Page 80 of Playing the Field
This makes the tears roll again, but this time my feelings are laced with appreciation for the boy who became a man when I wasn’t watching and now wants me to lean on him. So I try.
We amble over to a bench and sit with the view sprawled out in front of us. “There’s no escaping the majesty of this,” I say.
“Kind of the point. A little perspective.”
I nod. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t want to share things with you. I…don’t really know how. I’m used to solving problems on my own.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” His wry tone is answer enough.
“Did Hunter tell you where we left things?”
He stretches his arms over the back of the bench in that way only guys can do. His knees splay open, and he looks as at home here as Bogie. It’s a gift to be able to find that Zen space anywhere, and I wish I had more of it.
Slouching down a couple of inches, I try to get more comfortable, but I end up failing. “He’s not ready for a relationship,” I say. “I feel like I’ve come a long way in the time since we met. I let my guard down. I started to trust him to say he loved me and mean it. But he still walked away.”
“That’s on him.”
I sit up and turn toward Kyler, so he sees my face. “I know. A hundred percent, I know that. I won’t let myself doubt that trusting him was the wrong idea. It’s not my fault that he doesn’t know what he wants.”
“He does know. He just won’t let himself have it.”
“What does he want?” My voice is quiet because I almost can’t ask. Maybe Kyler doesn’t hear me.
“He wants you.” Kyler nods to himself. “But…”
He doesn’t have to finish. I know what the problem is. He’s in his own way.
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER 40
Hunter
You knowthose moments when you know you’re making a terrible decision, but some part of you can’t turn the car around, take the fastest route in the opposite direction, and shut down the urge?
That’s how I found myself knocking on the front door of Dario Conner, the Devils striker.
Maybe it’s that he offered himself up if I ever needed to talk. Perhaps he gets it. We’ve always been friendly, but never friends.
He’s too sure of himself, too optimistic, too level-headed to understand someone like me, especially on a night like this one when darkness is my chief personality trait. Or at least that’s what I always thought.
But I’ve already bent Kyler’s ear, and there’s only so much I can talk to him about his own sister. He’s a good friend, but no one is that good. The best thing I can do for our friendship is stay clear of Gracie, so I don’t hurt her more, which is why I’m holedup at a hotel near the Devils training facility. Might as well lessen my commute while I’m ruining my life.
It’s where I should be right now, eating room service off a tray and watching some cooking show on TV. I tried it for about ten minutes, but the chef started making stuffed baked potatoes, which reminded me of Gracie, and in two seconds, I’d lost my appetite.
So now, thirty minutes later, here I am at Dario’s door, which I can’t help noticing is painted a nice shade of green. The door swings open, and my teammate holds out a cold beer as if no other greeting is needed.
“You have a green door,” I say, following him inside. I’ve never been here, so my head is on a swivel, taking in the details of his craftsman bungalow in Santa Monica. Even though it’s nighttime, there’s an open feeling from skylights overhead, glass revealing treetops and maybe even a few stars.
“Yes. Painted that myself. Otherwise, I can’t take much credit for the place.”
His furniture is simple. A large mirror above a console loaded with framed photos of his son. A white-painted kitchen outfitted with pale wood cabinets and stainless steel appliances, a few comfortable-looking tan couches in the living room.
Right when I’m about to marvel that the place is spotless for a person with a kid, I see the massive pile of board games, a train table with tracks and trains covering its surface, and a full-sized camping tent, which I can only imagine is full of more kid stuff.
Dario points at the empty couch, which sits at an angle from a worn brown leather chair with an open beer next to it on a side table. He drops into and waits for me to tell him why I came to talk.
“I’m not sure why I’m here,” I admit. The beer goes down easily, and I decide that maybe that’s why I’m here. For once, no one’s giving me a hard time about empty carbs, and I can enjoy a cold beer and wallow in peace.
