Chapter 7 – Hannah
Chapter 7 – Hanna h
Greyson’s words linger in the air, warming me even as the breeze rustles the trees around us. The fact that he cared enough to actually ask questions, regardless of how basic they were, tells me there’s some truth to his ‘wanting to get to know me’ statement.
We continue walking to the side of the dog park, but my mind is running a marathon, tangled in memories of my father’s criticism, constantly reminding me I’m not enough. Lobbing questions back and forth is one thing; it’s another to reveal the scars that still ache when there are men involved.
“Penny for your thoughts?” His deep voice cuts through my brain fog; his tone is light, but you can hear his concern. I glance in his direction and force a smile.
“Just thinking about the carnival. We made a lot of progress today, but it’s still going to take some work.” He nods.
“You sure that’s all?” I look away from his gaze because, for some reason, he can see right through me.
“Yeah, I just have a lot on my mind.” I sigh. How does one bring up the fact that on their father’s deathbed, he didn’t tell me he loved me and apologized for the years of mental hell he put me through? He spent it tearing me down one last time. How do you explain the lifetime of striving to be the best you can be just to fall short every single time?
He stops walking and gently places his hand on my bicep, stopping my forward momentum. He turns to face me, eyes roaming my face, “I get that you’re not totally comfortable with me yet, but you can talk to me about anything. I’m the last person who would judge you.” The honesty in his voice makes me want to spill every single locked-up ti ght life secret I have. The thought is overwhelming; it gives me the itch to duck and run.
“I know, Grey, it’s just... complicated.” I run my hand over my bun and give it a squeeze, followed by a harsher-than-necessary exhale. “I’ve got a lot riding on this carnival. I need it to go perfectly; I’m talking zero problems. I can’t afford distractions. I’m so damn close to the things I’ve worked so hard for. It’s a lot of pressure. I don’t want to mess it up.”
He doesn’t press anymore; he just nods and starts walking again.
“Well, I don’t want to be a distraction, but I hope you’ll let me be there for you when you’re ready. No rush.” I grab his hand and give it a quick squeeze, hoping he understands just how much that means to me.
Harley runs back over to us after she’s done playing with her doggy friends, plopping down at Greyson’s feet. He chuckles, “Did you have fun girl? You need a pup cup from Beautiful Pour.” Looking up at me, his beautiful blue eyes sparkle in the sun, waiting for me to agree.
“Let’s go, noodle, there’s a pup cup with your name on it!” Hooking her leash back to her harness, we continue our walk. The conversation lightens as we head toward our favorite coffee shop. We go back and forth on who has the best funnel cakes in the area and what carnival games we should have in addition to the sports ones. But in the back of my mind, his words linger. Maybe one day, I’ll be brave enough to share that part of my life with him.
After g etting Harley her pup cup and walking back to the apartment, Greyson and I come to a stop outside. “Thanks for lunch and for all your planning help today; I appreciate it.”
“Of course, I had a good time.” He leans over and grabs Harley’s face in his large hands, “And anytime you want to go for a walk or to the dog park, you tell Mama to let me know, and I’ll gladly accompany you both.”
Swoon, yep, the way to my heart is definitely through my dog. He stands up and locks eyes with me, pulling me into a hug; he rests his cheek on the top of my head just like he did outside The Tap Room. “I meant it, Hannah. Whenever you need someone to talk to, I’d be more than happy to volunteer.”
Taking in a shaky breath, I wrap my arms around his middle. I press my cheek into his chest, being comforted again by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, trying to ignore how perfectly my arms fit around his waist.
“Thanks, Bulldozer, I’ll keep that in mind.” He lets his arms drop while taking a step back.
“See you around, Kitten. Have a good night.”
“Yeah, you too, Wilder,” I whisper, low enough that he doesn’t hear it.
Once Harley and I get inside, Abby is standing in the kitchen with a massive grin on her face. “What?”
“Nothing, Kitten .” I roll my eyes and plop myself down on the barstool at the island, dropping my head on my folded arms.
“I’m having an interna l crisis.” Although my words are muffled because I’m speaking into the kitchen island, Abby doesn’t miss a beat.
“I’m going to need a bit more info than that.” A huff leaves her as her hands meet her hips. One foot taps the floor like an impatient Daffy Duck.
