Chapter 6 – Greyson
Greyson: Abby, what’s Hannah’s favorite food?
Doc Knight: Steak and potatoes, but pizza or tacos work too. ??
Greyson: Noted for when I get her to agree to a date. Street tacos it is. Thanks. ??
Greyson: I need your address, too, please.
Doc Knight: current location Apartment 402.
Right at 12:00 I knock on Hannah and Abby’s door. I’m greeted with the sweet sound of barking. I want a dog so badly, but with our insane travel schedule, it wouldn’t be fair. I always tell myself I could get my parents or Tate to watch them while I’m gone, but I get attached so easily I’d want to take him with me everywhere I went. I wonder if the girls will let me borrow theirs.
Hannah opens the door looking like a dream; the leggings and oversized shirt with her hair thrown up in a bun is something else. I don’t realize I’m staring until she breaks the trance I’m in. “Are you broken, Wilder?” Oh, shoot, busted. Again.
“Sorry, I brought tacos from my favorite taco truck. Are you hungry?” Before she can answer, a furry black and white blur runs past her, straight for the bag I’m holding. Its front paws hit my stomach as its cute little booper sniffs the bag.
“Harley, get down, young lady. That behavior is unbecoming.” I’m sure she meant to sound stern, but the smile on her face tells an entirely different story. The way love shines so bright in her eye when she looks at the cutest fur baby I’ve ever seen, suddenly I wish I was the dog. Wait. No.
“Hey, Harley girl, if I knew you were here, I would have brought you something. But don’t worry, I’ll remember for next time.” I rub between her ears and then look up to see Hannah watching the whole interaction. Her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth, one hand on the back of her hip, and the other white-knuckling the door.
I smile and step inside the apartment, making my new bestie hop off me and run to the kitchen, where she knows the food is going. “Sorry about that, she usually doesn’t jump. She’ll just sit under your feet until you drop something.” She’s running her left hand up and down her right arm; her nervousness is endearing.
“It’s fine. I love dogs, so I don’t mind. Let’s eat, yeah?” She pulls out one of the bar stools for me, then walks around the island to grab a couple of paper plates and napkins.
“Do you want something to drink? We’ve got water, soda, or those electrolyte drinks.” Peeking around the edge of the fridge door, she smiles and hides half her face like she’s playing peek-a-boo.
“Water would be great. Thanks.” She blushes. I internally high-fived myself. I’m twenty-eight, and I feel like a middle school kid with his first crush. We eat in record time, she starts to take my trash, but I stop her. “Nope, just tell me where the trash is.” My mom would slap me in the back of the head if I let a woman clean after we ate. A rule of hers is, “Whoever cooks doesn’t clean.” And even though technically neither of us cooked, I’m going to stand by my decision because I’m a gentleman, obviously.
When we’re done cleaning up, we move to the living room, where they have a sweet setup. A light gray U-shaped couch sits in the middle of the room, with a coffee table in front of it and a decent-sized flat-screen TV up on the wa ll. She grabs her iPad, crosses her legs under her, and grabs the softest-looking blanket I’ve ever seen. She gets settled and then looks up at me.
Her eyes trail from my eyes down to where my right arm is slung over the back of the couch, down to my legs, which are crossed ankle over knee; it’s the typical “power” move for a dude. I think my mom called it a “man-spread,” whatever that means, but before I can get further lost in how it feels to be on the receiving end of her attention, she clears her throat.
My eyes snap back up to hers only to find her looking down at the screen on her iPad. “So, dunk tanks and cotton candy? I’m all for it if you’re the first one in the tank. The kids would love to have a chance at dunking their new favorite hotshot hockey player.”
“Hmm, only if you’re second in line. I mean, who wouldn’t want to dunk the woman who writes the sports world’s most entertaining articles?” I ask as I lean forward, placing my forearms on my knees.
She pulls her lips between her teeth to smother a smile, “How about we have two tanks, and they’re side by side? We can make it interesting, see who gets dunked more.” I’m shocked. Never would I have expected a woman to volunteer to be dunked on by a bunch of children. Especially in front of her co-workers and other professional athletes and, heck, even random people from around town. I mean, maybe I’ve been hanging around with the wrong type of women.
