At least, he was.
Ithoughthe was.
Now, he’s become…a friend?
Or, at the very least, an acquaintance I no longer wish would drive off the Walt Whitman Bridge.
“What happened today?” I ask, accepting the spoon back from him to scrape up a big chunk of frozen peanut butter.
“I only played a few series,” he explains, eyes cast down on his hands on top of the marble countertop, a bruise forming on one of his knuckles. It’s not unusual for veteran players not to play much in the preseason since the rookies need to battle it out for their positions.
“The fans were brutal.” He saws his teeth across his bottom lip. “I couldn’t…can’t block them out.”
I offer him another bite of ice cream, which he accepts by wrapping his fingers around my wrist to keep it steady as he guides the spoon to his mouth. “Have you talked to the team counselor?”
“Not you, too,” he says around the ice cream.
I shrug. “That’s what they’re there for. Might as well use them.”
He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes, mumbling, “I’ve got to take my contacts out. Be right back.”
He disappears for two minutes and returns with his thin-framed glasses on like the Clark Kent version of Superman. He places his hands on the counter again, fingers spread out and pointing toward me. “Why are you upset tonight?”
I shove a huge spoonful of ice cream into my mouth, but to keep me from avoiding the question anymore, he steals the tub and the spoon from me. “What’s up, River?”
I press my thumb to the roof of my mouth to relieve myself of brain freeze before asking, “Is it one too many concussions that makes you call me River instead of Rivera?”
He puts the ice cream away, places the spoon in the dishwasher, then faces me again. “No concussions recently to speak of. Why are you upset?”
I tuck my arms around my torso. “Got an email from admin about in-service days before the school year, and I…” Shrugging, I exhale a long breath. “I’m a little nauseous about it.”
“Nauseous about your job?” He studies me for a long time. “That seems like a bad omen.”
“You believe in luck?”
“Not really. But I do always listen to the same song on game days and have to tape my laces down, right foot first.”
“That’s not luck?”
He grins at me. “It’s betting the odds.”
“What’s the song?”
“‘Mama’ by Cam Cole.”
He lifts his cell phone from his pocket and plays it, setting the device on the counter, both of us leaning in close, heads bent together as the guitar riff fills the space between us.
“I like it,” I say once it’s over, and he nods.
“Yeah, so I do what I can to make sure I feel comfortable playing. What do you do to make yourself comfortable?”
I allow my gaze to drift around his apartment. What used to be as white and pristine as a church now has color and life, random magnets on the fridge, a pair of high-tops in the hall that clearly don’t belong to him, photos I helped Paisley frame, and of course, Jelly and Bean in the corner of the living room.
“I don’t think there is anything to make me comfortable.”
“Why not?” His voice is low, curious, but as if he doesn’t want to admit it. “I thought you loved teaching.”
“I do.” I curl my hands into fists, letting my nails pinch into my skin, keeping my emotions tethered to earth. I so easily fall into the storm, and I don’t want to break down in front of him. Iclear my throat. “I love teaching and I love my kids, but I don’t love having no support from the administration or the parents.” I press my hand to my chest, feeling myself losing it. “I’m the last line of defense for thesechildren, and I’m…” I close my eyes to the burn in them. “I do everything I can. I give and give and give, and it’s still not enough.”
