Page 50 of He Has Pluck

Her: It’s about time we end our fling anyway. It’s been swell.

Fuck. Not what I expected. My gut roils, and my chest tightens. I steel myself to shut it down because I know an anxiety attack when I see one coming. It’s not pretty, and I’m not proud. I get up from bed and prowl around the room, still holding the phone as if it makes me still connected to her. Breathing deep and controlled, in and out, I stop and close my eyes.

Standing here in the middle of my tattered squalid room that only ever felt acceptable because it took on love-shack status when she was here, I let rage fill me, taking the place of the anxiety and sadness closing in on me. I rage at myself, at my stupidity. What the ever-living fuck was I thinking letting myself become obsessed with her?

Because now…now, I need to quit cold-turkey like some addict. I need to rip off the biggest mother of a band-aid fast and hard and hope it doesn’t rip my heart out with it.

Then I have to play a game tomorrow. And I still have to work with her.

I lie in bed awake, or half asleep at best, most of the night. Sleep is miserable without Juliette in bed with me, her energy, her presence, her prickliness and softness, her two sides equally addictive. I get maybe a couple of hours of sleep and report to the practice facility for the game day schedule, which includes an early skate.

There’s a full breakfast buffet set up outside the locker room with sandwiches, hash browns and other easy to grab and go food, but the idea of eating doesn’t sit well. I force myself to drink a large bottle of Gatorade, and that’s enough to challenge my stomach for now.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise with awareness as I stand at my locker, pulling off my shirt. It’s her. I sense her before I breathe her in or hear her voice. She comes close as I steel myself, scrunching my shirt into a ball and refusing to start the morning with a confrontation. My gut roils all the same. My head slams with thudding pain from lack of sleep, from too much senseless dwelling on her like I’m obsessed. Which I am. True confession. I’m now a candidate for the Maury Povich show. I’m that pathetic.

I turn abruptly as she passes by, a whiff of her essence moving me. She stops, and we have a moment of raw animosity between us, our eyes exchanging lightning bolts of hostility.

Then she smiles and smacks my shoulder. “Big day today. Break a leg.” I nod. Then she moves on through the locker room and lifts her camera. That’s it. Enough to sharpen the edge I’ve been balanced on to an excruciating spike.

Carlos follows and films, asks the questions. Another level of hell churns my gut.

“How do you feel today, Tansem?”

“Like shit.”

He lowers the camera. “Let’s try that again.”

“Nervous. Excited.” I hold up a hand. “I’ve got to go stretch out.” I turn my back and hunt for the conditioning coach to help me with some stretches because my muscles are tighter than ever. But mostly because I want to get away from Carlos. And her. Everything in me feels wound up worse than the usual game jitters.

Worse than that, I can’t stay focused on the game. My concentration is shit.

Vicky works on me on the table today. Maybe I look like I need special treatment.

“What’s the deal, Jason? You feel like a rock and not in a good way.”

I groan as she pounds on me like she’s prepping me for a meal.

“You been resting?” she asks.

I snort.

“I see. How’s your concentration? Push back on my hand.” She presses against my legs in a battle of strength, and with her putting her full substantial weight into it—did I mention Vicki is an ex-champion bodybuilder?—she’s winning. My leg slips and crashes down on the table.

“Your concentration is shit,” she says. I can’t even concentrate enough to respond to her. She lowers her voice and leans close, and I’d be alarmed if she wasn’t Vicky and I know better. She says, “Promise me, swear on your mother’s grave, that you will sleep tonight—alone. No distractions.” She stares at me, earnest and concerned, and I nod.

“I will. In the meantime, what do you have for me?”

She stands. “Strong coffee. Black.” She shoves me. “Go now.” She’s not exactly scowling, but she looks disappointed.

* * *

Apparently stretching and coffee were not an effective cure for my game shape and concentration because I played like shit. Coincidentally, we lose the game, and I haven’t experienced such a dark mood in a locker room since seventh grade when our coach got fired for a gambling problem.

“I suck,” I mumble under my breath.

O’Rourke shoves his way past me. “Join the club. I can’t sleep for shit at home with the baby. It caught up with me today. I’m moving to a hotel room tonight even if my wife kills me.” He looks at me, misery in his eyes. “It’ll be like I’m playing all away games, but fuck, I need sleep.”

“You’re not the only one,” I admit.