Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I hazard a glance his way. “Yeah, same to you,” I say. Then I register what he’s wearing. His sky-blue shirt. I remember the day he gave me a ride in his Tesla, how I confessed I knew all his shirts, and a wave of nostalgia clobbers me.
Then it drags me underwater when I fast-forward to the Ultimate Player Auction in a few more weeks.
I’ll see him then too.
He’ll be looking impossibly handsome in a suit. Maybe he’ll even gaze at me like he’s doing now, with longing in his eyes.
How the hell will I handle being at the auction with this man?
“I have to go,” I say, then I get in my car, drive home, and slump onto my beanbag.
I fiddle with my phone, scrolling through my contacts, hunting for a name, a friend, or someone to talk to. I can’t reach out to Carter, and I’m not close enough to any of the other guys on my team.
But then I slide past my last text exchange with Rachel from a month ago. I’ve been a bad friend. I shoot her a note, asking how she’s doing, but she doesn’t reply in kind.
She calls, and I answer it quickly, desperate for a friendly voice.
“Hey there,” I say.
“Hey. It’s been a while. How’s everything going?”
I could bullshit her, or I could spill my guts. Easiest decision ever.
“Not well,” I say, so tired of faking it.
“Oh sweetie, what’s wrong?”
I get up, walk around my home, and serve up my sad, bruised heart. I don’t tell her Jason’s name, but I tell her enough.
“And now, I feel like a zombie,” I say at the end of the tale of my secret romance. “I’m worried this breakup is going to make my anxiety spiral in a whole new way.”
That’s it.
That’s what’s freaking me out. My anxiety over . . . my anxiety.
I feel weirdly better having said that out loud. “I want to get through this breakup. I just don’t know if I have the right breakup playbook for a guy like me.”
“Maybe you don’t, but someone else does,” she says and shares some more ideas.
The rest of the afternoon, as I make lunch and putter around my apartment, I think about what Rachel said. But I don’t have to stew on it for too long.
I may have learned how to manage my anxiety flawlessly when it comes to my job. I’m mostly able to handle it when faced with the media. But I definitely need help when it comes to, well, to love.
And I have a resource mere feet away.
I leave the house, head up the stairs, and knock on Portia’s front door.
As I wait, I catalog my emotions. I feel surprisingly calm like I’m stepping into the right choice. This is what I need.
She answers a few seconds later, her curly brown hair swishing over her shoulders. “Hey, Beck. How are you? Do you want to come in?”
“I do,” I say, then once I’m in her home, I draw a deep breath and find the guts to speak. “I struggle with anxiety. I need to find a therapist to talk to. I was wondering if you could help me find someone good and trustworthy.”
She beams. “I can.”
Portia calls in a favor, and my first appointment with Rosemary is the next day. After an hour of talking and listening, I’m worn out, but the good, workout kind.
It’s a welcome feeling, even though it’s painful too.
I see her again the next week, walking in with amazing news. “I’m taking my team to the playoffs,” I say, doing my best not to bounce off the walls. I’m still flying.
She grins devilishly. “I know. I read the news. I’m a Hawks fan, but I’m happy for you,” she says. “How do you feel?”
A few nights ago, my teammates showered me with sparkling cider when we clinched. I felt out-of-this-world elated. “Like I delivered on the promise of the trade.”
Her eyes sparkle with happiness. “That must have felt wonderful. You faced huge expectations.”
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, still taking in the immensity of the accomplishment. “Now I just have to finish the job with a ring,” I say drily.
But Rosemary doesn’t want to dwell on the postseason road. “Can we talk about your brother?” she asks gently.
My throat tightens in a tangle of knots. “Okay,” I say, wary.
“How does it feel that you can’t tell Griffin you’re going to the postseason?”
I expected her to ease into the topic, not push me into the emotional deep end. I fight hard to hold back tears; I’ll lose it if I let go. “Awful,” I choke out.
“I can imagine,” she says softly.
I’m not sure I want to dig any deeper than awful, but I also didn’t walk through her door to back out.
“Can we talk more about it?” she asks.