“This carnival. Nora told me to plan it. If I do well she’ll put her recommendation in for me to be the new Sports Marketing Director.” I watch as her eyes widen, and a hand moves to cover her mouth.
“Why the heck didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” Her arms fly wide, and a flash of hurt crosses her face. “I could have been helping you.”
I groan. “She asked me to have some of the Hawks help, and then Greyson walked into the coffee shop while I was working on a slide deck for it. He offered to help, but I need to recruit some of the other guys to help, too. It doesn’t look very good for us to be spending time together alone. You know?” Getting up, I begin to pace; I cringe when my eyes meet her very annoyed ones.
Abby’s arms cross over her chest, and her gaze sharpens like a knife. “No, I don’t know. Please, enlighten me.”
I’m trying but epically failing to rid myself of the ball of anxiety growing in my chest. “I’m covering the team this season. How would it look if I started dating one of them? Not great. I’m so close, Abby. I can taste it; it’s right there!” My voice pitches, cracking slightly at the end.
She shakes her head at me, dragging her tongue across her bottom lip as she continues to glare at me.“No,” Her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to bury yourself in work this time. ” I stop and turn to face her.
She doesn’t let me speak; instead, she barrels forward. “What happens when you get this job? You aren’t even thirty. Where are you going to go from there? Are you willing to put a revenge mission over the possibility of having the family you’ve always wanted? Heck, Hannah, I’m your only friend. Not that I mind,” she quickly adds, “but this isn’t healthy.”
Her words land like a knockout punch. I plop onto the barstool again, burying my face in my hands. The frustration builds, tears threatening the edge of my eyes. I don’t have the answers I so desperately wish I did.
“I can’t lose this opportunity, Abby.” My voice comes out a broken whisper, “When I get there, we’ll see where things go, I guess.”
Her hands tremble at her side, eyes full of unshed tears of her own. Her voice is shaky, but her words are clear as day. “I’ve never wanted to be a voice of condemnation for you, but you will regret this at some point. You’ll look back and realize you could have had friendships and relationships that would build you up and make you stronger. But instead, you push everyone away and bury yourself in your job. Constantly striving toward the next accomplishment, and every time you get there, it’s never enough.”
She steps back, her jaw tight, as she turns toward her room. “You have to get off the hamster wheel at some point.”
Her door slams shut, and the sound is loud through our otherwise quiet apartment.
To try and distract myself from our conversation, I pull out my iPad and get to work on an article I’m putting out next week. “Pucks and Pups.” One of the local animal shelters pulled the last article I wrote and matched adoptable dogs to the personalities of the players they felt best suited them. It was a really cute idea and did really well on social media, so when I called the shelter asking if I could turn it into an article, they were all over it. I’m hoping this helps get some of the pups adopted into loving homes.
Moments later, my phone rings, pulling me out of my workflow. “Hey, Dill Pickle.” A heavy sigh meets me on the other end of the line.
“You know I cannot stand that nickname, right?” My coworker, Dylan, asks. I do. I hear it every time I say it. But she still calls me Hannah Banana. She knows when she stops with the nicknames, I will stop, too.
“Noted. What can I do for you?” I start to pick at the edge of my nails. It was one of the few nervous ticks my dad never caught on to. When he would yell, I would start to pick; it allowed me to focus on something else other than the pain associated with anything pertaining to him.
“Do you have a deck you can send me, even just a bullet point list of talking points on the carnival so far? I need to get my spiel together before I start my rotation on the Strikers next week.”
“Yeah, I’ll send it over. Thanks for recruiting more muscle. I have boxes they can carry for us.” She giggles, and I about fall off my chair. Dylan is one of those closed-off, the world is out to get me kind of people. But, boy, if she isn’t ride or die for the people she cares about. She’s so good at writing, but her sense of humor is so dark that we all just deal with the Emo kid in the office. I kind of love it.
“Thanks Nana Peel. See y ou next week.” The line disconnects before I have a chance to respond. Nana Peel? That’s a new one. Can’t say I’m a fan of that one, either. Closing the cover on my iPad, I head to the bathroom and pour a hefty amount of Epsom salt into the bathtub. It’s time for some self-care.