Most women would complain about their hair staying dry or their makeup getting ruined. I think Kara once said she didn’t like Florida because it was wet and humid, which made her look like a soggy dog. Ugh. Not going there right now.
“Deal, but fair warning. I have a bit of a fan club; they might scheme to keep me dry. Plus, I have charm on my side.” I drive that point home by wiggling my eyebrows. This earns me an eye roll; I chuckle as I run my hand through my hair.
“Moving on,” Her voice light but purposeful. “You brought up games with different sports. What if we did something like a “Beat the Pro” challenge? Kids can try to score on the different teams we’ll have, and if they do, they’ll get a prize of some sort. Or bragging rights might be better for kids that age. What do you think? Can your ego handle it?”
She feigns innocence, but the glint in her eyes gives her away. I mock outrage by gasping and bringing the back of my hand to my forehead.
“Me?! Why, Hannah, it's like you don’t know me at all.” A smirk grows as she continues to take notes, but she doesn’t look up from what she’s writing.
“I’m always up for a challenge, plus it’ll be a trial run for them. And maybe we could find the next Tampa Bay sports star out of this whole thing.” I watch as she scribbles notes down. I can’t help but notice how she chews on her bottom lip as she concentrates. It sends my mind to places it has no business going.
"We could have Tampa Today set up a prop interview station where kids can try to interview you. Kids are the toughest critics.” The hand holding the pencil shoots up like she just had the best idea in the world.
“Questions like, why can’t I resist cheesy carnival food? Or why do I let a certain sports journalist talk me into crazy ideas?”
“Yup, exactly like that.” She winks at me, and my mind runs through a reel of kids interviewing athletes. It could be a hit on that funny video show.
For a second, the playful back-and-forth takes a pause. Watching her dream up this event, I can’t help but admire the energy she’s pouring into this. The way she lights up when she talks about the kids. She’s different. It’s certainly nothing Kara would ever be caught doing unless it came with several press releases, all of which were focused on her and how well she planned it. Stop comparing.
Growing up, I had everything I needed. But what I didn’t have was mental health resources. Coming from a family that already had a pro athlete in it, you’re taught to be tough from a very young age. Weakness was a hindrance, so when my mind-numbing bouts of depression started, I started acting out. From the outside, it simply looked like I was taking my anger out on the ice. The reality was I was crying out for help in the only way I knew how. I wasn’t angry or aggressive on a good day, but when it got dark, it was freaking dark. And my outbursts got me into more than a fair share of trouble.
“Can I run something by you?” I ask, my voice coming in a little weaker than I would have liked. This isn’t a part of me I openly share, but for some reason, I feel comfortable sharing it with her. Maybe it’s the fact that I want to give these kids some resources I didn’t have, or maybe it’s just the comforting presence of Hannah.
“Of course.” She puts her pencil down and looks up at me, giving me her undivided attention.
Clearing my throat, I scoot my butt closer to the edge of the couch and lean back. My need to be physically comfortable while getting emotionally uncomfortable isn’t lost on me. “What do you think about adding a mental health booth? Maybe not an actual psychologist; we can’t turn it into a therapy session. But maybe there are some people who work in th e field and could help kids find a way to deal with stress and anxiety.”
I take a peek at her; her eyes are glassy, and I officially shot myself in the foot. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Do you have someone in mind? If not, I can ask my therapist if there’s anyone she knows who might be interested.”
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding leaves my chest; I nod. “Yeah, I have a psychologist I’ve been seeing since I was in high school; I can ask him. He’s a nutcase.” Huffing, I rub the back of my neck, thinking about all the ridiculous ways Dr. Williams has pulled me out of pit after pit. I owe that man my life and then some.
