Page 3 of The Best Parts of Him
But the books weren’t about him—they were for kids facing daily challenges at home.
Ergo, the pseudonym.
So, yeah. His general feel over camera people setting up camp in the Trailblazers’ locker room and in his and his teammates’ homes—places that were supposed to be safe—was that of dread that crawled up the back of his throat.
“Dabbs? You still there?”
“Yeah, I was just . . . thinking.”
“I love the idea,” Bellamy piped in, leaning forward in his seat. “A whole series on how hard we work and how dedicated we are to the team? That can only be a good thing. Think of the new fans it would attract.”
“True,” Dabbs had to concede. “Conversely, it means there will be people in all of our spaces. For months. And we have guys on the team who are very private.” Like me, he wanted to say. “Guys who are protective of their personal lives, their families, their kids.”
“That’s one of the questions we have for the producer,” Coach said. “There’s no way I’d allow a camera person into everyone’s homes twenty-four seven for the entire season. Not just for privacy reasons, but for the mental health of the players. If we do decide to move forward with this project, we’d protect everyone’s privacy as much as possible.”
Dabbs pulled into his and Bellamy’s driveway. “It sounds like you’re leaning toward making this happen.”
“I’m not leaning toward anything. I just wanted to get your thoughts on it.”
“My thoughts are that we both have more questions than answers. Once we have those answers, I’ll be better able to make a judgment call. But on the whole . . . ” He didn’t want to admit it, but he had to. “I think most of the guys will go for it.”
Bellamy pumped a fist.
“That’s what my gut is telling me too.” Coach grunted and paper rustled on his end of the line. “Send me the questions you have for the producer. I’ll add them to mine and Ramsey’s.”
That was the team’s general manager.
“Will do, Coach.”
They signed off, and Dabbs turned off the car.
“You hate the idea,” Bellamy stated before Dabbs could exit the vehicle.
Dabbs opened the door just to let some air in as the sun began to heat the interior. “I don’t hate it.”
“You hate it.”
Despite his mom taking him and his sisters away from their father when he was ten, and despite years of therapy, it was tough for Dabbs to willingly put himself in a position to be verbally abused, even when he did everything right.
Hell, he’d once strutted into the house like a proud peacock, brandishing a seventeen out of twenty on a third-grade math quiz, and his dad had ripped it up and told him unless it was twenty out of twenty, it wasn’t good enough.
Hockey was different. He was an NHL player—he knew he was skilled. And when he had an off day, there wasn’t anything a disappointed fan could say about his shitty game that he wasn’t already kicking himself in the ass for.
But letting someone into his home, his personal life, his mental state, his psyche? Letting a documentary filmmaker dig into what made him tick and what his game-day routine looked like and how he coped with challenging games and losses?
That was a whole new set of rules.
“I reserve judgment until I have answers to all my questions,” he finally said, climbing out of the car.
Bellamy grumbled something unintelligible and followed him into their house.
chapter two
Ryland Zervudachi hit the button to go live on Instagram and grinned as the number of viewers went up, and up, and up.
324 . . . 401 . . . 477 . . . 539 . . . 717.
When it hit a thousand, he waved two fingers at the screen in hello and angled himself so that the sun was directly above him, like the earth’s best spotlight. “Hey, everyone. I’m here at Moon Meadows Maple Farm, my family’s maple syrup farm in Maplewood, Vermont. Someone asked me the other day what maple syrup farmers do in the off-season, so . . . ” He pumped his eyebrows. “I figured I’d show you. See that guy there?” He shifted slightly and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s my dad. Basically the brains of this whole operation. Let’s go ask him what he’s up to.”
