Page 15 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad
“I won’t, Coach. I’ll work on my mental game and come back stronger in the next match.”
A small smile forms on the coach’s face. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, let’s focus on the next one and leave this distraction behind us.”
As I walk out of the press area, a pang of guilt settled in my chest. As I trudge down the dimly lit corridor, my footsteps feel heavy and weighed down with the burden of guilt. Each step echoes the conflict that rages within me. The pang in my chest intensifies, radiating a dull ache that mirrors the ache in my conscience. Maybe I shouldn’t have publicly ridiculed Ziggy like that, no matter how much she had annoyed me. She was just trying to do her job, and I made her look like a fool in front of everyone. But then again, she did mess up my routine. I can’t bring myself to apologize, though. Not yet.
I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate with my teammates. My body, once fueled by adrenaline and the thrill of the game, now succumbed to exhaustion. My muscles, once taut and primed for victory, now sagged with weariness. The physical toll of the night, combined with the emotional turmoil, left me drained and frazzled. My hands, usually steady and agile on the field, tremble slightly as I reach up to rub my temples. The throbbing headache is a constant reminder of the conflict I had unleashed.
I made up a half-believable excuse to skip dinner and just meet the boys at the club after. Today was enough. I need the quiet of my own space first. As I make my way back to the house, the surroundings seem to blur, their details lost in the fog of my troubled thoughts. The silence only serves to amplify the guilt, echoing in my ears like a haunting refrain. The residual energy from the game is wearing off, leaving me exhausted and frayed. I need some time alone to clear my head and regroup before the next game. I long for solitude, a respite from the chaos the game had become. I desperately want to clear my cluttered mind, to find a moment of clarity amidst the inner demons that swirl within me. As I close the door behind me, the weariness seeps into my bones as I allow myself a moment of respite. Alone with my thoughts, I know I have to find a way to reconcile my actions before the next game.
On my way back, I picked up some takeout from the place around the corner and started wallowing in self-pity. As I sit on the couch now, my body sinks into its plush cushions, mirroring the weight of my self-pity. The heaviness settles in my chest, causing my breathing to become shallow and erratic. Frustration courses through my veins, making my muscles tense and my jaw clench. It's as if every negative thought about Ziggy tightens the knots in my body, creating a physical manifestation of my internal turmoil.
I absentmindedly pick at my meal, my appetite diminished by everything going on in my head. The taste of the food is bland on my tongue, its flavors overshadowed by the bitterness of my thoughts. Yet, despite my lack of appetite, I continue to eat, almost mechanically, as if seeking some form of distraction. My thoughts keep drifting back to Ziggy. It’s infuriating how her presence consumes my thoughts, even when I try to push herout. It’s as if her image is etched into the deepest recesses of my mind, refusing to fade away. And although her personality grates on my nerves, there is an undeniable allure to her. And damn her and that body. The way she carried herself, with a blend of confidence and vulnerability, had a magnetic pull that I couldn’t fully comprehend. Even when flustered, she was oddly intriguing.
It pisses me off how much space she occupies in my mind. I don’t wallow often; it’s not something I let myself do. But tonight is different. I indulge in the frustration and the intrigue, letting it fuel my determination. I refused to let Ziggy’s presence throw me off my game again. My muscles tighten, but this time, it’s not in frustration. It’s a silent promise to myself, a vow to become stronger and more focused. I will channel this mix of emotions into my next game, using it as fuel to propel me forward. I know that the next game will be different. I will be stronger and more focused, and nothing will throw me off my game again.
Chapter 9
I storm out of the rink, my face burning in humiliation. The entire day was a disaster. Each embarrassing moment gnaws at me, making my steps quick and angry. How could everything have gone so wrong? I did everything right. My questions were perfect. They were well-researched, with nothing but facts and statistics. Sure, I had some ill-timed interactions. But still, for me to receive the treatment that Elliot-the-asshole gave me is unacceptable. I want to forget every second of the day and each associated disaster. I fumble for my phone and call an Uber, desperate to get back to the hotel and away from the rink, from hockey and Elliot St. Germain. As I wait, my mind races with the mortifying moments replaying over and over. When the car finally pulls up, I practically throw myself into the back seat, barely managing a strained “hello” to the driver. I am utterly embarrassed, furious, and determined to never let this happen again.
