Page 1 of Perfect Playbook

Chapter One

SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

I stareat the sign on the door and read words that make the death of my father even harder to accept. As if it wasn’t already a suffocating reality, now, I promised my coach I’d attend at least one session and give this a chance. I need to talk about my father out loud, in front of strangers. Pretending it isn’t real by ignoring this harsh reality is about to come to an end.

I’ve been lucky to be in another town and not have to pass his armchair at home, the one where he used to pluck his guitar strings, yet never failed to glanceup to ask how I’m doing. I’m lucky to not roam the hallways where we used to get hurt playing tag. Away at college, I don’t sleep in my childhood bed where he’d come and sit on the edge and talk to me with his cup of hot cocoa just before hitting the hay. His presence isn’t here at Golden Sierra. I’m not Billy’s son to everyone who passes by. I’m just Logan Hunter. Number Nine.

But I have to face the truth if I’m ever to get my strength back. He’s gone, and it’s time to deal with the aftermath of chaos in my mind that’s led me to lose my nerve in games. An NHL team has been in contact with my coach, and I’ll be able to leave my college team soon. I’d be feeling overjoyed if my secret weapon hadn’t become unreliable since my dad passed. My aim and fail-proof penalties were my superpower, and now, they’re average at best.

After our last game, Coach took me aside and put his hand on my shoulder as we walked behind the others toward the dressing room. “Hunter, I know what it’s like to lose someone. Let’s get you some counseling. Get you back on track. It works. Trust me on this.”

I choke up at the memory of the conversation that led me here. It was a vulnerable moment I shared with a man I constantly tried to impress. It took everything not to cry then and there, having him know I’m weak but believing in me all the same. I hope I’ll offer the same grace to someone else someday.

I read the sign on the door again, and it might as well be glowing neon. Why do I feel so uncomfortable? Surely, it’s normal to need to talk it out after someone as close as a father dies? But being from a small town where a man isn’t meant to show emotion means there’s an uncomfortable tug of war at play in my gut. I know I should talk, but I’ve been taught to suck things down.

I heard confidentiality is a big thing in support groups, and I wasn’t required to put my last name down to sign up for today, but I’m not exactly anonymous all the same. I’m a high-profile athlete, and much as I don’t like it, I get stared at everywhere I go. I already feel eyeballs on me right through the door. I scrub my hand over my face with a balmy palm and check my watch.

I’m late.

Come on, Logan. Just do what you gotta do.

When I push open the door, the person I suspect is the counselor is already speaking to a group of six other people, introducing herself.

Her gentle gaze lands on me. “Hi. Come on in.”

I’m paralyzed staring into her eyes; my mouth is dry. What am I going to say? I can’t seriously be considering telling all these strangers about my absolute darkest moment when I’ve hardly even spoken about it with my siblings and Mom.

“I’m Fiona. Please, take a seat.”

I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already have so I take the nearest spot in the circle of chairs where four other students fill some of them.

She resumes her introduction. “My office is in the health services building, and there are counselors on call twenty-four seven with the Samaritan line. So don’t hesitate to reach out. Now let’s talk about our current session. You can tell people who you are. You can talk about your loved ones who are still with us and the ones who are not. You share anything that comes to your mind really. It might be about how your day went or something that seemingly has nothing to do with your grief. There’s no specific format about what you should share or how to share it. Grief manifests in lots of different ways. You might be sad. Youcould be angry. Fearful. This group isn’t therapy. It’s camaraderie. Here you’ll find out, you’re not alone.”

I lean my elbow on my knee and put my chin on my fist. The movement shifts me closer inside the circle, and that’s when I feel it. Eyes on me. I haven’t wanted to actually see the faces of my fellow grievers. But I glance to my left where my senses tell me someone is having a good look at me. I’m brief. Discreet. I don’t want to make full-on eye contact with whoever it is. But it doesn’t take more than a glance at the woman to impact me. Her pert nose, glossy black bob, and two irises to match smack into me like I just ran into a brick wall.

She’s pretty.

Is it inappropriate to think that? Here? Probably. I should be more focused, especially on what I will be saying when it’s my turn to talk. But my mind works hard to allow the distraction of this pretty girl and her haunting stare because distractions are my coping mechanism.

Running.

Avoidance.

It’s what I do.

So I can’t help another quick glance to see if she’s still staring at me, but she’s moved her gaze elsewhere, which means I can rest mine on her for longer. She seems familiar.

I swear I know her.

Her eyes flick to me unexpectedly, and I quickly dart mine away, self-conscious on every level. I don’t want to hold anyone’s gaze, least of all someone who has piqued my curiosity. I should be formulating the words I’ll say when the circle comes around to me.

The guy to the mystery woman’s left introduces himself. “I’m Casey, uh…”

His nervous pause has my underarms prickling.

The deep plunge his Adam’s apple takes while he considers his next words makes me even more aware of the stone in my throat.

Casey manages a little more about himself. “It was my brother. He got in a car accident. So…” He clears his throat harshly and completes his words with glassy eyes. “Yeah, he didn’t make it. He was twenty-five.”

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