Page 2 of The Attack Zone

Iknowthe food will be good because I picked the catering, but whatever. Greg doesn’t need to know those kinds of details.

Greg: I like good food. Sure, why not.

Greg: Is this a suit kind of thing?

Stacey: Yes, it is. Is that okay?

Greg: Sure. Send me the deets and I’ll be there.

Deets?Oh, good lord.

I take a deep breath. Greg is the only match I’ve gotten today, and I’d really like to have this date locked in, so I kind of have no choice.

Stacey: Will do. Thanks in advance!

Greg: Np.

I glance at my to-do list and make sure all the necessary items are checked off. I place a little check next toMitchell Gala Datebefore closing my laptop, placing it and my notebook in my bag, and standing up from my desk. I close the blinds, cross the room, and switch off the lights. Another late night in the office but at least I can start tomorrow feeling refreshed and ready instead of behind.

Once I’m home, I place my weekly flower delivery into its vase. I have no idea who keeps sending these to me, but every Thursday for the past year or so, a new bouquet arrives. I would think it was a bit weird, but they bring me joy, so I do my best to just ignore the anonymous sender.

Eventually I make it to my bed and check the score of the Blizzards game. They’re up 3–2 in the third. I scroll down to see who made the goals.

1: Thomas King, Assist: Mitch Greggs

2: Mitch Greggs, Assist: Caleb Mack

3: Matti Lakso, Assists: Mitch Greggs, Caleb Mack

Mitchell seems to be having himself quite a night, I think before rolling my eyes. My least favorite client happens to be one of the more prolific hockey players in the world. He’s also great friends with some of my best friends and happens to keep me gainfully employed by throwing work my way all the time. Too bad he doesn’t trust me, insists on being overly involved, and has irrationally passionate opinions about stupid things. Otherwise, we might actually be able to be friends. Or at least not enemies. But he’s him and I’m me and we’re basically oil and water.

I shake my head, set my alarm on my phone, and roll over. Thinking about Mitchell Greggs does nothing but get me all riled up, and I need rest. I close my eyes and try to think of the coffee I’m going to have in the morning until I fall asleep.

CHAPTER 2

MITCH

THE NEXT DAY

My life is basically one big checklist.

It’s not that I like it like that, but it’s what keeps me going. Wake up? Check. Take medication? Check. Go for a mental health walk? Check. Practice? Check. Healthy dinner? Check. In bed by eleven? Check.

It can get pretty repetitive, but with bipolar disorder, repetition is better than a depressive or manic episode, so in the grand scheme of things it’s not too bad. But every once in a while, I’d like to say yes when I’m invited out clubbing on a random night.

Like right now. I’m staring my teammate, Sam, right in the face as I try to get up the nerve to lie to him.

“So, I’m thinking maybe we head to that new spot and then just see where the night takes us,” he says.

“I, uh ...” I start.

Then I feel a hand on my sweaty back. “Greggs has anearly massage therapy appointment,” my best friend, Thomas, says. “We’re laying low tonight.”

I breathe a silent sigh of relief. I hate lying, but with my bipolar diagnosis in this sport, I don’t have the choice sometimes. I also hate when Thomas lies for me, but he insists he doesn’t mind keeping my secret, so I let him.

“Ah, that’s too bad. It’s always more fun when you’re there,” Sam says.

Only when I’m hypomanic, I think. On days like today when I’m stable, I’d be pretty boring. And on days when I’m depressed, I’m hardly a good time at a café, let alone a club. But as fun as the mania or hypomania might be in the moment, I much prefer the balance stability has to offer as much as I can get it.

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