Page 11 of The Other Side of Wild
Her eyes trail from my eyes down to where my right arm is slung over the back of the couch, down to my legs, which are crossed ankle over knee; it’s the typical “power” move for a dude. I think my mom called it a “man-spread,” whatever that means, but before I can get further lost in how it feels to be on the receiving end of her attention, she clears her throat.
My eyes snap back up to hers only to find her looking down at the screen on her iPad. “So, dunk tanks and cotton candy? I’m all for it if you’re the first one in the tank. The kids would love to have a chance at dunking their new favorite hotshot hockey player.”
“Hmm, only if you’re second in line. I mean, who wouldn’t want to dunk the woman who writes the sports world’s most entertaining articles?” I ask as I lean forward, placing my forearms on my knees.
She pulls her lips between her teeth to smother a smile, “How about we have two tanks, and they’re side by side? We can make it interesting, see who gets dunked more.” I’m shocked. Never would I have expected a woman to volunteer to be dunked on by a bunch of children. Especially in front of her co-workers and other professional athletes and, heck, even random people from around town. I mean, maybe I’ve been hanging around with the wrong type of women.
Most women would complain about their hair staying dry or their makeup getting ruined. I think Kara once said she didn’t like Florida because it was wet and humid, which made her look like a soggy dog. Ugh. Not going there right now.
“Deal, but fair warning.I have a bit of a fan club; they might scheme to keep me dry. Plus, I have charm on my side.” I drive that point home by wiggling my eyebrows. This earns me an eye roll; I chuckle as I run my hand through my hair.
“Moving on,” Her voice light but purposeful. “You brought up games with different sports. What if we did something like a “Beat the Pro” challenge? Kids can try to score on the different teams we’ll have, and if they do, they’ll get a prize of some sort. Or bragging rights might be better for kids that age. What do you think? Can your ego handle it?”
She feigns innocence, but the glint in her eyes gives her away. I mock outrage by gasping and bringing the back of my hand to my forehead.
“Me?! Why, Hannah, it's like you don’t know me at all.” A smirk grows as she continues to take notes, but she doesn’t look up from what she’s writing.
“I’m always up for a challenge, plus it’ll be a trial run for them. And maybe we could find the next Tampa Bay sports star out of this whole thing.” I watch as she scribbles notes down. I can’t help but notice how she chews on her bottom lip as she concentrates. It sends my mind to places it has no business going.
"We could have Tampa Today set up a prop interview station where kids can try to interview you. Kids are the toughest critics.” The hand holding the pencil shoots up like she just had the best idea in the world.
“Questions like, why can’t I resist cheesy carnival food? Or why do I let a certain sports journalist talk me into crazy ideas?”
“Yup, exactly like that.” She winks at me, and my mind runs through a reel of kids interviewing athletes. It could be a hit on that funny video show.
For a second, the playfulback-and-forth takes a pause. Watching her dream up this event, I can’t help but admire the energy she’s pouring into this. The way she lights up when she talks about the kids. She’s different. It’s certainly nothing Kara would ever be caught doing unless it came with several press releases, all of which were focused on her and how wellsheplanned it.Stop comparing.
Growing up, I had everything I needed. But what I didn’t have was mental health resources. Coming from a family that already had a pro athlete in it, you’re taught to be tough from a very young age. Weakness was a hindrance, so when my mind-numbing bouts of depression started, I started acting out. From the outside, it simply looked like I was taking my anger out on the ice. The reality was I was crying out for help in the only way I knew how. I wasn’t angry or aggressive on a good day, but when it got dark, it was freakingdark.And my outbursts got me into more than a fair share of trouble.
“Can I run something by you?” I ask, my voice coming in a little weaker than I would have liked. This isn’t a part of me I openly share, but for some reason, I feel comfortable sharing it with her. Maybe it’s the fact that I want to give these kids some resources I didn’t have, or maybe it’s just the comforting presence of Hannah.
“Of course.” She puts her pencil down and looks up at me, giving me her undivided attention.
