Chapter 10 #2
Skylar confidently guides the floating screen head of my mother through the store once again, leading us to a back room where Bastian, I presume, lets us in. Skylar spins the phone around, showing off a pink chair that looks like it’s from the Mad Men era. “And the best part? It’s a dusty-pink.”
My mother gasps. “Who doesn’t love pink?”
“Never trust someone who doesn’t love pink,” Skylar says, running a hand over the dusty-pink upholstery on the lounge chair, set on an aluminum base, with a high back and a cushion for the head.
“Words to live by,” Mom says, seeming agreeable but then…she eyes it with an arch in her brow. Judgement in her eyes. A ruler-straight mouth. Oh shit. She hates it.
I try to soften the blow. “I guess you’re not proposing to it?”
“No,” Mom says, and my shoulders sag.
Dammit.
But I’m not disappointed for me. I was hoping she’d love this chair Skylar found for her because I wanted Skylar to have that win.
But Skylar doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll find you another one.”
Mom tuts. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. That chair and I? We’re eloping tonight.”
Skylar grins. “Congratulations.”
I expected Skylar to survive my mother.
I didn’t expect her to win her over.
And as we leave, I sure as hell didn’t expect to be wishing the day wasn’t ending.
On the way home, I glance at the dashboard clock more than I should. My mind races through unexpected ideas like Want to stop at High Kick Coffee? I hear coffee tastes better drunk rather than worn. Or Want to walk our dogs? You’ll keep yours at least ten feet from mine though, right?
But those all sound suspiciously like dates.
And that’s not what I should be doing with my neighbor, my designer, and a woman who, frankly, I don’t have that much in common with.
At least, I didn’t think I did before today. I’m beginning to question that assumption. A lot. So I fiddle around with the console, asking instead, “Want to listen to some music?”
“Sure,” Skylar says, and I wonder what she listens to. If we even have that in common. We probably don’t. “But I figured you only listen to news.”
I roll my eyes, then stab the pump-me-up gym playlist Wesley shared with all of us—he’s our resident music savant—to make my point.
But instead of the Bad Bunny tune that played the last time my teammates and I bet who could bench press more, a confident, soprano voice fills the car, saying: “Now, if someone requests a meeting, ask yourself—does it align with your three key priorities?”
Shit. I must have hit my audiobook app instead.
Skylar whips her gaze to me as I slow at a light. “You listen to…business productivity books?”
It’s said with way too much satisfaction.
I hit end so fast. “Just something my sister suggested,” I say, shrugging it off. It feels personal. Too personal. Like I’m letting her see a part of me I’d rather keep to myself.
Or maybe—another voice says—a part you’re afraid to share?
I shared these parts of myself with Brittany.
The goals I had for myself—to excel at hockey—and for us as a couple—to grow closer.
Brittany had asked me to hire a private chef to teach us how to cook together, so we could have quality time over homemade meals.
She’d framed it as an investment in our relationship, a way to reconnect during the season when I spent so much time on the road.
Instead, she used that time when I was gone to start an affair with the chef.
My jaw clenches at the unwanted memory as I slow at a light. I steal a glance at Skylar, unsure what to say, if anything. But I choose silence—it’s easier than taking a risk. Don’t want to get burned.
But Skylar’s gazing out the window thoughtfully. “That’s cool,” she says, waving a hand at the console. “I could probably benefit from that. That kind of focus, you know?”
And…that was not what I’d expected her to say. “Yeah?”
“Definitely,” she says. “It’s a good way to look at things—what your priorities are.”
And it’s a reminder too—mine are hockey, family, and my dog. Romance isn’t on the list. Dating isn’t even close.
It’s my final year in the pros, and I don’t need a thing distracting me.
“Speaking of priorities,” Skylar says, then shoots me a quick, hopeful look. “It would be cool to do a before and after video of your parents’ home. To show on the podcast.”
“It’s video and audio? Your show?”
“Yep. But if that’s too much to ask I completely understand. No pressure at all,” she says. “If your mom doesn’t want their home featured at the end, it’s not a problem.”
I take a beat to think it over, even though it’s Mom’s call of course, since she’s making all the calls on the home.
But probably a before and after for a big project like this would help Skylar.
“I’ll make it happen,” I say, since it’s a two-fer.
It’ll make Skylar happy and, well, Mom likes showing off things she’s proud of.
“Thank you,” she says, sounding both relieved and excited.
This thing with us is business. Just business. And her podcast is a good reminder.
When we return to our homes, I say goodbye, making plans to see her when the furniture arrives at the end of next week, and walk my dog alone.
My arms are shaking, my shoulders are screaming, but I don’t care. I lower myself from the plank position to the floor again. And again. And one more time.
“All right, all right. You can do push-ups—we know. No more showing off,” my conditioning coach, Leah, chides, beckoning for me to get to my feet.
