“Good,” he praises. “Again from the top.”
I sing it again. And again. Until the words stop feeling like they’re ripping something open and start feeling like they might be putting me back together.
TWENTY-TWO
The road tripwas supposed to distract me.
It hasn’t.
We’re three games in—two losses and a win. We broke our winning streak in Nashville (seems fitting). Pulled a win against Utah, then another loss tonight in Denver.
I’d like to blame it on Helm jinxing us with his talk of a “baker’s dozen,” but it’s on me.
I can’t remember any of the games. All I can think about is the look on Summer’s face when I pulled away. Pulled away… I scoff. Who am I kidding? I completely lost my shit.
“You good, King?” Fox asks as we file off the bus.
I crack my knuckles. A habit I thought I’d broken years ago. “Fine.”
“You’ve maybe said ten words since we left Chicago.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go anyway.
I pull out my phone in the hotel lobby. No new messages from Summer. Not that I expected any.
I shove the phone back into my pocket.
“Bar tonight?” Helm asks.
I should say no. Should go to my room, get some sleep, focus on the next game.
“Yeah. Sure,” I hear myself reply.
My phone buzzes as the elevator hits the fifth floor.
Summer:
I’m sorry about the loss
Her kindness is so much worse than anger would be.
I make it to my room and drop onto the bed. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but I don’t know what to say.
Thanks. It’s fine. How was your day? Did you find the dinners I left for you in the fridge? Did you remember to turn on the heated floors in the kitchen? I know how cold your feet get. I wish—I wish… what?
I miss you.
That last one is the problem.
I toss my phone onto the comforter.
“Fuck!”
The screen lights up again, vibrating against the bed. I’d like to say I have self-control and don’t lunge for it. But I don’t. And I do.
Easton Helm:
