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“I know you can’t understand it,” she says. “You’ve got people telling you how great you are all the time.”
I actually don’t. My whole life, from the loudest and most influential voices in my life, it’s been the complete opposite.
She goes on. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m kind of a disaster.”
“Do you remember the meeting with Coach the day you were hired?”
“Yeah, why?”
I raise a brow, waiting until the realization washes over her face.
“Oh, that’s right . . .” She leans back in the chair. “You sort of got in trouble, didn’t you? That’s how you got stuck with me.” She widens her eyes. “But people still say you’re the best. They ask for your autograph and want you to pose for pictures.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to feel small.”
She meets my eyes, and I worry she can see straight through me. Unlike most people, she takes the time to look.
It gets uncomfortable, which is what usually happens when things get too personal, and I push a hand through my hair and stand. “I should, uh, get some sleep.”
“Sit back down,” she says.
I pause, holding in a smile at the way she’s thrown my words back at me.
She pats the cushion next to her, and I sit, hands folded in my lap.
“Elaborate.”
I raise a surprised brow.
“You said you know what it’s like to feel small,” she says. “How so?”
I shrug.
“You don’t get to do that. Use words, Gray.” Her voice shakes slightly. “Please.”
The death grip I’ve held for so long on my private, inner thoughts and emotions loosens a little.
“Okay. I’ve played hockey since I was three,” I tell her. “And let’s just say I’ve had my share of horrible coaches.”
She watches me so intently I have to look away. It’s like she knows I’m not being completely honest simply by looking at me. Because Eloise knows people.
Even ones who don’t want to be known.
Only, that’s not exactly true, is it? Maybe she cast a spell on me, because I find myself wanting her to know things about me.
Which is stupid. I feel stupid. And open.
It’s foreign.
And yet, I still hear myself say, “And then there’s my dad.”
Her gaze holds steady, but she doesn’t respond.
I pick up one of the dumb throw pillows and squeeze it, because I need something in my hands.
I tread into waters I’ve dammed up for decades. “He, uh, he figured out I was good, and decided good had to be great, and then he decided great had to be the best. There was no pleasing him. Ever.”
“And your mom?”
