Page 44 of Hard Hitter
“I can do that. Close your eyes.”
He closed them.
She lay both hands lightly on his shoulders. “I want you to listen to my voice,” she said, using a soft voice and a nice, even tone. “Do your best to follow my instructions. Take a deep, slow breath and will yourself to be fully here, inside the moment.”
His belly began to expand with breath.
“...Make a calm space inside yourself for your breath. Let the inhale fill you with strength. On the exhale, I want you to gradually expel all the bullshit of the external world.”
He opened one eye and looked up at her, then closed it again.
“That’s it,” she urged. “Center your awareness on your breathing. If you find your mind wandering to other thoughts, simply acknowledge that all isfucking horseshit. Let it go. Listen to your inner stillness. Breathe in calm. Exhale bullshit.”
His belly was shaking with laughter now.
“You think I’m not serious? Meditation can sound however you need it to. It’s your show, big man.” She patted his shoulder.
He opened his eyes and smiled up at her again. “You are priceless. I hope you know that.”
“Thank you,” she stammered, his compliment hitting her right in the chest, landing with an unfamiliar warmth. “And now unfortunately we are out of time.”
But his words, spoken in that gravely, masculine voice she’d gotten so used to hearing, would stick with her for hours.You are priceless. I hope you know that. She hadn’t thought too highly of herself lately. It was nice to know that someone else did.
THIRTEEN
THURSDAY, MARCH 17TH
Standings: 3rd Place
13 Regular Season Games Left to Go
Crikey took the damn fight after all.
O’Doul didn’t know whether to laugh or punch something. After all the preparation and the usual hours of mental anguish, Crikey skated up to Falzgar in the first period and challenged him to throw down. They went at it like a couple of schoolyard bullies until they both landed on the ice where the refs broke it up.
Crikey needed five stitches in his mug, but Brooklyn won their game that night. They were back in third place, too. And now the stupid punk kid was ordering shots all around at the Hicks Street bar and beating on his fool chest.
“Hey!” Beringer crowed. “You have fifty-one percent on HockeyBrawls.com! I call that a win.”
“I see fifty-one point four!” Beacon, the goalie, slapped the table. “Another beer for the point four!”
O’Doul gave Beacon a pat on the back and took the bar stool next to him. They were both veterans, and sinceBeacon didn’t get many nights out at the bar, O’Doul tried to hang with the merriment and stupidity around him. But it took effort. After two rounds he was done. “Pete.” He handed his platinum card to the bartender. “I want to take care of whatever these assholes drink tonight. Can you run it now and just cash me out later? I’m sneakin’ out.”
Pete waved off the card. “I’ll e-mail the bill to Rebecca. That’s what we did last time.”
“Good man.”
He made a stop in the men’s room, then went out the side door. On the sidewalk ahead of him walked a familiar form. So he put his fingers to his mouth and made a loud catcall.
Ari turned her chin to give him a glare, then did a double take. “You ass.”
He laughed. “I answer to that all the time.”
Arms folded, she waited for him to catch up. “Had enough scotch?”
“Had plenty.”
She studied him a little longer. “You okay?”
