“Because I work in advertising. I can spot bullshit from three blocks away.”
Fair enough. I take a moment to think about how to answer honestly.
“Most of the time, it’s exactly as ridiculous as you’d expect. Grown men getting paid stupid money to play a game, staying in fancy hotels, having everything handled for us. It’s completely absurd.”
“But?”
“But when you’re on the ice and everything clicks, when you make a play that shouldn’t work but does, when twenty thousand people lose their minds because you put a piece of rubber in the right place... there’s nothing like it.”
“You still love it.”
“Yeah. Even when I hate everything else about it.”
“What do you hate?”
Most people want to hear about the perks, the money, the lifestyle. Nobody asks about the downsides.
“The fishbowl thing, mostly. Everything you do gets analyzed. Every relationship gets picked apart. Every mistake gets blown up into a major story.”
“Relationships get picked apart?”
“Oh yeah. Date someone twice and suddenly you’re engaged according to the sports blogs. Break up and it’s either because you’re a player or because she was using you for fame. There’s no winning.”
She nods like she understands, which surprises me.
“Must make it hard to know if someone’s interested in you or interested in what you represent.”
“Exactly.” The fact that she gets it without me having to explain it feels significant somehow. “Most of the time, it’s pretty obvious which one it is.”
“And this time?”
The question hangs between us. She’s looking at me directly, no games, no pretense. Just genuine curiosity about what I think this is.
“Honestly? I have no fucking idea.”
She laughs, and the sound hits me the same way it did that first time at the coffee shop months ago. Real and unexpected and completely without artifice.
“Well, at least you’re honest about it.”
“I’m trying to be more honest in general. New approach.”
“How’s it working out?”
“Jury’s still out. But sitting here with you feels like it might be worth the experiment.”
Her cheeks flush slightly, but she doesn’t look away. She’s not used to direct compliments, I realize. Or at least, not used to ones that don’t come with strings attached.
“I should warn you,” she says after a moment, “that my life isn’t exactly designed for experiments. Everything I do has to be carefully planned and thoroughly considered.”
“Because of the kids.”
“Because of everything. Kids, work, my ex-husband who has very strong opinions about my choices.” She pauses. “It’s not simple, getting involved with me.”
“How not simple?”
“Custody schedules. Emergency calls about forgotten homework. An ex who likes to make everything as difficult as possible.” She’s watching my face as she lists these things, like she’s waiting for me to realize what I’m signing up for and bolt.
“That does sound complicated.”