“My therapist is pretty out there, too. I’ve been with her since Abby and I graduated. My college days were not my proudest. I punished myself a lot. After the Kyle situation, Abby literally dragged me into the college’s psych office and sat with me while I told the therapist my life story. When we graduated, we found Megan, and now, we’re both there on a monthly basis.” She smiles a weak smile at me. I want to ask why she’d punish herself, but the way she brings the pillow to her chest like it’s a piece of armor tells me she’s shared all she’s willing to share today.
After a brief snack break, we get back to the drawing board. The Tampa Today organization has partnered with six youth sports programs in the area. All the kids who partake in their after-school programs or are part of their recreational league will be invited to the event. The goal of this fundraiser is to sponsor as many of these kids as they can in the next season of whatever sport they choose. The biggest draw is us as athletes being part of it, plus whatever we donate for the silent auction part will bring in some decent donations.
Once we’ve talked throug h the food options and how we can get more sports teams in the area, from middle school teams to college involved, she emails her notes to her boss and tells me she’ll let me know when she hears what the next steps are, but it’s taking place the last Saturday of October before all the holiday excitement begins. She wraps up our “meeting” with, “If we can give these kids some hope and positivity before the holidays where they may or may not feel left out, it’d be the best gift I’d ever receive.”
I don’t think she realizes how broken she looks. Her shoulders slouch forward; her focus is solely on whatever she’s writing down. However, from here, it looks more like she’s scribbling or drawing something on the pad instead of writing anything. She may have the world believing she’s an impenetrable force, but the Hannah sitting in front of me right now seems a bit broken, like this event is personal to her.
She clears her throat, pulling her hair out and putting it back into a bun that looks exactly like the one before it did. “I need to take Harley for a walk. Would you like to come with us?”
I didn’t even need to think about my answer, “Yeah, I’d love to.” With that, we’re up off the couch and heading towards the door. As soon as Harley hears the leash move, she bolts from wherever she was hiding. When she gets to Hannah’s feet, she sits immediately, her tail wagging back and forth in anticipation. The harness slips over her head, clipping together with the straps on her back. Once everything is on, we head out the door.
As we walk around the neighborhood, Hannah unclips the leash from Harley’s harness and tells me we’re going to take her to a dog park a couple blocks over from where they live. I have zero complaints because I’m genuinely en joying my time with her.
Harley is leading the way, her tail wagging like it’s attached to the energizer bunny. Hannah walks beside me; her laughter rings out every time Harley does something goofy, which is often. “Harley! Leave the poor squirrel alone.” She calls out, trying and epically failing to sound stern. She glances at me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. It’s blatantly obvious how much she loves this dog.
I chuckle as Harley gives up on the squirrel and comes sashaying back to us, tongue lolling out to the side. “Hey, maybe she’s trying to impress the new guy, show off her “Wild” side.” She swats at my arm; my shoulder nudges hers in response.
“Just like someone else I know, always eager to impress.” She jibes, still not looking at me. It’s then I realize the smile is gone. Her arms cross over her chest, and the inside of her cheek is pulled between her teeth. It looks like she just ate sour candy. Her change in mood catches me off guard, so I resort back to my default setting. Humor.
“Hey now,” holding up my hands in surrender, “I don’t need to try; my charm is effortless.” She rolls her eyes; her face betrays her faux annoyance.
She stops walking and watches me with a mix of curiosity and hesitation dancing in her eyes. The wind picks the perfect moment to blow a strand of hair across her face. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. “You’re something else, Greyson Wilder.”
“Good or bad, something else?” I ask with genuine interest. She doesn’t answer right away. A small, borderline mischievous smile plays on her lips as she starts walking again.
“Let’s call it interes ting ‘something else.’” I can’t help but smile; I’ll take it because the last thing I want is for her to think I’m boring. Harley picks that moment to dart back over to us, placing a stick at my feet like it’s a precious gem. Her brown eyes lock on mine in anticipation.
“Okay, girl. I got you.” I say, dropping down to pick up the stick. While I straighten up, she’s already backing up in the direction she thinks I’m going to throw it. I toss the stick in the opposite direction, and she runs after it with the vigor of a police K9.
“You’re good with her.” She says, a hint of awe in her voice.
