Page 21 of Rewind It Back

I narrow my eyes. “I blame you as much as Tyler for that one. You’re a woman. You don’t set someone up before a full FBI-level social media stalking session.”

She laughs. “So, it’s the last one, then.”

Definitelynot the last one.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” is all I say.

Parked in the back of the employee lot, I sit in my car, eating the homemade PB&J I made for lunch.

I stay out of sight during lunch hour because I don’t want to give my coworkers the chance to, once again, offer that I get in on their lunch delivery order. Mostly because I don’t have it in me to sit there, eating my borderline stale sandwich and say no, yet again, because I can’t afford it. My self-control dwindles every time I see one of my coworkers with a poke bowl or twenty-dollar salad at their desk.

And right on time, as I’m thinking of things I can’t afford, my alarm goes off, reminding me it’s the due date for one of my loan payments. I log on and pay fifty dollars over the minimum payment because that’s all I can afford this month, then I check my banking app to see what little money I had in my checking account dwindle down to almost nothing.

I have a different loan payment due next week and rent is due the week after that.

Yes, I make money at the design firm, but it’s nothing compared to what the full-time designers make. I’m in a learning program, and that paycheck has an end date to it if I don’t get hired onto the team. And sure, I have five shifts at the bar this week. That should cover my next two big bills. But then my phone bill is due, and it’s right on to worrying about how I’m going to cover the next month’s payments.

The cycle is never-ending. It feels like I’m drowning, even with my decreased rent, but there seems to be one clear way to keep my head above water.

As much as I don’t want to, I know what I have to do, and I’m not in a position where I can be above begging.

Back on my phone, I look up the Chicago Raptors game schedule for this season, needing to know what time I should plan to wait for him on his front porch steps tonight where I’m going to do my best pleading.

A quick Google search tells me they have a game in Columbus tomorrow, followed by two more games on the road. From what I remember him telling me years ago, the teams typically fly out the day before, and if the flight is short enough, they try to squeeze in a practice at home beforehand.

It’s a bit alarming how easy it is to find where their practice arena is—two blocks from here—and another quick search lets me know that the practices are open to the public. There’s no practice schedule online, but my desperation is reminding me I’ve got nothing to lose.

What else am I going to do? I have until the end of the week to rectify this, and it’s not like I have his number anymore.

So, I finish off my PB&J and start my walk to the rink.

It’s a crisp fall day and the walk is nice. Chicago is a bustling city. It’s not New York City busy, but its own version. Yes, the buildings are tall, and the streets are littered with people, but the lake is right there. There are beaches within walking distance of skyscrapers. A river flows through the center of it all, and I love it.

I enjoyed my years in Boston. Minneapolis too. But Chicago feelsright.

Now, I need to figure out a way to stay.

When I get to the rink, the lot is full of cars, which seems like a positive sign. I should maybe take a moment to look for his truck before I head inside, but my nerves don’t allow me to slow down. A man exits as I approach the main entry door. He holds it open for me, but the crowd inside continues to file out, so I open the other door instead, going the opposite direction from the main flow of traffic.

I earn a few confused glances as I walk straight inside the emptying rink with faux confidence, but that mask slips when I immediately spot the black and red practice jerseys contrasted against the white of the ice.

The team is huddled around their coaches, and it takes everything not to go running back to work as fast as I can. But I’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain, so I follow the curve of the rink around to the side the players will exit the ice before going to the locker room.

On the side that’s clearly not meant for the general public, I wait while their team meeting finishes, sitting awkwardly by myself on a cold metal bench next to a random boombox.

The team begins to file off the rink, shooting the shit with each other as they pass. I earn more confused glances from them, but no one asks what I’m doing in an area that I shouldn’t be in.

One of the players passes by the bench I’m sitting on, eyes assessing me before bouncing to the boombox at my side. “Rio!” he shouts, and my stomach instantly drops. “Don’t forget your shitty boombox!”

“It’s not shitty,” I hear Rio say as he takes a step off the ice. “It’s well-loved. Big diff—”

His attention immediately lands on me, halting him in place, standing steady on the blades of his skates. His eyes don’t leave me for even a moment as he removes his helmet and lets it hang at his side.

Sweat trickles from his forehead, rolling over those dark brown waves. You’d think his hair was black unless you’ve been close enough to run your fingers through it.

I clearly didn’t give myself the chance to really look at him the other night. It was too dark out. I was in shock, too stunned by seeing him in person after all these years to reallyseehim.

Yes, I may have looked him up online a few times over the years. So what? I was curious. It’s human nature to be curious. But those two-dimensional photos were nothing compared to the real thing.

---