Page 14 of The Other Side of Wild
She shakes her head at me, dragging her tongue across her bottom lip as she continues to glare at me.“No,” Her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to bury yourself in work this time.” I stop and turn to face her.
She doesn’t let me speak; instead, she barrels forward. “What happens when you get this job? You aren’t even thirty. Where are you going to go from there? Are you willing to put a revenge mission over the possibility of having the family you’ve always wanted? Heck, Hannah, I’m your only friend. Not that I mind,” she quickly adds, “but this isn’t healthy.”
Her words land like a knockout punch. I plop onto the barstool again, burying my face in my hands. The frustration builds, tears threatening the edge of my eyes. I don’t have the answers I so desperately wish I did.
“I can’t lose this opportunity, Abby.” My voice comes out a broken whisper, “When I get there, we’ll see where things go, I guess.”
Her hands tremble at her side, eyes full of unshed tears of her own. Her voice is shaky, but her words are clear as day. “I’ve never wanted to be a voice of condemnation for you, but you will regret this at some point. You’ll look back and realize you could have had friendships and relationships that would build you up and make you stronger. But instead, you push everyone away and bury yourself in your job. Constantly striving toward the next accomplishment, and every time you get there, it’s never enough.”
She steps back, her jaw tight, as she turns toward her room. “You have to get off the hamster wheel at some point.”
Her door slams shut, and the sound is loud through our otherwise quiet apartment.
To try and distract myself from our conversation, I pull out my iPad and get to work on an article I’m putting out next week. “Pucks and Pups.” One of the local animalshelters pulled the last article I wrote and matched adoptable dogs to the personalities of the players they felt best suited them. It was a really cute idea and did really well on social media, so when I called the shelter asking if I could turn it into an article, they were all over it. I’m hoping this helps get some of the pups adopted into loving homes.
Moments later, my phone rings, pulling me out of my workflow. “Hey, Dill Pickle.” A heavy sigh meets me on the other end of the line.
“You know I cannot stand that nickname, right?” My coworker, Dylan, asks. I do. I hear it every time I say it. But she still calls me Hannah Banana. She knows when she stops with the nicknames, I will stop, too.
“Noted. What can I do for you?” I start to pick at the edge of my nails. It was one of the few nervous ticks my dad never caught on to. When he would yell, I would start to pick; it allowed me to focus on something else other than the pain associated with anything pertaining to him.
“Do you have a deck you can send me, even just a bullet point list of talking points on the carnival so far? I need to get my spiel together before I start my rotation on the Strikers next week.”
“Yeah, I’ll send it over. Thanks for recruiting more muscle. I have boxes they can carry for us.” She giggles, and I about fall off my chair. Dylan is one of those closed-off, the world is out to get me kind of people. But, boy, if she isn’t ride or die for the people she cares about. She’s so good at writing, but her sense of humor is so dark that we all just deal with the Emo kid in the office. I kind of love it.
“Thanks Nana Peel. See you next week.” The line disconnects before I have a chance to respond. Nana Peel? That’s a new one. Can’t say I’m a fan of that one, either. Closing the cover on my iPad, I head to the bathroom and pour a hefty amount of Epsom salt into the bathtub. It’s time for some self-care.
Chapter 8 – Greyson
The cold air of the hockey rink nips at my cheeks as I skate a few warmup laps, the sound of blades slicing through the ice echoing off the walls of our practice facility. We’re passing the puck back and forth, my body on autopilot at this point, but my mind is bouncing between what needs to be done here and the chaos that has taken up camp in my brain for the past few days.
I had a stretch of really great days, and then came yet another text.Focus Greyson. I chastise myself; this is where I come to clear my mind. It’s one of my favorite parts of the game, being able to shut out the outside world. She can’t take that from me, too. I won’t let her.
I narrowly miss getting tripped up by the puck. Snapping me back to reality, Reed throws his hands up as if to ask, “You alright?” Nodding, I put my head down and focus on the drills we’re running. Passing the puck to Monroe, I feel the tension leaving my body. This is my game; this is my first love. Everything else falls away as we work through some of the plays we picked up from watching other team’s films earlier this week.
Coach blows the whistle, signaling the end of practice. I skate off towards the bench, as sweat rolls down my face. I take off my helmet and run a hand through my hair. Leaning back against the boards, I close my eyes, letting the cold air of the rink cool me down; I need the reset, the release.
The rink is my favorite place to pause; the chill cuts through the layers of darkness inside. The rhythmic sound of my blades cutting through the ice, sharp turns, and quick stops mimic the mess of thoughts swirling around in my mind. When I’m here, there’s no outside pressure, no expectations. There’s something so raw at the end of practice that it forces me to pause. When everyone files out, and it’s just me and the ice, I thank the big man upstairs for the gifts he’s given me, even if I don’t always feel worthy of them. I need those few sacred moments to remind myself that I’m not completely broken.
The noise in the locker room is loud, familiar, but feels miles away. Like I’m on the outside looking in, seeing but not really feeling. I grab my towel and head to the shower without saying a word. That caught the attention of my teammates because as soon as I got back to my locker, Reed shouted, “Earth to Wilder! You in there, buddy?” I blink, startled for a second as I pull myself back to reality.
“Yeah, I’m here. What’s up?” My voice sounds foreign, as Monroe chimes in. “You took a trip to Outer Mongolia for a minute there. Did ya have a long night?”
I can’t help but smile. I’m not always in the joking mood, but it’s easy with these guys. They don’t push me when I’m quiet, but they don’t let me spiral into the darkness either. It’s like they have a sixth sense for knowing I’m not okay. They don’t know the extent of things, but they don’t treat me like I’m broken. They just let me be me. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about this team.
“You guys are worse than a bunch of yentas at brunch, you know that?” I clap back, the entire team cackles, it’s the good kind of noise.
“We’re just looking out for you, man,” Andrews says as he imitates my almost wipe-out. “If you’ve got a lady on your mind, we want to know, is she into hockey players or just mesmerized by your awful skating?”
Samuels continues the ruse. “Yeah, we should invite her out to our next home game. Test her to see if she can handle Wilder tripping all over himself on the ice. Did you see the puck almost take him out today?!”
Boisterous laughter erupts; I don’t even care that they’re laughing at my expense. My smile hasn’t left my face since they started. “First of all,” I raise my finger in mock protest, “my skating is flawless, thank you very much. Secondly, a lady? Nah, just trying to out-skate the noise.” Understanding crosses their faces; they don’t say much else.
It's only 11 AM by the time practice is over; we have dry land training at seven tonight when it’s not so ridiculously hot outside. Our hard work is paying off, though. It feels like we’ve got a real shot at the cup this year if we keep this up. Those guys may be a bunch of idiots, but I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I’m thankful to have people that can get me out of my own head, even with dumb jokes and awful advice.
With that in mind, I pick up my phone and call the one person who is always in my corner-even if he’s a grump half the time.
“Pizza planet.” The voice on the other end calls, casual and a little smug, like it always is when my brother, Tatum, answers the phone.