That lands. Because that’s exactly how it seems.
“She didn’t lie to me,” I say mostly to myself.
Witt scoffs, “I didn’t say she did.”
But the thought of not knowing everything digs in. I need to know the missing parts. Parts that I’m confident make her who she is.
“You into her?” Witt asks.
I shake my head like he can see me through the phone. “Shut up.”
“That’s not a no.”
“She’s my performance consultant. My ex-tutor.”
“Mm.”
“And I just need to know who is playing around with my head.”
And my heart.
“Still not a no.” I hear him laugh like he has something to hold over my head so I end the call before he can get any more smug.
Then I sit there with the article open and the ugly, familiar feeling in my chest.
Not betrayal. More like standing on a frozen lake and realizing the cracks were there before you stepped in it.
TWENTY-TWO
PARKER
“Come on,” Jaylen says after practice Wednesday, picking my keys off the bench and tossing them to me. “You’ve looked like someone stole your dog all afternoon.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“You’d be a terrible dog dad.”
“Fair.”
“Beers at Shane’s Tavern?”
I almost refuse.
Then I think about going home, opening the article again and staring at the cutest little ice hockey phenom in Eastern Europe with a father she can’t outrun.
“Yeah, just a few.”
The sports bar is half full and loud enough to pass as a distraction. College basketball on one wall. NBA on another, but the biggest screen over the bar is showing an NHL game.
Jaylen notices me looking up. “You still watch. Still a fan?”
“Sometimes.” I take a swallow of beer.
“You miss playing?”
“Sometimes.”
He follows my line of sight just in time for a goal replay and there he is. Cantor. Still fast and smooth. Still celebrating like the world owes him applause.