13. Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
The prospect of ringing in the New Year in Denver, with TJ, filled me with more joy than I will admit, even to myself. Clearly I’m in some state of denial when it comes to him, because the utter disappointment that knocked the wind right out of me when TJ informed me he would not in fact be in Denver for New Year’s, was a blow I hadn’t expected.
“We’re playing in Pennsylvania that day. Winter Classic, annual New Year’s Day outdoor game.”
Of course. What an idiot. Of course, they won’t be in town because I’m playing in their arena. Guilt that I hadn’t realized that fact clawed at my gut.
“Please don’t read anything into the fact that I can’t seem to keep up with your schedule.” I sound pitiful, even to myself.
TJ just laughs it off. “Nandy, I would never expect you to keep up with my schedule, especially with the one you have. Newsflash, I don’t have yours committed to memory either.”
That makes feel marginally better.
But what doesn’t feel great is the fact that I rang in yet another new year as if it was just another day. I went to bed early. There was nobody to kiss at the stroke of midnight. Nobody to stroke either. I grin to myself as I gaze out upon the city and mountains off in the distance. A cloudless bluebird sky day in Colorado.
Happy New Year
I send the text. Wait a moment. Nothing. He must be on the ice. Morning skate. I’m still not altogether sure what that entails, but they happen in the mornings before games. Sounds a lot like their version of my sound checks.
I hear movement in the living room of my hotel suite. Randall is sitting at the round table by the window, laptop open, phone in one hand, typing frantically on both. I’m not his only client. And that has never bothered me. I make him the most money. And that is why he always, always travels with me. And that, that is bothering me. A lot.
“You know I don’t need a chaperone.”
He raises his head momentarily and looks at me, but a ding on his phone steals his attention again.
“Wouldn’t one of your other clients appreciate personal attention occasionally?”
He neither answers nor gives any indication he heard me at all.
“I want a hockey jersey.”
“You want a what?” That he heard.
“I want a hockey jersey to wear during the concert. The Grizzlies are playing a game today, a big outdoor thing in Pennsylvania. So, I thought maybe halfway through the concert I would put on a jersey to show my support.”
“But you aren’t playing in Pennsylvania.”
I sigh. “I know, but I am playing in the Grizzlies arena.”
He finally looks up from his phone. It’s a wonder sometimes that he hears anything I say. I’m greeted with a scowl.
“Never mind, I’ll figure it out.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “I’ll send someone over early to get one.”
“It has to be a specific one.”
“What?” His attention has already returned to his phone and clearly this request of mine is beyond annoying.
“Look, forget it. I’ll take care of it.”
A quick Google search shows me the gift shop in 5280 Arena is opening in 10 minutes. I’m sure Randall doesn’t even notice me leave the hotel suite. He’s been my manager for several years now, and I can’t deny the effect he has had on my career. I have more money than I can ever conceive of spending. I’ve exposed more and more people who look like me to classical music. People who would never have otherwise listened to it and string instruments…to music, period. But lately I want more. Not more fame or fortune. But I want to do more. I don’t want to stand up on an enormous stage before tens of thousands of people, so removed from them. I want to see my audience. I want to talk with them. I want to know what they want from me.
And I want this frenetic pace to stop. Hell, even when I am home in Chicago, I’m on stage most of the time that I’m there. I barely even have time to head up to my parents and spend time with them.
I’m tired of being surrounded by people who don’t know me at all. They benefit financially and otherwise by being in my circle. I don’t say inner circle, because I don’t think I have one of those. People who know me. People who can read my mood when I walk into the room. Fynn can do that. People who can alter my mood for the better just by calling or texting. TJ can do that. He might be the first real friend I’ve had since school.
Fynn would understand my desire to get a hockey jersey. He would mock me for it, but he would get it. Fynn is the only one who knows the turmoil this constant world tour has set churning inside of me. TJ doesn’t know. I’ve not let him know. But the calls, the texts, this rhythm of friendship…it gives me a reason to play every day. That elevator ride. His own turmoil. I understood it more than he knows. I feel it with him. And the bond we formed that night, it helped me as much as him. Something I doubt he realizes either.
Something I should tell him. He needs to know how much he means to me. I’m not good at sharing my feelings. Hell, I’m not good at having feelings. I try damn hard not to have them unless I have a violin in my hand. But…I am showing my feelings…I’m buying a hockey jersey. That’s the best I can do right now.