Page 8 of Second Shot

It’s weird to feel so disconnected from California. I was born and raised here until eight grade. That’s when Dad dragged the family toChicago for a job. That change had been rough on me back then, but now, Chicago feels much more like home than California.

At the time, I hated my dad for moving us across the country. I hated him for tearing me away from my friends. Now, I know the change had been what saved me. I’d been spiraling back then, hanging out with the wrong people. I’d been a punk and angry at the world. My home environment had been toxic as fuck and I’d vented my frustrations with life on others. If I was hurting why should they?

I wince thinking about the shit I pulled. I’m twenty-six, and I still see some of the kids I bullied in my dreams. Their faces aren’t clear to me, probably because of guilt. There’d been one poor chubby kid with stringy black hair who’d taken the brunt of my bullying.

I’d mostly fixated on that kid because my frenemy, Freddy Morrison, had loved to torture the kid. I think Freddy had targeted him more often because he’d mouthed off. The boy hadn’t taken the bullying quietly like the other kids. I didn’t remember his name, but we’d all mocked him and called him Blubber Boy.

The guilt eats me alive some nights when I think about how mean I was. I’d always felt sick bullying the kid and I’d been tempted to let him alone. But I hadn’t let him alone. I’d tormented him. I’d been terrified that Freddy would turn onme if I didn’t do what he told me to do. I’d been twelve years old and being popular had meant so much to me back then. So instead of standing up for the poor kid, I’d been an asshole. I’d been young and scared and it had been him or me.

Him or me.

God.

What a pathetic coward I was.

It had taken years of therapy and self-reflection to come to grips with why I’d behaved that way. I’d struggled with self-hate and all sorts of issues for years before I’d finally sought help. The therapist I’d found had explained that when children were hurt at home, they often tried to take control somewhere else, like at school. She’d said that what I’d done wasn’t right, but that it had been very human to lash out in that way.

Despite her words, I still feel shame. I still wish I could turn back time and do it all differently. But that isn’t how life works, so all I can do is live with the things I’ve done and try to do better.

I jump when someone pounds on my door like they’re trying to break it down. The sound echoes through my condo, and I stand, staring at the door. Since I barely know anyone in town, I’m confused as to who might be knocking on my door.

Moving to the door, I check the peephole. I see a tall figure with icy-blond hair, wearing a black knit cap, and a white hoodie. Even through the distorted lens, I can tell he’s grinning.

“What the hell?” I mumble. Opening the door, I find myself face-to-face with one of my new teammates, the starting goalie, if I remember correctly. Niklas something. Swedish name I definitely butchered during introductions.

“Söderström,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. His accent is smooth, laid-back, turning the harsh consonants into something that sounds almost musical. “But you can call me Niko. Everyone does.”

“Hey, good to see you again,” I say, hoping I sound hospitable and not as confused as I feel. “Uh... what’s up?”

“I’m the welcoming committee.” He grins, holding up a twelve-pack of beer.

“You brought beer.” I laugh. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” He pushes past me into the apartment, his eyes scanning the place with obvious curiosity. “Jesus, your place is almost exactly like mine. This building is crazy. It kind of reminds me of a fishbowl. It’s all glass and no soul.”

I rub the back of my neck, smiling. “I see what you mean.”

“I’m on the thirty-fourth floor.” He flops onto my uncomfortable couch, wincing slightly. “You should probably buy a couch. That was the first thing I did after I moved into my condo. Trust me, this thing gets old after a while. It’s big, but it would be more comfortable sitting on one of the stones at Stonehenge. You can just put this one in storage.”

“I guess I could do that.”

“I’ll help you move it to storage if you want. I have a few friends who helped me move mine. Buy them a pizza and beer and I’m sure they’ll move your couch too.” He’s a whirling dervish of energy and conversation. I’m drained within minutes of his arrival. Partly because I’m already exhausted, but partly because he’s a force of nature.

I close the door that’s still open, and study this guy who’s apparently decided we’re friends now. He’s got that effortless confidence that some people are just born with. People always think I’m super confident, but the truth is it’s an act. I’m always just waiting for them to figure out what a piece of shit I am.

When there’s another knock at the door, I frown.

“Open it,” Niko says cheerfully. “It’s probably the rest of the guys I invited. Not everybody, don’t worry. Just some of us.” I blink at him and he chuckles. “Dude, we had towelcome you for real. Practice was great, but we didn’t really get to talk to you, right?”

“I guess that’s true.” I go to open the door and find four more guys from the team standing there. Most of them are grinning like idiots and holding bottles of booze. I’m pretty good with names so I’m able to identify Troy Kincaid, Jamie “Jinx” Foster, Quinn Marlowe, and Gabe Jacobs. Everyone looks cheerful as they shout hello, except Jacobs. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

They don’t wait for me to invite them in, they file past me talking fast and laughing. A few of them slap my shoulder, but Jacobs just walks by silently, avoiding my gaze. I have to wonder why he’s here if he doesn’t want to be here. Did the other guys guilt him into coming?

I close the door, praying there aren’t more guys coming. They’re all gathered around Niko, joking around and opening beers. I know how to play the game and be social, but I’m pretty beat and I’m off my stride a little. Forcing a smile, I move closer to the group of guys.

“Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable,” I say, gesturing to the big couch and the other chairs in the room.

“Ha.” Marlowe guffaws. “Fat chance of being comfortable on this fucking furniture.”

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