Page 34 of Rematch
He’d even thought perhaps his sadness had been the result of losing Johnny and June back in September. He’d bought his beloved clownfish right after he signed with the Rays, and they’d been a part of his life for fourteen years. Just before Thanksgiving, he’d purchased two new clownfish and an even larger aquarium, and while he’d grown fond of the new fish, they weren’t the magic fix he’d been hoping for.
Which meant the problem was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to admit, not even to himself.
Chelsea.
“I’m only thirty-five. Too young for a midlife crisis.”
Victor didn’t reply, probably because he didn’t appear to agree.
While he really didn’t want to talk about his doldrums or the Chelsea sighting, Preston was kind of glad Victor was the elected spokesperson. Because of all Preston’s teammates, Victor was the one most likely to relate to some of the shit that had been mucking his thoughts lately. He and Victor weren’t just the oldest guys on the team; they were two of the longest-standing Rays, both playing for Baltimore for over a decade. So, they had a shared history as far as their careers went.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to talk about some of the other, easier things he’d been thinking about recently.
God knew he wasn’t ready to deal with what he just saw down the street.
“How long do you think you’re going to keep playing?” Preston asked.
Victor’s brows rose so high, they nearly disappeared into his hairline. “You thinking of retiring from hockey?”
Preston quickly shook his head, even though he wasn’t as sure of that answer as he might seem. “I’ve been at this for fifteen years, and believe me, I’m starting to feel every minute of that. In my back, my knees, my ankles.”
Victor smirked. “Tell me about it. Hockey takes its toll. But come on, man, we’re not past our prime yet. Shit. I feel like I’m just hitting my stride.”
Preston agreed with that. With each passing year, Victor got stronger and stronger. The guy was a beast on the ice, and there was no better defenseman in the league than Victor Reed.
“You are,” Preston agreed.
“And so are you,” Victor added.
Preston wasn’t so sure about that. While his playing hadn’t declined, he felt as if he’d reached a plateau these past couple of years. If he asked his teammates and coaches about it, they would say they had no problem with that plateau because he was still a rock-solid left-winger. He knew that. If his playing had slipped, he would have been the first one to put in more fucking hours in the gym and on the ice…or, if it came to it, make the decision to walk away. He was a competitive asshole, but he was also a team player who believed in earning every penny of his ridiculously generous salary.
Preston leaned back and sighed. “I’m not sure it’s the physical wear and tear of the job that’s getting me down. I think it has more to do with work/life ratio.”
Victor snorted. “You been talking to the team shrink?”
Preston chuckled miserably. He probably should talk to the shrink, but as soon as he thought it, he dismissed it. Fuck that jazz.
“What the fuck are you talking about, work/life ratio?” Victor pressed.
“It’s hard to have a social life during the season,” Preston explained.
“Bullshit. We go out plenty. You’re not talking about fucking partying; you’re talking about fucking. As in, you aren’t getting any. And we all know why.”
They did know why. All of his teammates knew about…her.
Preston rubbed his eyes. He’d already opened up to Victor, so why not go for broke? He needed advice.
“I just saw Chelsea. Fifteen minutes ago.”
If Preston had been in a better frame of mind, he would have laughed at Victor’s outright shock, his wide eyes, his mouth hanging open.
“Chelsea? Your fucking Chelsea?” he asked loudly.
Preston had long ago stopped noticing the way Victor dropped the F-bomb into sentences the way some people used commas, but the same didn’t hold true for the two elderly women at the table next to them, who were shooting very disapproving glances.
Unfortunately for them, Preston didn’t have it in him to curb Victor’s foul language today. “She’s not my Chelsea.”
His response seemed to catch Victor off guard. “She’s not?”