I retreat back to the hotel with my tail tucked firmly between my legs, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass.The elevator ride feels like an eternity, each second a reminder of my colossal failure. I keep my head down, praying no one recognizes me. Once I finally reach my room, I lock the door behind me and lean against it, trying to steady my breathing. The embarrassment from the rink clings to me like a second skin, and all I want is to disappear. Tonight, all I want is to hide from the world and forget this day ever happened.
As I lean back against the door, the weight of my disappointment in myself settles heavily on my shoulders. My own thoughts cause my chest to tighten, making it difficult to take deep breaths. A cold sweat forms on my forehead, my palms clammy and trembling. The room feels suffocating; the walls closing in on me. I hurriedly cross the dimly lit space, pulling the curtains shut to block out any glimpse of the outside world.
I can’t stop replaying the events of each interview, each misstep and stumble etched vividly in my memory. The echoing sounds of laughter and disappointed murmurs ring in my ears, amplifying my sense of failure. Tears well up in my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I fight them back, not wanting to give in to the vulnerability that accompanies them. The mirror on the dresser taunts me, reflecting a defeated figure with slumped shoulders and eyes filled with regret.
I move without realizing it to sit on the edge of the hotel bed as my mind races with thoughts of quitting. The humiliation from tonight’s disaster clings to me like a dark cloud. The idea of walking away from this nightmare seems so tempting. But I know I have no hope of quitting. This job is the only thing I have to make sure I can survive living in Atlanta until my lease is up. I can’t afford to give up now, no matter how much I want to. Quitting would mean returning to nothing, and I can’t let that happen. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to remember why Ican’t give up in the first place. I have to push through, no matter how tough it gets. This is my only option, and I just have to make it work.
Time seems to stand still as I sit here, grappling with the overwhelming desire to escape the reality I have to eventually face. I yearn to erase the night, to rewind and rewrite my performance. But no amount of wishing can change the past. I will allow myself tonight to wallow in my disappointment, but I won’t do it by hiding from the world or licking my wounds.
After a quick shower to wash away the day’s shame, I pull on the sexiest dress I have packed, determined to reclaim some semblance of confidence. I critique my appearance in front of the full-length mirror, giving myself one last chance for a wardrobe change. I have no idea why I even packed this dress. It is far from professional, but it’s working in my favor now. The mustard-yellow fabric clings to the frame, the deep V-neckline adding a daring touch that I hope will help get me back to feeling more like myself. The embellished shoulders and the intricate, gathered detail at the waist highlight my curves in all the right places.
My dark brown roots stand out against the freshly ‘sun-kissed’ blonde balayage at the ends of tonight's sleek look as the silky ends cascade over my shoulders. I pick up my mascara, adding another layer to my smokey eye makeup, making my brown eyes pop. I keep my lips a nude color, adding to the overall elegance. The idea is to get people's attention, but not too much. Be a show stopper without feeling like the center of attention. Feeling confident in my outfit, I top it off with the pair of sparkly, strappy heels I brought “just in case.” I’m an average height, so I don’t need the extra height, but I certainly do love the added effect and poise that the heels give me. Taking a deepbreath, I promise myself to leave behind the mortification of the day.
I stride down to the lobby with purpose, head held high despite the lingering sting of the night’s debacle. At the concierge desk, I lean in with a forced, tight-lipped smile.
“I need to find a martini,” I say, my voice edged with desperation. “Can you recommend the best bar within walking distance for that?” The concierge raises an eyebrow, probably sensing my urgency, and nods.
“Absolutely, ma’am. There’s a place right down the street. Take a left out of the entrance and go down two blocks to the right. There might be a line, but it’s worth the wait. The drinks are great and the atmosphere is always good. Just what you need.”
I thank him quietly. My heart is already feeling a tiny bit lighter. Tonight, I’m determined to drown my sorrows in gin and forget Elliot the goalie and the nightmare of my first solo broadcast, if only for a few hours.