“What? Extra is good,” I say as I pop up from the floor.
“Not always,” she says, then points to the barbell on the mat. “Rest for one minute. Then I want ten box back squats. Only ten.”
“I can do more,” I offer.
Leah Boasberg has made a name for herself as one of the top strength and conditioning coaches in the game.
She worked for our intra-city rivals, the Golden State Foxes, before going out on her own.
We have a strength and conditioning coach on the Sea Dogs, but I wanted a personalized program for the entire season, so I hired her for private sessions.
Some of the guys on the Golden State Foxes followed her too—like Corbin Knight, who’s here with me today at the gym we go to on Fillmore Street in the city.
“I can do double what this clown does,” Corbin offers.
Leah rolls her eyes before flicking her thick brown braid off her shoulder. “Conditioning is not a competition, boys.”
I shoot Corbin a skeptical look, then flash the same doubtful one to Leah. “You sure about that?”
She points to the weight again. “Do ten, or I’ll make you do nothing.”
Corbin steps back. “Whoa, reverse drill-sergeant psychology.”
She looks his way with a proud grin, then points her tablet at him. “That’s right. And I’ll use it on you too, Knight.”
With a gulp, he heeds the warning, holding up his hands in surrender.
I squat down, grab the bar, and lift it up, then squat until my ass touches the box. My legs bark at me. But if it were easy, it wouldn’t get the job done.
I’m going to do everything in my power to have a phenomenal season. To ensure I can walk away from hockey, rather than have hockey slip away from me.
Like my marriage.
I blink away the unwanted thought. Brittany made her choice, and I learned from it—it’s best to rely on myself and my dog.
When I finish ten reps, beads of sweat are sliding down my back, but I’m feeling stronger, and that’s the goal. Once I set the bar back in place, I catch my breath before I grab my water bottle. I down some, stretching out my legs as Corbin takes his turn, obeying perfectly.
“Good,” she says to my buddy as he puts the barbell away with a huff. “I’ll let you keep up the training.” Then to me, she adds, “But more is not always more.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say.
“Ford,” she warns.
Corbin throws a towel at me. “Were you a suck-up in school too? Teacher, can I have more addition problems? Can I write an extra essay?”
I shoot him a look that translates to I’ll kill you in your sleep, mostly because I don’t want to acknowledge he’s right. Of course I did extra work. How else would I have gotten a scholarship?
“I swear I’ll need to get my daycare license soon,” Leah says, rolling her eyes. Scanning her tablet screen, she gives us the next set of drills.
I happily do them, no matter how loud my muscles scream.
When we’re done and Leah takes off, I could collapse. Instead, I make my way to the cardio machines. I gaze longingly at the row of StairMasters before claiming my favorite elliptical. Corbin grabs the one next to me, then glances down at his knees.
“Man, sometimes I wish I could still do the StairMaster too.”
Nostalgia tugs at my chest as well. “Yeah, and stair drills, the kind that make you feel like you’re going to die,” I say with fondness for those exercises we used to do—were allowed to do.
He tosses his towel on the dashboard, nodding in solidarity. “The kind that makes your legs feel like a five-alarm fire.”
“Fucking miss those,” I say.
“So damn much.”
Corbin’s logged nearly a decade in the pros—not quite as many as I have, but close. After a while, your knees just aren’t the same. Even if you can skate like a Ferrari on espresso, you’ve got to be careful with the other exercises.
Corbin sighs, long and contemplative. “Aging is hard,” he says.
Three words. No bullshit. No ribbing.
Just a truth that gnaws at me.
“You’re telling me,” I say, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to slow down. I’m going to stay a step ahead. I pump my feet on the elliptical as I build up speed. “You push hard, you do the right things, eat healthy, stretch, practice yoga, get your sleep…but Father Time comes for us all.”
“And it comes for athletes fast and hard,” he says as he hits the start button. “But I take solace in one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He flashes me a dickhead smile, his dark eyes twinkling. “You’ll always be older than I am.”
I shoot him a deadpan stare. “And wiser. I’ll always be wiser.”
He laughs. “That’s probably true.”
But not always. I find myself texting Skylar later that day while I head to the team plane for the flight to Los Angeles. I want to let her know Mom said yes to the before-and-after for Skylar’s podcast.
Skylar replies in more exclamation points than I can count.
As I settle into my seat, I give her the code to the door and let her know she can shoot the before video anytime.
I take the opportunity to touch base with her on other items, too, like the upcoming furniture delivery.
As we taxi, I ask if we should fix the countertops.
As we take off, I inquire about her opinion on lighting.
It’s important to stay on top of the details. To make sure my parents’ house is done right. That’s all this is.
Well, mostly.
Before we reach the clouds, I send one more text about plants. Just because it’d be nice to have some. Then I turn off the phone and ignore the sliver of hope that when I land, I’ll find a reply about plants.