Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
“You’re kidding? Why didn’t you ask me for the recipes?”
“Because a guy at the gym convinced me to try making a spinach smoothie first, and once I perfected it, I never wanted to make anything else. Besides”—he shot me a wink that made my stomach tighten—“I can get homemade salad dressing at your place anytime I want. I have connections to the rich and famous.”
Now I was jealous of a rando at his gym. “Smoothies can be high in calories.”
He looked up at me in confusion, but something in my expression made him smile. “That right?”
I dug into my salad, poking it with more force than was necessary. “I’m just saying. Random gym bros don’t always know everything about how to balance your nutrition.”
“I dunno, Z. The guy looked really fit. Seemed like he knew what he was doing, nutrition-wise.”
I crunched the big bite of salad, grateful we’d added jicama so I could attack the harder texture with my teeth. “Yeah, well. Looks can be deceiving. Imagine if I was sitting here telling you about getting self-defense advice from one of the guys at the recording studio. You’d have to wonder whether they were qualified, wouldn’t you?”
This was ridiculous, and it was obvious to everyone. I scrambled to change the subject. “Do you believe in fairy tales?”
The record scratch might as well have been audible.
I let out a heh sound and tried to change course. “Not… that’s not really what I meant.” I shook my head. If I couldn’t talk to Bear about this, who could I talk to about it? He was literally paid to keep my secrets, paid to keep me from harm. I knew with utter certainty that included emotional harm. “Yes it is. I want to know if you think…”
I hesitated, trying to get my thoughts in order.
“Hey,” he said softly, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Take your time. Whatever you’re asking, just ask.”
I began slowly, explaining what my mom had always told me. “But I think that was her way of trying to temper her expectations,” I said. “I don’t think she actually believed it. I think she believed the opposite. But maybe she shouldn’t have. Maybe if she’d been more pragmatic, more realistic, she wouldn’t have fallen for my dad’s charm every time he rolled back into town.”
Bear’s hand smoothed across my shoulder to the back of my neck and cupped it gently. “I think there’s a difference between believing there’s a better life out there and tossing your responsibilities aside in an effort to win it like it’s a lottery or something. Falling for the same false promises over and over again isn’t how you get your fairy tale, Z. Hard work, helping others, putting kindness into the world… those are good things. And that’s who you are. You’re living the fairy tale, Zane. Not because you won it, but because you busted your ass—and continue to bust your ass—for it. And you bring a ton of people with you, but not with lottery wins. You give them opportunities to pursue their own goals and reach their own dreams. And I think that’s an important part of this. Everyone’s fairy tale looks different.”
“And yours looks like opening a winter sports camp, right? Get the kids to like the snow early so they won’t become thirty-something delicate-flower musicians who freeze their tails off on the trail?”
“Not at all.” Bear smiled softly. “But I’d definitely hammer home the part about using their poles to check depth before taking a leak.”
I snorted. “Where did that dream come from? You said biathlon gave you structure… but it sounds like you already had a pretty great family.”
He smiled and shook his head. “If I tell you this story, you’ll think less of me.”
“Not possible,” I said.
His smile dropped, and I realized how that could’ve been interpreted. I shoved his shoulder gently. “Bear. You know what I mean. Tell your story.”
“When I was in middle school, I was into gaming. Obsessed. I was that asshole kid who ignored everything else to game. It wasn’t just me. My brothers and I played against each other, and one of my older brothers had a friend from school that played, too. We were complete losers, staying up all night, drinking too much soda, and eating too much sugar. Not getting any sleep. Being jerks to everyone around us. Not doing homework. All of that. So my parents decided to send us to this winter sports program. It was after school every day and then all day Saturday—or at least it seemed like it was all day. I fucking hated it.”
He exhaled. “Until we got to try the biathlon. The program rotated around a bunch of different sports. One week, we did hockey, one week snowboarding, one week downhill skiing. We even did curling. But when we did target shooting, I learned that all those hours playing first-person shooter games didn’t have shit to do with hitting a real target. I became obsessed with learning how to actually shoot, but the teacher wouldn’t let us do it without the skiing part. As soon as you finished the ski run, you got to shoot. Well, I got real fast at skiing because I wanted to get my hands on that gun.”