ONE
No Hockey Players
YANA
“The moment Rosietold me she saw the guys from the California Thunders here, I knew we had to try it,” Chloe says as she pushes open the passenger door.
“I still don’t get the appeal,” I mutter, climbing out of the car.
Lips twisted, she narrows her hazel eyes at me. “Don’t you know a guy from the team? Rowan?”
“Roman,” I correct her.
“Semantics. What’s important here is that you know one of them. If we’re lucky and they’re here tonight, you can introduce me.” Winking, she tucks a strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah.” I force a small smile and take in the packed parking lot.
“Great.”
I round the car and head to the steakhouse. Twinkling Christmas lights strung up between palm trees light up the street, a California kind of festive.
Chloe links her arm with mine, chatting about the details her colleague gave her about this new place.
I listen half-heartedly, enjoying the slight bite of the winter air. The December wind slips beneath my unbuttoned black wrap coat and beige cashmere sweater, a little reminder of the upcoming holidays.
I visited my family in Belarus a few Christmases ago, and though it was colder there than it is here, at least there was snow.
Ugh, I can’t wait for my solo trip to Lake Tahoe. To spend a few days in a cabin in the woods, enjoying the fresh snow. It’s exactly what I need before I leave for Australia.
Chloe mentions her mom and how she helped her get ready for dinner via FaceTime, but my brain is elsewhere. It always is these days. But I don’t talk about it with her. I don’t talk about it with anyone outside my team and my parents. It’s easier to keep my shit locked inside.
I should’ve been in Doha in November, walking onto the court at the WTA Finals. One of the top eight players in the world. A dream I’d worked my whole life for. But I pulled out.
Officially, my team blamed tendonitis.
And my wrist really was a mess.
ButIwas a mess too. Burned out, running on empty, spiraling. And no one outside my team noticed. My friends continued to fixate on parties and outfits and the guys they were into at any given moment.
Normally, I’d appreciate the distraction from constant training, playing, and competing.
But after I dropped out from Doha, I went quiet. Still, only my family asked what was going on.
Distancing myself was my response. This is the first time I’ve been out since, and with how easily I get irritated, I’m afraid I made a mistake.
It’s embarrassing to admit that six months post-breakup, I’m still struggling to come to terms with it. I’m twenty-four. It’s time to grow up and move on. Though maybe I can’t getover it because of how it happened. Being cheated on in one’s apartment—in one’s own bed—is a humbling experience.
“Are you even listening to me?” Chloe asks, her pitch so startling it makes me stagger.
I shake my head and fix my focus on her. “Sorry. Spaced out for a minute.”
She stops a few feet away from the restaurant’s entrance, a little frown etched onto her face, her eyes holding mine. “Are you okay? I didn’t want to bug you while I was in Singapore, but now I regret not asking about why you dropped out of the WTA tournament.”
I force a smile, my lips trembling. There’s a reason I said yes to her dinner invitation. Out of all my close friends in the US, I enjoy Chloe’s company the most. Plus, she reminds me of my childhood best friend, Karina, who still lives in Belarus.
Chloe is my favorite person here. I need to act like it because she doesn’t deserve my moodiness.
“I’ve been better.” I shrug. “But I’m okay. I’ve got some time off so I can get ready for the Australian Open.”
