Eight

EIGHT

FELTON

I'm not the only one on the team. I know that. Beyond that, I'm not the one responsible for making goals. Even if I let nothing in the net, if we don't score a goal, we still don't win. All of this I know.

But when the buzzer announces the end of the game and we're tied 2-2, I feel like I failed. We didn't win. I let in two goals.

We do well to keep the puck on the opposite end during overtime, but after five minutes, we're still tied. I hate shootouts. Even though I'm decent at them, I can hear everyone yelling and feel their weight on my shoulders. Their expectations grow around me like giant trees bearing down over me.

St. Louis's fourth shot gets one on me and the screams of the fans push me down. I'm already on my hands and knees, but their jeers and disappointment hold me there. The trees with their long limbs close in over me, rooting me to my blue box.

I'm not sure how long I'm there but eventually, hands on me pull me to my feet, gripping me by my pads.

"It's all right, man," Dasan says. "Shootouts suck."

It's not all right. I need to be able to hold against a shootout too. I need more practice. I'll tell Coach tomorrow. Lots of one-on-one. That's what I need. Just keep the pucks coming at me.

The locker room feels loud. There's a lot of bright, hot energy. Angry energy? It feels like everyone's yelling. I'm not sure anyone's actually talking to me, but I can't help but feel their raised voices pointing in my direction.

Jab.

Jab.

I try not to flinch.

I'm not the only one on the team . Maybe if I remind myself enough, I'll believe that the last goal I let in wasn't the only reason we lost. What about the sixty-five minutes before that? Where were our scores then?

Team sport. Team sport. I'm not the only one on the team.

The voices around me remain loud. Yelling. Echoing in my head. Needing something from me.

Be better. Focus harder. Be quicker.

After what feels like days, I'm dressed and heading outside. The hall is blessedly quieter and I don't have to think. I wish I could go home and interact with my fans. Not my hockey fans—there's always critiquing happening there. They want something from me—always wins; always shutouts.

My ReachMe fans. I miss them, and could really use some of their compliments right now. Their words and praise and… attention?

The gentle buzz against my leg has me pulling my phone out of my pocket before I truly think about what I'm doing. It's not a phone call—thank fuck—it's an email. My heart stops as I see that it's from the new agent. There's an attachment and the subject line reads ‘New Client Contract.'

I feel dizzy. Reaching out a hand for anything to keep me upright, I find I'm in the open. Outside. Not near anything. The ground is going to come quickly.

Closing my eyes, the dizziness only intensifies when I don't have spatial recognition to keep my equilibrium in check. My feet are rooted to the ground, so I can't take a step in any direction to correct my balance. The world sways as if I'm on a carnival ride.

Just as I think I'm going to topple, hands grip me. Steadying me. I take a breath but still can't manage to open my eyes.

"Feeling okay?"

It's Ren. I recognize his quiet, smooth, gently accented voice. It's a blanket of calm allowing me to take a breath.

"I just got an email with the new contract," I say. Do I speak out loud?

"You want to look it over now?"

"If you're busy?—"

His hands grip me a little tighter. "I'm not busy."

"It's kind of late," I waver.

"We can look at them in the morning if you prefer."

We have conditioning tomorrow. No game. Still, I shake my head. I won't sleep at all tonight if I don't know what these contracts mean. Have I ever truly known what they meant?

"I'll follow you," Ren offers.

I nod, but don't move and he doesn't let me go.

"How about if I drive?" Ren suggests after a minute.

Sighing, my shoulders drop a little and I nod. "Thanks."

Even driving feels too heavy right now. I could do it if I needed to, but it's probably safer if I don't. When I still don't make an effort to move, Ren guides me along across the parking lot. Before I know it, we're behind his black Lexus and he's loading our bags into the back before walking me to the passenger's side.

He opens my door and I just stare. Has anyone ever opened a car door for me?

I glance at him shyly as I climb in. No overthinking. He's being nice. He's a good guy. A gentleman. That's all this is. There's literally nothing to see here.

I'm a train wreck, anyway. Not a prize. The only people who have anything nice to say are those from afar. Those who watch me naked and with a mask on.

I miss their positivity. The light they offered me in the storm of my life.

The ride is quiet, and I appreciate that Ren doesn't try to fill the silence. Awkward conversation is the worst. Not that I've ever truly had that experience with my teammates.

We get to my house and I let us in. Ren follows me as I walk through the dark halls until we get to the living room.

"Do you want them electronically, or I can print them?" I ask.

He reaches into his bag for a pen and highlighter. "Print, please. Then they'll be in a format I can mark up."

I nod and excuse myself to the spare room that also has an office area. Not a space I use much, but it's there. As if to give the impression I'm a responsible adult and can manage my affairs as one should.

Without reading the email, I connect to the printer wirelessly and send the document. While it's printing, I dig through the folders in my desk until I find the copy of my original contract. I see another document that says addendum and one behind it that says extension. Since I'm not sure what else might be important, I take the whole folder.

With the folder in hand and the warm, freshly printed copies from the printer, I go back to find Ren. He's right where I left him, unsurprisingly. I hand him everything.

Ren gives me a nod then I stand there and watch him. Unsure what I'm supposed to do now. After a minute of me awkwardly hovering, Ren looks up.

He doesn't speak. Just studies my face, which might be worse. The quiet, almost haunting tinkle of windchimes floats through the air and my body breaks out in chills.

"Have a seat, Felton," Ren says.

Oh good. I like knowing what someone wants me to do. Clear and concise expectations. Realistic expectations. Something that doesn't inherently set me up for failure. I can sit. That's something I can totally do.

