Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
It doesn’t matter that my whole team is inside, gearing up for game seven. Or that everyone else shut off their phones a couple hours ago. My mother gets a call every day by five o’clock, rain or shine. Those are the rules I live by.
“What does the trainer think?” she asks. “Are you taking anything?”
“Just a couple of Advil, Mom. The shoulder is fine, I promise.” The entire board of the American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons could send her their personal assurance, and she still wouldn’t believe me.
It is what it is. Years ago, my family experienced a tragedy, and my mother never got over it. She barely leaves the house except to visit my brother’s grave, let alone come to one of my games.
“How do you feel about the matchup?” she asks.
“Solid,” I say automatically, because that’s my role. No matter what happens—on the team or in my family—no matter how rough things get, everyone is depending on me to be okay.
So I’m solid. I’m always solid.
“Your father will be rooting for you,” she announces, as if that makes the Tremaine family less weird. My teammates have parents and siblings at every game, but I never will. My mother can’t watch hockey anymore because it makes her too afraid that I’ll die. My father stays home in solidarity, except for the one game a year I play in Boston.
I don’t mind that much, except when it comes to these daily phone calls. Although I usually try to multitask, by calling from the treadmill, or while I’m folding the laundry.
“Hey, Mom? I need to gear up,” I announce. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Hold on. Your father wants a word,” she says, not taking the hint.
The sun beats down on my head, and there’s nobody out here in the rear parking lot to hear me sigh.
A moment later, my father greets me. Then he asks me a litany of questions on topics including but not limited to: my shoulder, the Florida defensive pairings, proper hydration for athletes, the start of hurricane season, and traffic.
I lean back against the cinder-block wall and close my eyes. It’s like a frying pan out here. I tune him out until he says, “Worse comes to worst, if you don’t make it to the finals, you’ll be in town for Maribel’s shower. It would be good to see you.”
“Let’s not wish for that, okay? I have a couple dozen teammates hoping that it’s out of the question.”
My father chuckles. “Maybe you should buy a shower gift as some kind of karmic hedge. Like bringing an umbrella so it won’t rain.”
“Good idea.” Although choosing a gift hadn’t even occurred to me yet. Like the wedding itself, I’ve flung it into the worry-about-it-later drawer. “Does Maribel have a wedding registry or something?”
“Not sure, son. Your mother and I got ’em a gift certificate to Tito’s.”
“Really?” I wince. “But Tito’s was, um, her special occasion restaurant with Danny. Maybe there’s a better option?”
“Nah, your mother chose it especially. Maribel won’t want to forget Danny. And they used to love Tito’s. That’s where they celebrated their engagement.”
My head thunks against the wall. “I know, Dad. That’s why there’s probably a more appropriate wedding gift for the happy couple.”
“It’s Tito’s!” he says, exasperated. “Always open, always appropriate. Who doesn’t want to go to Tito’s?”
For some reason it’s this—a fucking shower gift—that breaks me. I feel a waterfall of tension crash through my body. “I gotta go,” I say, my throat constricting. “Talk tomorrow?”
I’m vaguely aware of him wishing me a great game, but it barely registers. My pulse has gone rabbity, and I don’t even hear the end of his goodbye, because my head is full of static.
It’s fucking game night and I need to get inside already.
Pushing off the wall, I turn toward the door, closing the distance in only a few paces. But the brick that I’d used to prop it open has been shoved aside, and the door is shut tight. I grab the metal handle—hot from the Florida sun—and give it a yank.
It doesn’t budge.
Motherfucker.
I give it another stupid yank while my heart pounds against my rib cage like it’s trying to break free. Maybe I’m having a heart attack. The sun is too bright. The air is too thick. My lungs can’t quite get enough oxygen.
Letting go, I whirl around, looking for another entrance. No such luck, so I’m going to have to run around the building. I pick a direction and set off at a labored jog. But something’s wrong with my breathing. I’m gasping like I’ve just finished a double shift. And the closer I get to the corner of the building, the more obvious it is that there’s a sleek metal fence just beyond the turn, preventing me from continuing in that direction.