Page 16 of Let It Be Me
Noise coming through the open windows of the house filters out to us, signaling guests arriving. Pops hovers his hand over the grill to make sure the temperature is rightbefore placing some burgers and hot dogs on the grates. Once he closes the lid, he turns to me.
“Don’t let your Momma hear you say that,” Pops warns.
“I know.”
He looks up and into the kitchen with warmth in his eyes anytime he looks at Momma. It’s almost sickening how in love they still are. Most relationships fizzle out after a few years. But not these two. With thirty years together, they’ve countlessly proven to me that a relationship with the right person can be long-lasting. “Who’s on her list?”
“Mason Brooks, Nate Holloway, and Conrad Spencer.” I rattle off.
Pop lets a whistle fly. “That’s some list.”
“Agreed,” I say and trail off as some of Pops’s friends come strolling out of the house. I like their friends. They rallied around us when I lost my parents. But I think they’re still unused to me being a professional athlete. And name dropping big names would only give me a headache when I have to field denial after denial about if I can score tickets to any of their games.
The day passes by in a blur of conversation, corn hole, and more food than I usually eat in a day. Afternoon turns into night and I start to say my goodbyes to my parents and their friends. Momma packs up two to-go boxes, one for me and one for the Anderson’s. With another round of thirty-minute goodbyes, I’m in my car and headed back to my condo.
Evenings when I come home to a quiet condo, I wish I had someone there to greet me. I see some of the veterans on the team with their long-term girlfriends or wives and families waiting for them with open arms. It’s never bothered me as much, because I’d rather spend time playing the game I love than be hurt by someone who claims to love mewhen all they want is to get to the top. And I know Momma and Pops would love to see me in a stable relationship. But until that person comes along, the one who doesn’t want just my name to get them places, I’ll gladly settle for hockey, my family, my cats, and fantasizing about my publicist.
7
SARAH
Ilie in bed and stare at the ceiling fan. Round and around until my heart rate comes back down. Some mornings I wake up in a panic. It’s sleep induced panic attacks brought on by my high functioning depression diagnosis. The freak-outs when I would wake up were easier to hide from Paul as we both agreed that living together before marriage would ruin us faster. But unfortunately, the occasional sleepovers caused them to flare up more often than not.
I’d like to say I’ve gotten better. I’ve been seeing a therapist for about a year after Kamryn suggested I see someone to deal with my deep failure of not getting Liam signed and my general failure of thinking I could make it in the sports world so early. Have I been told time and time again that it wasn’t my fault? Of course. But being told something and actually comprehending it are two different things. Still lying in bed, I do my best to focus on the whirring of the blades pushing air around my room while I slowly come back to my body.
My alarm clock blares, causing me to jolt, and I turn my head to the offensive noise before throwing my hand outand shutting it off. My attention goes back to my ceiling fan and like a true millennial, I’ve never turned it off so dust has been mysteriously collecting since I bought my house a year ago. That gets added to my never-ending list of things to do around my home.Dust your ceiling fan.
With the salary I get, it more than allowed me to afford a home so soon after I moved up here. I live right on the outskirts of Cincinnati in a converted three-bedroom brick townhome. The fourth bedroom was originally on the other side of my closet, so during the renovation, I had the contractors remove the wall to create a closet that Carrie Bradshaw could only dream of having when she lived in her tiny apartment. One of my weaknesses is shoes. Very expensive shoes. So with the expansion I made sure that my closet had a shoe wall. Most people tried to talk me out of converting the fourth room for the “resell” factor. As it stood that was not my issue and I figured thatifI meet someone I plan to spend my life with, we’ll eventually move into a bigger house and I’ll get another large closet.
I turn my head again and check the time on the clock, realizing it’s past time for me to get up. It’s the fourth of July and it’s set to be a long day. All of my clients, apart from Nate, will be in attendance at the block party that occurs every year off of Ivy street. It’s a way for my clients to get seen and to be seen as normal people, despite the heavy bank accounts that set them apart. And a way to interact with owners of small businesses that keep the city alive.
Whipping off the covers, I roll out of bed and walk into my bathroom and turn on the shower. With a little help from my parents before Paul and I broke up, I was able to redo the bathroom to my liking. I wanted a space that was bright and airy, but also a touch of girly while incorporating my favorite color, dark blue. Okay, my favorite color is alsored, but having that in my bathroom would not have worked with my red hair. So we settled for dark blue with pink accents and gold handles paired with a dark wood vanity and a white marble top counter. The flooring is also heated so that when the temperature is closer to my age, I’m only freezing my tits off.
I go through with my shower and proceed to get ready for the day. The last time I checked the weather it said it was in the high-90’s, so I wrap myself and my hair in a towel, then stroll into my walk-in closet. As I get further removed from my relationship with Paul, I find myself grateful that he never moved up here. I would have had to sacrifice my version of Carrie Bradshaw’s closet and that would have made me insufferable. And now when I think of letting any man into my space, I get the heebie jeebies from thinking about it. I love my space and I love what I’ve created here. But it would take a special man for me to change things around.
I find the wedges I want to wear today and riffle through my dress collection before settling on a white eyelet dress with a corset bodice, thin straps, and a flowing skirt that falls past my knees. Most redheads stay away from wearing white as it washes them out or their freckles spread like crazy. I’m the opposite. My hair gets lighter and I take on a light tan, oddly enough. So I love wearing white as it gives me a glow that I can fake when I’m less than glowing after a morning wake-up call like the one I had.
While blow drying my hair, I hear the distant chiming of my phone with what I know to be an incoming text. Retying the sash on my robe tighter, I shuffle back into my bedroom and sit on my unmade bed, snagging my phone off the charger in the process.
Riley: Reporting for duty.
Riley: *1 attached image*
I snort, very unladylike, as I see him in a full American flag outfit. My gaze snags on the way the shorts mold to his thick thighs and down to the very appealing thigh tattoos peaking out from the edges of his shorts to the rest of the ink covering his legs before I quickly close out of the picture and think of a response.
Me: Why are you texting me?
Really, Sarah?That’s the best you’ve got?
Riley: I wanted to show you that I’m ready for my first event.
Riley: Is this not the type of picture you want?
Riley: I can send you something else…
I’m about to respondNowhen another picture comes in. This time of two cats. Huh. I did not peg him as a cat dad.
Me: I’ll see you at 11.
