Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Xavier,” he huffs, “I was wondering if you would answer my phone call.”
I chuckle as I wash my hands. “Why wouldn’t I answer your calls?” I dry my hands and then open the fridge, grabbing the eggs.
“I called you twice last week and again this morning,” he says.
“I was going to call you back,” I lie to him. “It was on my list.” It was, in fact, not on my list because I don’t have a list.
“Liar.” He calls me on it. He has been with me since I was drafted. He was the only one who was always in my corner. When I let him, that is. I buried things so much that it was hard to even be honest with him. “I’m going to be in New York next week.” I go back to the fridge, grabbing peppers, an onion, spinach, and ham. “I want to sit down with you.”
“Don’t you have other clients you should be wining and dining?” I ask him as I start chopping.
“I do, including you.” He laughs. “I think we need to sit down and look at things.” I shake my head, not saying anything. “We should at least discuss a couple of things.”
“I don’t think there is anything to discuss.” I open my cabinet to get the frying pan. “There hasn’t been anything in the past two years.”
“I think there could be,” he informs me, and I roll my eyes. “Just hear me out.”
“Send me your schedule, and I’ll see if I can make it work,” I say to him, turning the burner on.
“No,” he snaps. “I’m going to schedule you in, and if you don’t show up, I’m coming to your boat.”
“Are you this pushy with all your clients?” I spray the pan before putting in the veggies.
“When they are acting like asses, yes. So I can come to the boat next Wednesday at two o'clock.”
“I might be busy,” I tell him, and he roars out laughing. “I think I have to wash the cat that day.”
“You got a fucking cat?” he shrieks.
“No.” I laugh at him. “It was a joke.”
“Good, at least your sense of humor is still there. Text me where you want to meet,” he tells me, and I’m about to hang up on him. “Don’t make me chase you down.”
“Bye.” I press the red button, ending the call. “Can you believe that?” I look over at Beatrice, who sits at the entrance of the kitchen, waiting to see if I drop any food for her. “He wants to sit with me?” I add the spinach and then the eggs. “For what?” I shake my head.
I try not to think about the bad that happened two years ago, but no matter how many times I try to push it away, it just comes full force. “What could he want to talk about?” I put my omelet on the plate, walking over to the U-shaped table. “Does he want to talk about how for five fucking months I threw up every single day with dread?” I take a bite, getting up to get myself orange juice and water. Only when I sit back down do I continue, “Does he want to talk about how the press raked me over the coals every fucking game?” I shake my head, the tightness in my stomach making it harder to swallow.
“No matter how good I did, they always were there to kick me in my balls.” I laugh bitterly. “I scored a goal in overtime, which clinched us to head to the playoffs, and what did they do?” I put my fork down and look over at Beatrice. “They happily reminded me that I went ten games with not one point, and I had a minus twelve like I didn’t already know this.” I close my eyes and put my head back. “It was fucking hell. Every single day was worse than the other.” My heart starts to speed up a touch now. “I would sit in my hotel room when we were on the road, in the dark, and hope not to wake up the next day. Sitting in the dark every night as the anxiety would come and claim its place in my head.” The tightness in my chest starts.
“I had no one to talk to, not one person.” My hands start to tremble. “No one, and when I tried, I was basically told that I had to suck it up and ignore the press. They brushed it off, like always. No one even listened. Not one person listened to what I had to say.” I laugh now, but the sting comes to my eyes. “Ignore it, they said.” I swallow as the tightness gets even tighter, and a lump starts to form in my throat, making it hard to swallow. “Easy for them to say. They weren’t the ones on the cover of the newspaper. After every game, a microphone was shoved in my face, asking me why I wasn’t scoring goals.” My back starts getting sweaty for a second, while my neck gets chills, and I know I’m two seconds away from a panic attack. I know the signs. I’ve always known the signs, but I’ve ignored them because that is what you did, apparently. I try to control my breathing, but I get up on unsteady feet and walk to the bathroom, not sure if I’m going to throw up or not.