60. Telephone Tag

Briar

After I leave the gym downstairs, I head to the elevator banks when my phone trills. Hollis's name appears across the screen along with the icon I assigned to him—a sunburst.

Giddy, I answer the call. "Hey there," I say, hoping he's doing okay but prepared for him to be in a funk post-game.

"Hey," he says, a little heavy.

Funk it is. "What's going on? You okay?" I ask gently as I hit the up button.

"Not really. The game was shitty. It was all my fault."

"It was a rough game. But there'll be another one tomorrow night," I say, trying to cheer him up.

"You watched it," he says, less a question, more a statement. A sort of dreamy one.

"I did. Are you surprised?"

"No. Just…weirdly happy?"

I smile as the elevator arrives and I step inside. "Why?"

"I don't know. I guess I just liked that you were there even though you weren't there. I'm not even sure that makes sense. A lot about today didn't make sense to me, Briar," he says, like the words are spilling out in a confession. "I felt off the whole time. Do you know what I mean? Didn't I seem off?"

From the sincerity in his tone, I can tell he wants an honest answer. "I sensed you felt a little out of sync," I say as the car chugs upward to the eighth floor.

"I did," he says, but he sounds relieved that I noticed, or really, that I told him the truth. "But I've got to do better, Briar. People depend on me," he says, and this is the side of him he doesn't usually show. This is the side of himself he fakes for others. He's being real with me though.

"And you will. It was a one-off game," I try to assure him.

"You think so?"

"I know so," I say as the car slows to a stop and I exit on my floor. "Everyone has a bad game. A bad class. A bad day. Even hockey studs like you."

He laughs, and it sounds like he's been carrying the world on his shoulders till now. "And I'm so freaking sore."

I remember him telling me that, too, in Lucky Falls. That he feels beaten up after a game. "You should get a massage. Do it tomorrow. And get some rest tonight, okay?"

"Okay," he says, and there's some light in his voice again. "I thought about you while I was on the ice."

"So it's my fault you guys didn't play well?" I tease as I open the door to my new apartment and say hi to my pogo dog.

"Sounds about right," he says.

"Well, the thinking about you is mutual," I say playfully.

Hollis lets out a big breath, then like it costs him something, he says, "My mom told me I should call you."

I startle. "Your mom knows about me?"

"Not really. But sort of. I just said I was thinking about a girl."

Warmth blooms in my chest at his words. This makes me unreasonably happy. We talk for another fifteen or twenty minutes about his mom, and the game, and Chicago, and this TV show he's watching and the music I'm listening to, and a funny video I saw, and the fact that the Sea Dogs won and my dad is probably thrilled. When the conversation winds down, he says, "I've missed this."

"Me too."

"This is us staying friends, right?" he asks, hopeful, but with real longing too.

"It sure is," I say, and before I can even hang up, my other line is ringing and it's Rhys. I say goodbye to Hollis and click over. "Hey, how are you?"

"I think I need to see a sports psychologist," he blurts out.

I'm taken aback but ready to listen. "Why do you think that is?"

The sound of his footsteps carries over the phone. He must be pacing in his room. "I'm wound up, and I get stressed, and I have anxiety. Like athlete anxiety or something. Is that a thing? I think it's a thing. Amira thinks it's a thing. I have it. I have to deal with it." He's talking at Mach speed, serving up pieces of his soul for me. "I haven't told anybody. I feel stupid about it. Really fucking stupid. Like a failure. And I stress, and I'm sure my stress is why we lost tonight."

"You're not a failure," I assure him. "You're the opposite. I'm really, really proud of you."

"Why would you be proud of me?"

"Because you called me. Because you told me. Because you realized you needed to talk to someone. Probably a lot more athletes need it. It's a stressful job. Hell, life can be stressful these days for anyone. And it's not your fault the team lost. But you do put a lot of pressure on yourself and your agent is right. It's a good idea, Rhys."

After a pause, he asks, in a less frantic tone, "You don't think it's like a weakness?"

"No, Rhys. I think it's a strength."

We look up names together of sports psychologists in San Francisco and I stay on the phone as he sends out a few inquiries. When he's done, it sounds like he can breathe again as he says, "I wish you were here tonight."

"I wish I were too."

When the call ends, I head to the bathroom to wash my face and slather on night cream. After I switch into jammies, I slide under a T.J. Maxx blanket onto my twin-size air mattress.

My phone rings one more time, probably Rhys calling me back, but Gavin's name flashes across the screen. "Well, here you are," I say, and I can't hide the delight in my voice. I guess good things come in threes.

"Here I am," he says, and he sounds mostly happy too.

"How are you doing? I saw your game," I tell him.

"Not our finest showing."

"Not every game has to be."

"That's what I tried to tell the guys, but none of them felt like listening. But I don't want to talk about me. Or hockey. What are you up to tonight?"

I tell him about my day, my plans to stop by the assisted living home tomorrow with my dog, and that I moved into my new place.

"What's it like? Your new apartment?"

I almost offer to give him a tour, but it's too pathetic. This tiny air mattress, my creaky table, my hard chair.

"It's home enough for now," I say as the scent of vanilla drifts past my nose, reminding me of my week in the cottage. "I have a candle that smells like Lucky Falls."

"Mmm. Sounds really nice, Briar," he says, then stops, maybe because he's done or maybe because he's gearing up to say something else. "The funny thing is I thought getting involved with you would mess up the team dynamics. But we're not technically involved…and we still played like shit. Everyone was sort of lost today," he says. "I guess I was wrong. Sometimes you just have bad games."

I'm kind of amazed that Gavin sees so clearly what they don't. "Sometimes you do."

"But the thing is when the game ended all I wanted was to talk to you."

"I'm here anytime," I say, feeling a little glowy that they've all reached out to me. "I gave you an icon on my phone."

"What is it?"

"It's a starlit sky in the dark. Rhys has a twilight sky and Hollis, a sunburst."

He seems to give that some thought, then says, "I think you got that right."

When we're done talking I say goodnight but I don't set down the phone. I toggle over to the group chat. Maybe the team dynamic is off tonight, but I think I can fix it.

I send a message to all of them.

Briar: It was good chatting with all of you separately. Now, let's talk together.

We chat for a good, long time. We chat the next day, too, as I walk with Donut to our stretching class at the assisted living home. We chat as I head over to Peak Performance. We chat as I work on my new Sea Dogs classes. We chat as I walk into my building in the afternoon and the doorman calls me over.

I put down the phone.

"Delivery for you," he says, then hands me an envelope.

I rip it open. Inside are tickets to the Golden State Foxes next home game.