We work in silence for a while, each sipping our drink, and Eloise casting sneaky looks over at Ares until he and his posse depart the building, and a calm returns to our space.
After about an hour, I glance up to find her staring at me.
“Can I ask a question?” Her face is pale, and she looks like she might puke just from asking that, never mind whatever she really wants to ask.
“Sure.” I drop my pen onto my notebook. I’m so over the history of photography anyway.
“You said you had a child. What’s their name?”
This poor woman has no idea what she’s getting herself into. Asking me about my son is like asking Hermione to tell you all about her favorite spells.
“His name is Wyatt.”
She smiles. “Cute. And…uh…” She wrings her hands on the table. I know what’s coming, it’s the question that always follows my disclosure that I’m a mom. “What about his dad?”
The urge to snap brews deep inside me. It’s not her fault. Even after three years I can’t temper the urge to break shit when he comes up in conversation.
“We don’t talk about him.”
“Never?”
“Ever.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Just like that? Okay?” It’s my turn to narrow my eyes.
She shrugs. “We all have things we aren’t comfortable talking about. Why would I force you to talk about something that hurts you? You say no, it’s no.”
I knew I chose a good one. Leaning forward, I plant both fists under my chin. “Tell me this. How do you feel about pineapple on pizza?”
CHAPTER 9
Raffi
(PRESENT DAY)
The Rockford Rockets are in the house. They’re not my favorite team to play against, but they’re also not my least favorite. They fall somewhere in the middle, just like using regular peanut butter in a PB&J versus using crunchy.
What’s the point if there’s no crunch?
Just like a mediocre sandwich, the Rockets have no crunch. But we’re on high alert because Coach has been trippin’ lately and seems to be roasting our asses for no goddamn good reason.
No one has said anything directly, but I feel like things have slipped. I feel slower. I feel like I’m spending more time warming the bench than on the ice.
It’s probably my mind playing tricks on me, but I need to up my game. I need to make it impossible for Coach to bench me. I need to make it so my team doesn’t have to compensate for a slip in my performance. I need to make it so I don’t let anyone down.
The speed of the Rockets gives them a chance inside the first twenty-five seconds as one of their top scorers gets inbehind our defense. He flips a backhand effort on the net that’s casually saved by de la Peña.
Somehow two of our guys get called for coinciding penalties. It happens in the corner and no amount of craning my neck at the melee or the replay helps me figure out how Tate gets called for interference while Scott sits for two for holding.
It’s a tied game, goose eggs all around by the time we get to the final few minutes of the first period. Two of the Rockets get sent to the box for interference and a third for holding, while Apollo heads to the box for roughing.
We head to the intermission scoreless, and I’ve barely broken a sweat. Am I being benched?
No one looks at me differently as we head down the tunnel, there’s no judgment or accusation in my teammates eyes as we hit the locker room. But I’m not getting the same ice time I used to. Why?
It’s probably paranoia. Nothing has changed except the frequency of my headaches. And the only person who knows that, or is going to know that, is me.
