Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(43)
That’s all the excuse I need. I settle on a loaded bacon cheeseburger with fries and a salad. Mark orders the same, minus the fries, and we split nachos to start.
“Circling back to your issues focusing earlier, have you been meditating daily like we discussed?” he confirms, raising his blond eyebrows.
“Yep.” Trying to stay still for five minutes verged on agony when I first started. Now I can sit for more than half an hour without getting too restless. I rarely have that much time, though.
“Make sure you’re getting enough rest. Not just physically, but mentally.”
“I’m getting plenty of sleep.”
“Not what I mean, Ty. You need downtime when you’re awake, too.”
That’s a nice idea in theory. In reality, my brain never shuts off.
Going into games, I prepare by cataloging the other team’s players and their tendencies for passing and shooting. Once I’m standing between the pipes, I’m constantly tracking everything happening on the ice even when the play is in the other zone. Monitoring my position; keeping tabs on the opposing team; checking in with my teammates; trying to predict where the play will go next. And always, always keeping eyes on the puck.
After all is said and done, I run through everything that happened. What worked, what didn’t. Victories and failures, lessons and takeaways. I have a running inner monologue twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I even dream about hockey.
The only time I feel some semblance of calm is when I’m with Seraphina. Then it’s like all the other noise disappears, if only for the brief sliver of time we’re together. Her effect is a double-edged sword. It also means she has the potential to divert my attention when it counts.
That’s on me. I need to do a better job at keeping everything separate.
Movement on the other side of the room catches my eye, and I spot Seraphina walking through the doors with a dark-haired girl. Speak of the devil. Her rose-gold hair is pulled back in a ponytail for a change, the loose curls tied with a black bow.
My eyes travel lower, taking in the tiny plaid miniskirt poking out beneath the bottom of her bulky winter coat. She looks innocent yet naughty, and it’s hot as fuck. I’d like nothing more than to hike up that skirt and rail her in a bar bathroom for a second time.
I continue to watch her, transfixed. She’s deep in conversation with her friend as they take a vacant table on the far side of the room, lowering into their seats. Should I go say hi? That wouldn’t be weird, right? It would be weird if I saw her and didn’t say anything. But I don’t want to interrupt them…
“Thinking about something other than hockey once in a while wouldn’t hurt.” Mark’s voice brings me hurtling back to reality.
I glance at him. “Oh, that’s just my roommate.”
“I see.” He gives me an amused look because I was drooling, and we both know it. “All I’m saying is, it’s important to have some work-life balance.”
It isn’t that I disagree with him. It’s that I have no idea how to do that.
CHAPTER 17
AGGRAVATINGLY PERFECT
SERAPHINA
Overtime is busier than usual, and empty tables are in scarce supply when Chloe and I arrive in the middle of the dinner rush. There are a few seats scattered on the opposite end of the bar, but we spot a bunch of obnoxious-looking frat boys nearby and decide to steer clear. Abby would’ve dragged me straight over and insisted we sit near, if not with them.
Truthfully, I’m thrilled to be out with someone who’s not Abby. Chloe and I have been able to carry on real conversations about meaningful things beyond bars and boys. Music, current events, activities to do around town. I still like fun, frivolous things too, but sometimes it’s nice to discuss topics of actual substance instead of debating which nightclub has the best VIP section.
A little company is exactly what I needed today, especially because Tyler is ignoring me. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. I texted him a few hours ago—six, but who’s counting?—and he never wrote me back. That wouldn’t be as concerning if not for the fact I know he saw it. I know it sounds needy, maybe verging on insane, but this is the longest he’s ever left me on read without replying.
Is he getting tired of all our messages back and forth? Has the appeal of our twenty-one (now twenty-six and counting) questions with me worn off? I know I’m overthinking, but it’s impossible not to with a legitimately overactive brain.
Finally, Chloe and I find a small table near the pool tables at the back and snag it before anyone else can.
She slips off her navy jacket across from me. “Your poem today was amazing, Sera.”
Heat laces my cheeks. “Thank you.”
All of my writing is personal to me, but the one she’s referring to is about my mom’s cancer and BRCA. Although the true meaning is shrouded in heavy amounts of symbolism, it’s the most naked thing I’ve ever put down on the page.
“I loved it. The part where you used the wind as a metaphor gave me chills.”
“Really?” Her validation eases some of the tightness I’ve been carrying in my shoulders. “Oh, thank god. I was worried it wouldn’t make sense.”
“No, it totally did. How was it sharing your work? Was it terrifying?”