Chapter 13 #2
media. In fact, it’s something I try to keep secret from the public. I’ve gone as far to keep it unknown to my teammates—most
of which have finally stopped calling me Bro-meo.
I can handle people criticizing my game. I can’t have them criticizing this part of me—the part that considers the beach and
a book as much an escape from life’s stressors as some consider the rink. This is the part my mom nurtured. Whenever I start
feeling too much like my dad, I pick up a book and remember that she had some say in the man I am. We don’t talk as much as
I would like, but the act of reading makes me feel closer to her. It’s special to me and I’m not sure how I’m going to share
that with a room full of strangers and an internet full of haters.
“No. It’s fine,” I lie. “It shouldn’t be hard for me to find something last minute.” I motion to the shelves.
“Great. I’ll finish setting up while you look around.” Carter goes back to his mic check, while Olivia sets out more chairs.
Soon enough, a roomful of students who look like they would run a Trader Joe’s like the Navy settle into their seats. Reusable
tote bags litter the floor. Not a single natural hair color in sight. These starving students are going to eat me alive.
With all eyes on me, I take the mic. “My dad’s sorry he couldn’t be here today, but not as sorry as I was that time I tried reading Ulysses,” I joke directly into the camera positioned behind the audience. I clear my throat and continue. “I was going to get up
here with The Count of Monte Cristo and try to impress you all, but I figured we’d go over the hour time slot with our discussion.” My stomach knots as not a
single laugh is heard. I power through like a bad turnover. “Um. I kept thinking I should pick some pretentious classic novel
to discuss, but they’ve all been made into movies that aren’t as good. Instead, I picked The Westing Game. Don’t laugh. I know it’s technically a kids’ book, but it was the first book I read that made me feel like I wasn’t a child.
Like I had some sort of agency in my life.”
They’re engaged, but I try not to look anyone directly in the eyes, worried it might cause me to get too flustered. Instead,
I look at Olivia, who is at the back of the room with her eyes wide and mouth agape. She’s hanging on my every word. Her captivation
is my encouragement.
I read a bit of the book. Turns out a few others in attendance have fond memories of it as well. We talk about the power of
deception and the pitfalls of greed, which I liken to being a professional athlete. You have to present the best version of
yourself, even if it feels like a character because you’re so hell-bent on achieving that next milestone or signing a bigger
contract. A lengthy discussion ensues after a student says the book is a bit unrealistic, that no one would go to such a length
for revenge.
Then I take some general questions about my career, and they are surprisingly insightful.
No one asks me what the team needs to do to win the next period or if I have six abs or eight.
Instead, they ask about my favorite sports autobiography and if I think The Lord of the Rings is overrated.
The latter takes up most of our discussion because it’s not.
When someone candidly asks if reading is a way
for me to escape a bad game, I give them an honest answer: It is. The whole thing goes surprisingly well.
While Carter wraps up the event, I linger around the library, weaving through shelves. In the children’s section, a mom lifts
her small son to reach a book off the top shelf. Together, they collect books that will likely be read at bedtimes in the
nights to follow.
I think of my mom coming home from work with new books. As I got older, the books got thicker. She used to read them to me,
until eventually I was reading them to myself. Hiding them around my teammates, pretending to hate that my mom would sneak
books into my bag before I left for tournaments. The memory becomes too much, and the walls start to close in on me.
I rush out the back exit, throwing up my hood as the wind chill bites my ears. There’s a swing set in the park adjacent to
the library. It’s likely the warmest thing to sit on. I close my eyes and make a run for it.
While lost in my memories, Olivia joins on the swing next to me. “When I couldn’t find you, I worried Carter had you hostage
in the back room. Thought I’d find you two hand in hand rebinding old books and sorting returns,” she says.
“Nah. I needed some air.” I push my foot against the frozen dirt, swaying the swing back and forth.
“Dust allergy?”
I shake my head. “Growing up, my mom was a librarian. I told you we were close, but that’s just what I tell everyone.
Truth is, we don’t talk much anymore.” My heart races; I’m flustered trying to explain the situation without saying too much.
“My family is a bit messed up.” I kick the ground, freeing a bit of frozen dirt.
My toes start to tingle at the tips. I might have been born for the ice, but I still hate the cold.
“I get that,” she says. “My family’s been pretty messed up since my dad died.” She throws her body back and begins to pump
her legs. She’s quick to get some height.
