Page 18 of The Cutting Edge
“Are you always so smooth with the ladies?”
“Yes,” he nods. “Exactly this smooth. It’s a mystery why I’m still single.”
I leave that comment be, preposterous as it is, and press forward.
“IfI’m not injured, andifI can manage to actually pay for coaching, training, medical expenses, ice time, and costumes and all the other stuff I need, which is a big “if”, I’ll be 26 by the time the Milan Olympic games roll around. If I somehow manage to do all that, and that’s another very big “if”,and I actually won a gold medal, another huge “if”, that would make me the 2nd oldest figure skating gold medalist in the history of the Olympics. So yeah, the grandma of figure skating.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”
Idomind him asking, because my head hurts and the last thing I want to do right now is relive the worst press conference of my life. But I answer anyway. He’s pretty and I like the company.
“I had an anxiety attack. I couldn’t breathe, my heart was racing like I was hanging off the side of the building or being chased by terrorists or something. It happens sometimes. I’ve literally been going to a sports psychologist for my entire life to solve this one problem, but it always seems to come back. I wasn’t expected to take gold. I was thethird one. Good enough to go, not good enough for gold. Nobody expected me to win. Even me, as it turns out.
It sucks when you work so hard to accomplish something and your brain or body or both sometimes —seem like they’re working against you.”
“I can relate,” he says. “Something similar happened to me a few years ago, college championship, senior year. I could not get my shit together. I was so nervous and excited about the draft, there were all these rumors flying around that I was going to be a top-five pick, and it felt like everything I’d been working for was all coming to fruition in a single day. And then… I just got in my own head and had pretty much had the worst game of my life. I literally puked in another guy’s helmet.” “So… in the end, unlike you,” he pokes the center of his muscled chest with his index finger, “I was NOT a top-five pick. I was the twenty-second pick. And by the time they called my name, it felt like it might never happen.”
“I’m sorry, that really sucks. And also, why did you puke insomeone else’shelmet? That’s super gross.”
“I was wearing mine at the time.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“I know, right? The guy was a grocery stick, but I felt so bad I bought him a new helmet.”
“Grocery stick?”
“Yeah, you know, a guy who rides the bench the whole game, sitting between the other players, like one of those grocery sticks in the checkout lane.”
“I think that makes it worse.”
“Yeah,” nods Logan. He looks like he’s deep in thought for a second and I’m temporarily mesmerized by his fingers thrumming on the armrest of the recliner. “You know what’s weird? I don’t think I’ve ever said that to anyone before. I mean, who wants to hear a guy who makes millions of dollars a year doing what he loves best whining about getting picked 22ndin the first roundfor the NHL? I’m pretty sure nobody.”
“I get it though,” I nod.”You work so hard, you make so many sacrifices in pursuit of this singular goal. And every misstep or missed opportunity makes it feel like you’ve wasted your whole life if you don’t get the medal. Or a specific, random number you have in your head. Most people think it should be enough to just have theopportunity.”
He finishes my sentence with me… “opportunity.”
We’re both nodding as he adds, “I know, and you feel like a total jackass for even thinking about it – when so many others would kill to be a first-round draft pick – or an Olympic athlete.”
There’s a second there where our eyes are locked and we’re both leaning fully towards each other when the hospital room begins to blur around the corners.
“Whoa, are you okay? You suddenly got really pale.”
I feel my body falling forward, almost in slow motion, as all at once my limbs feel heavy and loose. Logan flies out of the recliner in an instant, his forearm across my back and his large hand scooped around my shoulder like a human seatbelt.
“I’ve got you,” his other arm encircles me quickly like a buffer a few inches away from my body – he’s not touching me, but if I fall forward, I’ll fall into his arms. Not the worst way to go, I guess.
Definitely better than goingsplaton the linoleum floor.
“I really don’t feel great…I think I might… pass out.”
“Let’s not do that,” he says kindly, ”I’d hate for you to keel over just when the conversation is getting interesting.”
Wait…did I just imagine that?Everything is moving in slow motion, and Logan looks like he’s dancing underwater.
“No worries,” Logan assures me, “we’ve got this under control. Let’s get some help in here before you take a nose dive off the edge of your hospital bed.”
Quickly, he tightens his grip on my shoulder with one hand, and uses his other hand to mash the call button for the nurse. Sort of like Twister, that game my grandma loved to make us play when I was little.