“Nah, she just knows what she wants, and she goes and gets it,” I reply as I brush the dirt off my hand onto my jeans.
She glances at me, her smile softer than it was before. Full of something different, longing, maybe? “Must be nice.”
“I’m sure it is.” My tone dips as our eyes meet again; I hold her gaze for a beat longer than I should. “You know, Harley and I have a lot in common.”
“Oh really?” she asks, arching an eyebrow in my direction. “How’s that?”
“Well, for starters, we’re both incredibly loyal, we love being outside, and we may have a thing for chasing after what we want.” She keeps her pace, chewing on her bottom lip, eyes trained on the ground in front of us.
“And what is it you’re chasing after Mr. Wilder?”
I stop walking, turning so I can look her in the eye, hoping she can see I’m speaking from the heart. “Right now? This moment, getting to know you better.” Her hand moves to the back of her neck as her eyes dart back and forth between mine. Panic sets in when I’m met with silence. I’m left wondering if I just ruined the entire afternoon. She gi ves me a small smile before dropping her gaze to the ground. We continue to walk in silence as Harley happily sniffs and walks ahead until she stops at the gate of the dog park with not a care in the world.
“Okay, let’s start small. What’s your favorite flower?” She smiles, her eyes trained on Harley as she runs around with a golden retriever.
“White roses.”
“Ohh, untraditional. I like it. Why are those your favorite?”
Her eyes look unfocused as if she’s reliving part of her life. Finally, she looks at me, “There’s a single white rose bush in my mom’s backyard.” Her smile is soft, and her eyes are now glassy. “I used to sit by it when I was sad. They were so pretty and pure, I’d talk to God out there. I wasn’t brave enough to venture into the forest yet, so that rose bush and I became besties. The smell brought me unexplainable levels of comfort. Plus, the horses loved to lay by it too; we didn’t have a dog back then, so I’d pet them instead.”
Buy her white roses and horses when she’s sad. Got it. “Mine are tiger lilies; they remind me of the trippy talking flowers from Alice in Wonderland.” Her eyes widen as her jaw drops, but there’s a smile trying to come out to play. “It’s okay to laugh. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
She does, and it warms the darkest parts of my soul. “I’m sorry, that was just so random.” She shakes her head a little and returns her eyes to Harley.
“Favorite candy?”
“Reece’s peanut butter cups. Specifically frozen ones.” My eyebrow cocks at the frozen admission. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who freezes their chocolate. “What? It’s better that way. Gives you a little extra crunch.” She shrugs like I’m the weird one. “I’d guess yours are gummy bears, but I could be wrong.”
I smile because I get why she’d think that, but she is indeed wrong. “Whoppers.” Her head snaps in my direction.
“Whoppers? That’s your favorite candy?” She laughs again; this time, her eyes don’t leave mine. “Just when I think I have you figured out.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet, Kitten.” I send a wink her way as I pull a GQ move and flex my bicep as I push my sunglasses up higher on my nose. She blushes—point one for Wilder.
“Okay, okay, you said you like to read. What’s your favorite kind of book?” She plays with her hands in front of her, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Romance, it doesn’t matter the kind. Just not the darker stuff; some of it gives me PTSD. But there’s this book coming out in November called Hell or High Water. It's a cowboy romance; I can’t wait for it!”
“What’s it about?”
“Well, I can give you the gist of it. I don’t know all the details, obviously, because it isn’t out yet.”
“Well, obviously.” I wave my hands dramatically through the air, earning me a soft giggle.
“They’re childhood friends that fell in love, then the girl whose name is Addison, her dad was physically abusive, so her mom split in the middle of the night, taking Addison with her. She gets separated from her best friend an d guy she loves, AKA Hunt, and somehow, years later, she ends up on his ranch three states over from where they last saw each other. He’s determined not to let her get away this time. I can’t wait to see how that plays out.”
“Sounds interesting. I can’t wait to hear all about it when you read it.” I nudge her shoulder, and she smiles up at me. I make another mental note: books are the key to unlocking Hannah’s full level of excitement.