“I didn’t know your dad . . . I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault—right?” she says. “Just don’t tell me you know how I feel because your dog died or anything heinous
like that.” She laughs, but it seems forced, like a flimsy mask.
“Did he get sick?” I start pumping to catch up with her.
“In a way. Yeah,” she says as we swing in unison. “I’m sorry you don’t talk to your mom. You seem pretty bummed about it.”
She looks over at me briefly, but quickly drops her eyes when mine meet hers.
I’m not ready to talk about that. I can’t. Or else I run the risk of not only ruining my dad’s legacy but sinking my own reputation
before I’ve had the chance to accomplish anything significant in the league. If people know how big an asshole my dad is,
they’ll think I’m the same. It’s like all the articles say, I am his protégé—the second coming.
“Today was fun. It brought me back to some of the highlights of my childhood,” I say instead, riding the swaying wave of the
swing until the momentum dies.
“Carter would love to have you back anytime. You did so well with those students. You’re like really smart.” Olivia’s smile
is warming despite the frigid weather.
“Don’t tell me I usually come across as an idiot.” I smile out of the corner of my mouth.
“No. You don’t. But in all your interviews, you seem . . .” She leans her head against the swing’s metal chain, looking up into the gray sky.
“Different?” I interject.
“I was going to say cocky, but sure.”
There’s a brief pause before we both start to laugh.
“Isn’t that what people expect of a Parker?” I say. “Might as well give ’em what they want.”
I like talking to Olivia. I like that she doesn’t put me on a pedestal. She’s taking her time to figure out if her feelings
for me are genuine and not throwing herself at me because of who she thinks I am. It has me asking myself, who am I?
“It’s hard pretending to be someone you’re not. I mean, I think it would be,” she says.
“It’s easier to give people what they want. Highlight-reel goals and rippling abs. And if I remember correctly, you said something
about my postgoal smile.” I stick my foot out and nudge hers. The way she looks up at me makes me want to pull her swing closer.
“I think I said that before I knew you, because whatever that sexy literate thing you had going on back there was, it was
way more interesting.”
“You think I’m interesting?” I know what I’m doing, and I’m sure she does too. It feels good to be seen by her.
“I think you don’t let a lot of people see the real you and I’m starting to feel like one of the lucky ones.” She nudges my
foot back. The whole footsie-on-a-swing-set thing is very elementary, but I can’t deny that it’s working on me.
“I’m hiding out here because I remembered this thing my mom and I used to do when I was a kid.
It’s a good memory—a happy one—but it made me really sad.
” I let my walls down a bit. This girl has been saving my butt, after all.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely starting to fall for her, but she’s also been the best decoy a guy could ask for this season.
“Memories are complicated like that, aren’t they?” A gust of wind blows by and she shivers. I take off my scarf and lean over
to wrap it around her neck. “What was it?”
“No way.” I hop off the swing, ready to run inside.
“Oh, come on,” she whines, in a sexy way that almost makes me instantly cave. “I told you my dad died.”
“Does that usually work for you?” I delay.
“Dead dad? Yes. Every time. Please, tell me. I’ll keep it safe.” She zips her lips shut and locks an invisible padlock before
tossing away the key.
As much as I want to run away from this intimacy, I can’t. I’m frozen in place and it’s not the wind chill. It’s her charisma
and my dependency on it.
“When I was a kid, my mom and I would leave notes for each other. Usually hidden. She would tuck them in books and my hockey
gloves and my lunch box. For a while, it became our secret way to communicate.” I hold my breath, waiting for her to laugh,
or mock me, or worse, come up with some lame “Bro-” nickname.
“That’s a really beautiful memory, Brody.” She calls me Brody. Not Parker. Not Bro-onte . . . Just Brody. “Maybe you’ll mail
her another one, for old times’ sake.”
“Maybe. Today was definitely inspiring. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about it.” Starting to feel a bit too vulnerable,
too stripped, I lower my voice and add, “Play your cards right and you might get one too.”
“Ah, there he is. I was getting worried you went soft on me.” She smirks, rolling her eyes.
I want to tell her they’re the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen but it feels painfully cliché.
She’s looking over, waiting for me to say something, but I’m stuck staring at her like I’m caught in a daydream.
I panic and when I open my mouth, “I can’t feel my balls anymore. Should we go back inside?” comes out.
“I’ll help you warm them under the hand dryer if you want,” she says with a contagious smirk, and leads the way back inside.
I know better than to try to say something clever back.