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Me: I can’t. The air’s off on the bus and it’s about 90 degrees in here. Smells like sweaty balls and armpits and Killian’s snoring in the bunk under mine.
Charlotte: Gross.
Me: Yeah. These long bus trips are getting old.
Charlotte: They’re all pretty long.
Me: Exactly.
Charlotte: You’ll be able to sleep when the bus is rolling again.
Me: I can’t stop thinking maybe it’s time to move on.
Charlotte: Move on from me???
Me: Never. I mean from hockey.
Charlotte: WHAT?!
Me: It’s a grind. I’m sore and tired all the time and lately I’m gone more nights than I’m home.
Charlotte: You’re working toward something bigger. You’ll travel by plane when you move up.
Me: That may never happen.
Charlotte: Don’t say that.
Me: It’s true. I’m like a kid chasing a stupid dream. I’ve got a business degree. Maybe it’s time to get a normal job and keep normal hours.
Charlotte: Normal is overrated. I love that you’re chasing your dream. I want our son to chase his own someday.
Me: I wish I was there with you.
Charlotte: Me too. But you will be. You’re tired and down, which happens to all of us. But no more crazy talk, okay? You can’t quit hockey. You love it too much and you’ve worked too hard.
Me: All right, boss.
Charlotte: Are you calling me bossy?
Me: Haha, I typed that with a smile. I needed the pep talk. Thanks.
Charlotte: I’m falling asleep. I’m surrounded by pillows and it’s just too comfortable.
Me: Goodnight. See you soon, gorgeous.
Charlotte: Can’t wait.
As soon as I put my phone down, the engine of the bus roared to life and cool air flowed out of the vent by my bunk. At least we were finally about to start moving again.
The Suicide Prevention Center was housed in a small, run-down building in downtown Fenway. I’d caught a few hours of sleep when I got home from the road trip, then showered, and now I was about to start my community service hours.
“Can I help you?” a blond, college-aged woman asked.
“I’m here for community service. Name’s Bennett Morse.”
She smiled. “You’re the hockey player?”
“Yeah.”