I glance at Ren and watch him read. He alternates between being nearly motionless to marking on the papers. Looking at the contract, it's filled with words—duh, right?—and his highlights. He's made a bunch of notes already.

The words are small. Unsurprisingly. They squish as many together as they can. Probably so your eyes can't focus, and you skip entire lines. Words so small that it hurts your eyes to read them at all.

"Did you have anyone read these before you signed them?" Ren asks.

I shake my head. "They explained the contract to me."

He nods but I can feel his disappointment. It's a superpower. I always know when someone is disappointed.

My phone is still in my hand and I stare at it, wishing I could log into Click Drip and see how many times my short clips and still images have been shared. What people are saying. What they want.

It's not like there isn't a negative comment here and there, but the positives far outweigh the negatives. Most of the negatives are betting I'm ugly since I always wear a mask, though I think most people understand why I wear a mask. I have a professional life and I need to keep that separate.

Which I did. How did someone figure it out? Why did they tattle on me?

I wish I could get lost in that world again. Maybe I can collab without… posting?

Well, then it's just sex, right? I used to do that without sharing it. Why can't I do it again?

"You want to go over these now or would you like to get to bed?" Ren asks.

"You're finished?" I ask.

He gives me an amused smile. "Yes. But it's late now, so if you're too tired to focus, that's okay. We can talk about them in the morning."

I pick up my phone to find that two hours have gone by. Well, fuck.

"Uh… can you just give me like, Cliffs Notes right now, so I don't stay up all night worrying about it?"

Ren nods. "You shouldn't have signed this at all," he starts, holding up the original contract. "The original isn't awful, though there is definitely some sketchy shit going on. Everything after this, they figured out that you don't know what you're reading, and that you trusted them. I think maybe you might want to consider a lawyer."

"Is it that bad?" I ask. The air feels thick again. What have I done?

My dad's voice echoes in my head and while I can see Ren's mouth moving, I can't hear his words over my father yelling. I can hear his words clearly. You fuck even this up. You just want to give away your money. Did you sign over your house to them too? Your first born? Did you give them your fucking bank account, Felton?!

"Felton."

I jerk out of my thoughts and find my head is between my knees as I struggle to breathe. I'm not sure I did that on my own, but Ren's hand is once more smoothing gently over my back.

"Felton," he says again.

"Yeah," I croak.

"This can be fixed. It's going to be fine. I have a lawyer friend."

"They're going to think I'm an idiot," I whisper.

"No. They're going to know that you were taken advantage of. Believe me, more people than not don't understand or even read their contracts before signing. It's also blatantly clear that they've 100% taken advantage of you with everything that came after the first contract, especially this new contract."

"I just keep messing up," I say, squeezing my eyes closed.

"This isn't a mess up," Ren promises. "You haven't signed this new contract, have you?" I shake my head. "Then it's not a mess up at all. Besides, mess ups are necessary sometimes. They are stepping stones to getting you where you need to be. Some people call them obstacles, trials, hurdles, but I know that they're just part of the path you're walking."

"My path has a lot of deep, dark pits."

He chuckles and for some reason, it brings a small smile to my face. I'm not feeling particularly smiley. There's no happiness in me at all. Not right now.

"Then you'll climb out of them," Ren says with conviction.

His confidence in that makes me inhale deeply, as if I can bring his words into me. I want to breathe in his assurance, his belief in me. Make it a part of me so that I don't keep falling into the pits.

"You do a really good job of letting the world see only certain parts of you," Ren says quietly.

"My dick, but not my face?"

This time he laughs, and his laughter makes me smile for real. I don't move. I'm not sure when the last time someone touched me as a gesture of comfort, but I don't want to lose the soft touch of his hand rubbing my back right now.

"Your smile instead of your struggles," he counters.

"But I shouldn't be struggling," I say, and my father's words come tumbling out of my mouth. "I'm living a very privileged life. I have more money, more blessings than most people, so I don't have anything to complain about."

His hand pauses. It's brief, but then it's moving over me. "Mental health has no bias."

I bite my lip. My mental health is fine, though. Isn't it?

"Come here. Look at me, Felton."

The pit that's almost always in my gut deepens. I can taste it in my mouth as I force myself to sit up and look at him.

Ren is a good-looking man. He's got big arms and hair that I've always wanted to touch because it looks so soft and he keeps it on the longer side. He has a shadow of stubble on his face and his eyes are this dark, warm mahogany brown that is just so pretty. There's always a simple black elastic around his wrist that he uses to put his hair up when it's in the way.

I swallow and stare at him. "You need to know when to ask for help."

"I shouldn't need help," I whisper, my father's words once more echoing from my mouth.

"I think we both know that's not true. Don't we?"

It feels shameful to agree, but I nod because I do need help. With life. Not just contracts or my fucked up brain, but just… with everything. I hate having to face decisions alone because I always make the wrong one. According to my father, I even pick the wrong suit to wear to a game!

"Here's what we're going to do. You're going to go to bed and sleep. You're going to sleep fine because you're going to trust that I will be back in the morning, and we'll talk about these contracts in detail. Then we'll call my lawyer friend, and we'll tell him what's up. If you're comfortable after speaking to him on the phone, we'll send him the contracts. While he looks them over, we'll talk about the other pits you fall into and see how we can drop a rope ladder in so you can climb out."

I wait for him to ask, ‘okay?' I expect that he's going to wait for my input. My agreement. But Ren doesn't. The relief I feel at just being told what we're going to do tomorrow is almost so extreme that a shiver makes my entire body visibly shake.

"Yes," I say. "Yes, thank you."

I'm not sure he truly understands how grateful I am for this. Someday, I hope to tell him in a way that he really understands how deep that gratitude runs.