Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Lucky studies me. “Spell it out. Tell me why.”
“She’s steady,” I say, the very first thing that comes to mind when I think of her. “When Grayce is screeching and the house is a disaster, she radiates this calm that makes me feel better. She’s funny without trying. She has this dry little aside that always lands two seconds after you think the conversation is over and then you’re snort-laughing. Our banter is off the hook. She blushes when I push—pissed and pink at the same time—and I live for it.”
Lucky is a captive listener, so I keep going because there’s so much more. “She’s relentless with forms and calls and those little middle-of-the-day fires that keep a life from going sideways. She alphabetized the spice drawer by regional influence for no reason but also because she knew at some point, I’d be making soup at midnight and I’d need chili powder fast.” My mouth twitches. “She sings like an angel but gets embarrassed if I overhear her. She keeps lists of everything and makes tiny check marks in the margins when she finishes a task. She said it makes her feel accomplished. Tucks Grayce’s socks into pairs like she’s tidying a small army. And when she blushes, I love teasing her about it because she blushes more. And when… she’s with me?” The air shivers in my lungs. “I can’t see anything else.”
Lucky doesn’t speak for a second. “You sound like you wrote that with a pen you keep in your chest.”
“Maybe I did,” I say.
“Okay. Here’s the problem. You want the whole meal and she’s offering appetizers.”
“You’re a fucking poet.” My laugh is a short exhale. “And I’m starving.”
“Exactly.” He turns his head my way. “So you got two choices. Either pretend you’re not hungry and end up resenting her or tell her you’re hungry and risk her bolting. You can’t hover between, because that middle ground? It’s where knees and hearts go to die.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Me either,” he says with a grin. “But I stand by the precept you can’t hover in the middle forever. You will get resentful.”
“I can’t push right now,” I say. It’s automatic and true. “If I push, she’ll read it as pressure. As manipulation.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She needed rules to feel safe enough to say yes at all and I respect that.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, man.”
I stare at the fluorescent light above us until it fuzzes out of focus. “And if she says she can never do more?”
Lucky’s answer is gentler than I expect. “Then you decide if you can keep doing this without breaking yourself.”
I sigh in frustration. “She’s the most complicated person I know.”
He sobers. “Listen. You know your position better than anybody. Defense doesn’t mean standing still. It means active patience.”
We’re going with the hockey analogy, I see. “Don’t chase a hit in the neutral zone and take yourself out of the play.”
“Stay above the puck. Make the high-percentage read.”
I laugh because that doesn’t apply at all. “Hold the middle,” I say, translating it back into real-life scenarios. “Keep the inside position. Stick in the lane.”
“And talk,” he adds, stepping away from the sport we both love beyond measure. “Always talk. Don’t make her guess because trust me, fear fills silence with the worst-case scenario.”
I nod, slow. The plan feels like a system, not a wish. Systems win.
Stoltz reappears and removes the stim pads. I wait as he rubs a wintergreen salve into my hip. “You’re good,” he says, satisfied. “Go stretch. And drink water.” He jerks his chin at Lucky. “You—ice ten more and leave it on, or I’ll staple it.”
“Violence,” Lucky says, delighted.
I slide off the table and feel the joint move smooth and loose. I grab a band and step into a groin stretch, the angle precise. Lucky lobs a half-empty water bottle at my chest without looking. I catch it and drink.
“One last piece of advice?” he offers.
“Yeah?”
He grins, bright and wicked. “Maybe stop telling her she’s blushing every time she blushes.”
I stare at him. “That’s half my fun.”
“Find new fun,” he replies, then breaks into a laugh when I flip him off.
We leave the room together twenty minutes later, taped and iced. Staff roll hampers of practice jerseys toward the equipment room.
My phone buzzes and I don’t mean to check it, but my hand acts before my brain does.
A text from Maddie. The nugget stacked blocks by herself for a minute, then tried to eat one. She is, as you say, an incredible athlete. Nap starting.
A stupid smile climbs my face. I clamp it down and type back. Elite core strength. Tell Captain Cutie I’ll expect a repeat performance when I get home.
The response is quick: She says bring snacks or don’t come back. A second bubble. Kidding. (Not kidding.)