Clearing my throat, I scoot my butt closer to the edge of the couch and lean back. My need to be physically comfortable while getting emotionally uncomfortable isn’t lost on me. “What do you think about adding a mental health booth? Maybe not an actual psychologist; we can’t turn it into a therapy session. But maybe there are some people who work in the field and could help kids find a way to deal with stress and anxiety.”
I take a peek at her; her eyes are glassy, and I officially shot myself in the foot. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Do you have someone in mind? If not, I can ask my therapist if there’s anyone she knows who might be interested.”
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding leaves my chest; I nod. “Yeah, I have a psychologist I’ve been seeing since I was in high school; I can ask him. He’s a nutcase.” Huffing, I rub the back of my neck, thinking about all the ridiculous ways Dr. Williams has pulled me out of pit after pit. I owe that man my life and then some.
“My therapist is pretty out there, too. I’ve been with her since Abby and I graduated. My college days were not my proudest. I punished myself a lot. After the Kyle situation, Abby literally dragged me into the college’s psych office and sat with me while I told the therapist my life story. When we graduated, we found Megan, and now, we’re both there on a monthly basis.” She smiles a weak smile at me. I want to ask why she’d punish herself, but the way she brings the pillow to her chest like it’s a piece of armor tells me she’s shared all she’s willing to share today.
After a brief snack break, we get back to the drawing board. The Tampa Today organization has partnered with six youth sports programs in the area. All the kids who partake in their after-school programs or are part of their recreational league will be invited to the event. The goal of this fundraiser is to sponsor as many of these kids as they can in the next season of whatever sport they choose. The biggest draw is us as athletes being part of it, plus whatever we donate for the silent auction part will bring in some decent donations.
Once we’ve talked through the food options and how we can get more sports teams in the area, from middle school teams to college involved, she emails her notes to her boss and tells me she’ll let me know when she hears what the next steps are, but it’s taking place the last Saturday of October before all the holiday excitement begins. She wraps up our “meeting” with, “If we can give these kids some hope and positivity before the holidays where they may or may not feel left out, it’d be the best gift I’d ever receive.”
I don’t think she realizes how broken she looks. Her shoulders slouch forward; her focus is solely on whatever she’s writing down. However, from here, it looks more like she’s scribbling or drawing something on the pad instead of writing anything. She may have the world believing she’s an impenetrable force, but the Hannah sitting in front of me right now seems a bit broken, like this event is personal to her.
She clears her throat, pulling her hair out and putting it back into a bun that looks exactly like the one before it did. “I need to take Harley for a walk. Would you like to come with us?”
I didn’t even need to think about my answer, “Yeah, I’d love to.” With that, we’re up off the couch and heading towards the door. As soon as Harley hears the leash move, she bolts from wherever she was hiding. When she gets to Hannah’s feet, she sits immediately, her tail wagging back and forth in anticipation. The harness slips over her head, clipping together with the straps on her back. Once everything is on, we head out the door.
As we walk around the neighborhood, Hannah unclips the leash from Harley’s harness and tells me we’re going to take her to a dog park a couple blocks over from where they live. I have zero complaints because I’m genuinely enjoying my time with her.
Harley is leading the way, her tail wagging like it’s attached to the energizer bunny. Hannah walks beside me; her laughter rings out every time Harley does something goofy, which is often. “Harley! Leave the poor squirrel alone.” She calls out, trying and epically failing to sound stern. She glances at me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. It’s blatantly obvious how much she loves this dog.
I chuckle as Harley gives up on the squirrel and comes sashaying back to us, tongue lolling out to the side. “Hey, maybe she’s trying to impress the new guy, show off her “Wild” side.” She swats at my arm; my shoulder nudges hers in response.
“Just like someone else I know, always eager to impress.” She jibes, still not looking at me. It’s then I realize the smile is gone. Her arms cross over her chest, and the inside of her cheek is pulled between her teeth. It looks like she just ate sour candy. Her change in mood catches me off guard, so I resort back to my default setting. Humor.