I make the quick trip to the bar, my heels clicking on the pavement. The night air is warm but still pleasant, a welcome contrast to the earlier tension. Stepping into the dark bar, the hum of chatter and laughter immediately surrounds me. The place is packed with people enjoying themselves and their lives. Nothing that I want to be a part of at the moment. The decor is rustic yet modern, with exposed brick walls and warm, ambient lighting casting a cozy glow. I sidle up to a small, open spot at the bar, slipping onto the stool with ease. The bartender, a burly guy with a friendly smile, approaches, and I don’t hesitate.
“I’ll have an extra dirty martini and keep them coming,” I say, my voice steady but internally eager for the comforting burn of alcohol. As he nods and sets to work, I let the buzz of the crowd wash over me, hoping to drown out the day’s mortification with every sip.
I came here with one goal in mind: to get absolutely, gloriously drunk. The idea of facing another minute sober is unbearable. My logic is simple—if I can’t remember anything, I can’t be embarrassed. As the bartender hands me my next martini, I take a long, deliberate sip, savoring the briny, bitter taste. I’m here to erase the sting of Elliot’s public ridicule and my own mistakes, to obliterate the stress and self-doubt eating away at me. Drink after drink, I let the alcohol blur the edges of my thoughts, hoping to drown out every ounce of the day’s shame until all that is left is a comforting, numbing haze.
As I sit here, I become lost in the intoxicating haze of the bar and lost in thought. Elliot’s words cut deep, exposing my vulnerabilities for all to see. It’s as if the entire world witnessed my failures, and the weight of their judgment presses heavily upon me. Is this the most productive way to move past things? No. I get that, but wallowing in self-pity is best managed drunk and dressed to kill. Surrounded by the clinking of glasses and murmurs of conversation, I find some peace. Each sip of the martini brings a temporary reprieve from the pain, a fleeting moment of respite from the harsh reality that awaits me outside those doors.
The bitter taste of the drink serves as a bittersweet reminder of my determination to let go, to release myself from the shackles of self-doubt and regret. With each passing moment, the alcohol begins to weave its spell, blurring the boundaries between my thoughts and gradually erasing thememories that haunted me throughout the day. As the familiar buzz settles in, a sense of liberation washes over me. The burden of everything lifts, replaced by a sense of freedom that only intoxication can provide. With every sip, I inch closer to that elusive state of oblivion, where the troubles of the day no longer have a hold on me. Instead of sitting here spiraling any longer, I am going to let it go. The martinis are already making that easier.
The noise of the bar becomes a distant hum, and the faces around me fade into a blur. All that matters is the present moment. But as the night wears on, it’s harder for me to remember why I’m even drowning my sorrows in the first place. Now, the numbing haze of alcohol only seems to cloud my judgment, leaving me vulnerable and disconnected from reality.
As I sip my third…no… fourth martini, I notice the guys around the bar starting to flock toward me. At first, it’s satisfying—this is how it should be. Unlike Elliot St. Germain, most people love me and want to talk to me. Get to know me. It’s a comforting reminder of my usual confidence. But as the night wears on and the crowd around me thickens, that initial happiness turns into a growing discomfort. Their compliments feel hollow, their attention invasive. The more drinks I have, the less charming their advances seem. I feel trapped, unsure how to extract myself from the situation gracefully. My head spins, not just from the alcohol but from the anxiety building inside me. This isn’t the escape I hoped for. I wanted to forget Elliot’s cruel words, not drown in a sea of unwanted attention.
The bar’s lighting seems to grow darker as the guys around me grow bolder, their laughter louder and their hands more intrusive. My initial delight at the attention has evaporated, replaced by a total unease. Each touch feels like a violation, eachword like a chain tightening around me. I try to edge away, but they only move closer, their voices a disorienting mix of flattery and insistence. Panic surged within me as I realize how trapped I really am. My heart pounds in my chest, my earlier confidence crumbling into desperation. I need to get away, but my legs feel like lead. This is a nightmare. The night has turned sour, and all I want is to be alone and far from the grasping hands that seem to follow me, but freedom from them feels just out of reach.
Chapter 10