Page 21 of The Risk Taker

I say nothing as he disappears into the other room. I try to pull my full attention back to Connor when he approaches, but my mind stays with Ollie. And when we enter the living room a few minutes later, I look for Ollie, but he’s gone.

Connor and I never make it upstairs.

CHAPTER FIVE

OLLIE

Sweat pours down my forehead as I slow to a walk. Campus is quiet, and so is the parking lot for my small apartment complex. Everyone is taking advantage of a lazy Sunday morning, using the rare morning off to sleep in and probably recovering from a Saturday night out. But my body has this weird internal clock, making it hard for me to sleep late, even when I can. So, I got up and went for a run.

I walk up the stairs to my place and unlock the door. I turn on the television to a sports station for some ambient noise and move into the kitchen. My teammates thought I wouldn’t like living alone, that it would be too quiet. Too boring. But they were wrong. I love the space and solitude. This apartment is one of the only places where I can hear myself think.

After downing an entire bottle of Gatorade, I start assembling a protein smoothie. The commentators drone on in the background. I’m barely listening when I register my name being spoken. I move around the counter and closer to the screen to listen.

“Ollie Burnham went fifth in the draft and was acquired by the Hawks. After their lackluster season, they’ve called him up for next year,” a man reports.

“Burnham will be the perfect addition to the Hawks lineup,” a former hockey pro, Ed Barnes, chimes in. “He was the leading scorer last season at Sinclair University. He’s a solid winger who knows how to put the puck in the net. He understands the game.”

“From what I gather,” the first one continues, “Chicago is planning to build a new team around him.”

Barnes nods in agreement.

I wipe the sweat from my face with the bottom of my shirt and lean against the wall.

“He’s the next big hope for the Hawks. They have a lot riding on him. It will be interesting to see if he can adapt to the pressure that comes when transitioning from college to the pros.”

“I’ve seen him on the ice a few times,” Barnes says. “The guy doesn’t get rattled. All the greats have the ability to shake off a few bad shots or a loss and move forward. They don’t let the pressure or the other players get inside their head. Burnham has that ability. I, for one, am looking forward to watching him in action next year.”

I tune out the chatter as they keep rattling on about expectations while discussing my abilities and move back into the kitchen to turn on the blender. As I watch my breakfast mix, my mind continues to digest their comments. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard it. There’s been a lot of hype surrounding my move to Chicago. It started with the draft over a year ago. How I’m the great hope of the program. How they’re investing big bucks in me and expecting a return on that investment. It’s strange, listening to legends like Barnes discuss me on a national forum. And the former pro is right; I’ve always been able to compartmentalize the game. But the pressure is mounting. It’s a lot to handle at times, the high expectations for an organization like the Hawks. I’m known for being calm and collected, but the constant talk is starting to get to me. It’s difficult to block it out when every time I turn around, it’s all I hear.

I stop the blender and pour the thick liquid into a glass. The first gulp is cold, forcing me to slow down as I drink it to avoid brain freeze. When I walk back into the living room, the announcers have moved on to something else.

Instead of heading for the shower, like I originally planned, I find myself grabbing a hoodie, keys, and my smoothie before heading out again. I need something to relieve the tension that’s now accumulated in my shoulders and neck.

I climb into my Bronco, and it automatically steers itself over to the rink, as if on autopilot. I’ve driven the short distance so many times in the past three years that I no longer have to think about it. I pull into the parking lot in front of the stadium. It sits empty, except for one familiar car.

What’s Sam doing here?

I finish the protein smoothie, lock the vehicle, and walk into the quiet rink. As soon as I open the door, the cold hits me in the face, and the smell of the arena fills my nostrils. The familiar scent of the ice automatically calms me, quieting my brain. My feet echo on the floor as I walk down the hallway and into the locker room to gather my skates. Sam is standing in front of his locker, sifting through his things.

“Hey,” I say, walking over to my spot. I haven’t cleaned out my locker yet even though the season is over. I don’t plan to until I head to Chicago at the end of the summer.

“Hey,” he responds, glancing over at me before turning his attention back to his things.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as I spin my lock, plugging in the combination.

“I left my phone charger.”

I chuckle. “You don’t have a spare at home?”

He shakes his head. “Lost that one too.”

Sam finds what he’s looking for, and the metal door shuts with a bang. I get the first good look at him since I walked into the locker room. He looks rough. His face is overgrown with scruff like he hasn’t bothered to shave in a while. His blond hair is an unkempt mess, like he’s been running his hands through it. And he could use a trim. His eyes are bloodshot with dark circles beneath them. He looks like he’s been on one long bender.

I sit on the bench and tug off my running shoes. “Did you party too hard last night or what?” I keep my tone lighthearted, but I’m actually worried about him. He hasn’t been his normal carefree self the last few times I’ve seen him around.

He narrows his eyes and glares at me.

“You look like shit,” I add. I’ve also never been one to beat around the bush.

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