You know damn well what scares you. You’re just afraid to write it down.
Because once I put it into the world, I can’t take it back. And putting it out there feels like another failure.
Ava said to dig deep, but that’s not my problem. My problem is being vulnerable, showing weakness. Admitting it aloud.
It’s not a weakness to be vulnerable.
Ava may be on the other side of the room, but her voice is in my head, urging me on.
Fuck it. We said we’d do whatever it takes, no questions asked.
I scrawl my fears on the paper and fold it in half.
“Alright,” Ava says, taking up her post at the front of the room. She turns to Bouchard, who’s sitting to her right. “Can I borrow your helmet to collect the papers?”
Boosh’s eyes go wide, and for an instant, he looks every bit like a deer caught in the headlights.
“No. Sorry, but no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I can’t have all that bad juju in my helmet. It would be bad luck.”
Ava frowns, exasperated. “It’s just paper. There’s no bad juju.”
Boosh slides his hand over his helmet, as if protecting it. “Sorry, Ava. Anything else, but not that.”
She turns to Smitty. “Can I borrow yours?”
Panic flashes across his face. “Maybe you could use Sutter’s? He’s on IR, so by the time he needs it again, all the bad energy will have cleared out.” He cringes. “Probably.”
Sutter looks annoyed, and I can tell he’s biting his tongue, torn between honoring his word to Ava and volunteering to fill his helmet with bad vibes.
I grab my toiletry bag and dump the contents on the bench. It’s mostly backup supplies like tape, wax, and shoelaces. Most importantly, the bag will be easy to replace.
Because no, I don’t want bad juju either.
“Here you go, Ava.” I stand, offering her the bag. “Will this work?”
She huffs out a breath, sending a loose strand of hair flying. “Why are y’all like this? I can tell you with certainty that no other sport is as superstitious as y’all are.”
Tonight has been full of surprises, not the least of which is that Ava’s accent is thicker, more pronounced when she’s upset or flustered.
I wink at her as she accepts the bag. “It’s part of our charm.”
She collects everyone’s papers and puts them in the toiletry bag, giving it a good shake before she holds it out to Boosh and instructs him to pull one of the white slips and read it aloud.
He draws a carefully folded square from the bag, and the tension in the room increases tenfold. It’s so thick you could cut it with a blade, each of us wondering if our biggest fears are about to be exposed.
It’s fucking terrifying, and I have to force my body to remain still as nervous energy courses through my limbs.
“I’m afraid I won’t live up to the hype of being number one,” Bouchard reads, “and I feel like I’m letting my idol down.”
Holy shit. That has to be Ginny’s fear. No one else here was a number-one draft pick.
Several of the guys exchange looks. It’s clear we’re all thinking the same thing.
Wait. Did he just say his idol? Who the fuck—Oh, no.
Realization slams into me, quickly followed by guilt.
I am such an asshole. How did I not see it? Is this why he’s such a pain in the ass? Is he trying to…impress me?