only place it could be is the training center. Which means it was destroyed by either smoke or water ... or someone found it. All those private thoughts gone forever? Or all those private thoughts exposed to another person’s eyes.
Both possibilities make my stomach clench around the acid rolling around in there.
“Good. I get it’s not something you originally wanted to do, but I hope it’s been beneficial. Men—especially Black men—tend to believe therapy is a stigma in our communities. It’s a show of weakness or that it’s a white-people thing. Those beliefs are pure bullshit. There’s nothing broken or weak about you, Solomon. Most people would cave, crawl in a hole in their minds and not come out. But you’re still here. You’re still fighting. And counseling is part of that battle. Believe me, son, I’ve been there.”
I clench my jaw, teeth grinding against each other. How could I forget that Coach was a widower too? Maybe because he’s happily married again? The love between him and his wife is beautiful to see, and it tends to make me forget he’s experienced the exact thing I’m suffering.
“Look, Solomon.” He sighs, lacing his fingers over his solid stomach and peering at me from underneath heavy eyebrows. “Do whatever you need to heal. I remember the sleepless nights, the anxiety. The fear.” He pauses, and when I don’t contradict him, he nods. “But if you’re exhausted and running on fumes, you’re not going to be any good for Khalil, much less this team.”
“I hear you.”
“Good. Now get out of here. Go home and rest.” Slapping the desktop, he stands. “See you tomorrow at practice.”
Rising to my feet, I stretch my arm across the desk, and he grips my palm, squeezing it. “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate you.”
“Same, Solomon.”
Turning, I make my way out of the office and into the hallway leading to the rear of the arena. Erik shoves out of the locker-room door, and the center—and one of my best friends—falls into step beside me.
“Did he rip your ass a new one?” Erik arches a dark-blond eyebrow.
I half grunt, half laugh, throwing my duffel bag holding my change of clothes over my shoulder.
“No. Although he could’ve. But if I have a repeat of today, that might change.”
Erik doesn’t give me any kind of platitudes likeNah, you weren’t that badorYou’re good. Almost from the moment I joined the Pirates, Erik has been my boy. And he doesn’t and wouldn’t lie to me. Especially about hockey. He’s one of those friends that’ll give you shit raw and worry about how you took it later. Yeah, that’s not true. He doesn’t worry.
“Hey.” He comes to a halt in the middle of the corridor. “Anything you need to get off your chest?” he asks instead.
I huff a laugh, because if I’m emotionally stunted when it comes to expressing my feelings, then Erik is pretty much in an emotional coma. This muthafucka can’t even spellfeelings, much less experience them. So, for him inviting me to unload on him?
I must’ve been more fucked up on the ice than I thought.
“I’m good,” I say, expecting relief at me letting him off the hook to wash over his face. But it doesn’t.
He frowns, his dark-blue gaze roaming over my face as if searching for a truth I don’t have to give him.
“You played like shit, and you look it. You sure there’s nothing you want to talk about? We can go get a couple of beers and—”
“And what? Get fucked up and then fucked? Nah, I’m good on that.” I shake my head. “Look, man, I appreciate it, but I’m fine. Just tired.”
Erik quietly studies me for a long moment, then nods. “All right. I’m going to believe you. But if you need me, need anything ...”
“I know where to find you. And like I said”—I clap a hand on his shoulder and lightly squeeze—“I appreciate it. And you.”
Even though sour swill sloshes in my gut as if I got drunk on my ass in the last hour, I mean it. I am grateful for Erik—for all my boys. I love them. And no matter how hard I want to snap for their fucking ... gentleness with me, I don’t. Because their concern and mother-henning comes from a good place. A protective place. As much as I want to lash out and yell to leave me alone and stop fucking pitying me, I keep that irrational anger locked down. It’s not their fault that two years after my world imploded, I’m still trying to pick up the pieces.
“I’m good,” I reiterate, probably more for my benefit than his.
Erik doesn’t respond but his gaze calls bullshit, and I decide to ignore that too. Turning, I start down the hall toward the exit when I’m stopped again.
“Mr. Young. A moment, please.”
Swallowing the heavy and irritated sigh climbing its way up my throat, I briefly close my eyes, then pivot back around. Can I just getthe fuck up out of here and go home? I have a couple of hours before I have to pick Khalil up from kindergarten. After getting him straight and fed, I just want to end my day with me on my couch, feet kicked up on the table, watchingInside Out—again—with my son beside me.
