Mac
"Do you have to work in the morning?" Conner asks as he relaxes into the driver's seat, ready for the almost two-hour drive.
“Noon to midnight,” I tell him.
"You can use my car," he offers. "It's still at my parents. They were going to bring it the day after tomorrow when they all come to a game, but you can just keep using it until yours is fixed. I don't need it."
“I appreciate that, but…” I swallow down the no, even though it’s painful to do it. Fact is, I will need a car, at least for a couple days while I figure out how to get the money together to buy a new one. I’m sure this one is toast. “Okay. Thanks. I won’t need it long. I can deliver it to Portland myself as soon as I get a new car or figure out another solution.”
“Our family is friends with a lot of the local car dealers,” Conner tells me as I rub my bare hands together. Even with my gloves on I froze waiting for the tow truck. I still can’t quite feel my fingertips. I hold them up in front of the heat blowing out of the vents in the dash. “Everyone is trying to get us into their cars, they think it’s like free advertising, so we get great deals. Ican hook you up with someone and get you a great discount by association.”
“I appreciate that.” I try not to frown or sound ungrateful. “But I’m not going to be able to afford a brand new car unless the discount is like eighty-five percent. And certainly not a fancy Garrison-style car. Your whole family is in Range Rovers and BMWs and Mercedes.”
"And your dad drives a ten-year-old Kia Soul, like you?" Conner questions. My dad drives a Jag. When I don't reply he smirks like he won something. "Can you explain to me why he letsyoudo it? Drive an old car on its last legs?”
“Because I refuse to let him or my mom pay my way in life,” I confess and turn my gaze off his face, which isn’t easy because damn, I swear he gets more handsome every time I see him. But I hate the look of amused confusion people give me when they hear this. “I have also paid for my own education. All of it. Well, the parts I didn’t get scholarships for.”
“Huh. Interesting,” is all Conner says and I sneak a peek at him. It’s very dark in the cab of the fancy pick-up truck he must have borrowed from a teammate or something, so I can’t read his expression.
"You think I'm ridiculous," I announce because it's the usual person's response.
“No. I think you’re more stubborn than I realized,” Conner replies. “And that you might feel like Alex and Brie have given you enough already. Because you’ve been keeping a running mental tab on the emotional and physical support they gave you when you were a kid and you feel like it’s already a loan you can’t pay back and so once you hit eighteen you refused to accept more. Or else you just don’t feel worthy of the love at all. I’m trying to figure out which it is.”
Whoa. I'm actually winded. If the airbag in front of me had suddenly deployed and punched me in the face, I would feelless attacked. I take a deep breath and hold it, count to ten, and empty my lungs entirely before inhaling slowly. "I think you should let the shrinks do the shrinking, Con, and stick to hockey."
“I thought we didn’t like the word shrink?”
“We don’t,” I confirm and now I’m glaring at him. My cold fingers are curled into fists in my lap. I hate what he just said. I hate that we’re stuck in this car and I can’t escape them, or him. I hate that there’s a truth to his words that I can’t shrug off. And I knew that, because Madeline has given me a similar analysis, as has every psychologist I’ve ever seen, and I saw one every two weeks of my life after moving in with Brie and Alex. Because they’re both big advocates for mental health. So why does this feel so… yuck? I don’t know and my defensive brain won’t let me find out. I sit silently stewing for about twenty minutes and then I come out swinging like Michael B. Jordan inCreed.
I turn in my seat so I’m sort of facing him. “You find a place to live yet?”
“No. I was looking today when I ran into you though.”
"Yeah I saw about five for sale signs on some mighty nice-looking buildings," I note. "And I also know there's a healthy rental market. Lots of availability."
“I am narrowing down the area I want,” Conner mutters. “I’m thinking I might rent an Airbnb in the Old Port to test it out. And then rent one in the coastal town I’m in and see how that feels.”
“Well by then the season will be over and you’ll be back in Silver Bay,” I say and he lifts his shoulders like he’s shrugging. “How convenient.”
“How is it convenient?”
“Because you’ll have avoided committing,” I point out, my psychiatrist brain in overdrive. “Less mess to clean up when youget traded or waived or whatever at the end of this season if you haven’t invested in property, right?”
Finally, he's pulling off the turnpike at the exit that will take us to Silver Bay. He steals a glance at me, and we happen to be passing a street light so his face is illuminated. He looks angry, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. "You think I'm going to get dumped again?"
"No, but you do," I reply flatly. "You haven’t scored yet. You had a rough night in the last game with the penalty and a missed pass on a key play. You're worried and still stung by the fact the waivers happened at all. You haven't shaken it off. You need to, by the way, if you're ever going to get out of your own way and get your mojo back."
“Mojo?” I can hear the sneer in his voice. “Is that a clinical term Doctor Larue? You paid the big bucks and drove around in a piece of shit to learn the term mojo?”
Oh, fuck him and his pompous attitude. "No. I pulled that term out of the hockey daughter's dictionary. You guys are always talking about mojo and vibes and lucky socks or jocks or whatever. Because god forbid any of you believe in yourself."
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls. “I know my talent doesn’t come from luck.”
“You have no idea where it actually comes from,” I shoot back, unable to shut up because I’m on some kind of horrible roll. I’m lobbing out truth grenades recklessly, which isn’t at all professional or kind. But then again he’s not my patient. He’s a man I’ve seen naked and have aseriouscrush on. There I said it. “You tell anyone who will listen you don’t want to coast on that last name because it doesn’t matter and yet you’re terrified of not living up to it. And because one stupid coach tried to make it seem like you didn’t live up to it, you’ve let it suck your ego dry. Honestly, Conner, you need to forget where you came from when you’re on that ice. If you wanna shake off the strugglesyou’re having on the ice, play like there’s no name on the back of your jersey.”
The farmhouse is in sight now. The barn looms like a dark ink spot on the massive, snowy canvas. Conner accelerates a little and I'd bet money it's because he can't wait to be rid of me. I've been harsh and my psycho-analysis of him was entirely uncalled for. I bite my lip as he turns up the long driveway and try to figure out how to backtrack. I don't think I can.
“Word of advice, don’t go into sports psychiatry,” he tells me, his voice low and hard. “You don’t have the bedside manner for it.”
