Page 36 of Tripped Up

“Okay. So what’s the issue?”

Her lips form a thin line. “It just sucks that I can barely pay my bills and have to take a second job to play music, and you get millions of dollars thrown your way for chasing a puck around.”

“It does suck,” I agree, and I think that surprises her, because her face gets this adorably pinched look. “It’s absolutely not fair. If I knew how to fix it, I would.”

I donated to the symphony the night of the gala. Some guys bid for items in the silent auction. Henry quietly made a donation, too. I only know because I saw him stuff a check into the bin. He might act like a sleazy playboy, but I think there might be more substance to him buried inside—deep, deep inside.

Elsy is quiet, gazing at me. It’s like she can see right inside me, into my soul. It should be uncomfortable. With anyone else, I’d be cracking a joke to break the tension. Except there’s no tension.

With her? I’m content to sit here and look at her, and her look at me. I feel calm and at peace in a way I don’t experience with other people. Even my parents stress me out. Only Bex can set me at ease this way.

Does that mean I want Elsy to be my sister?

The immediate revulsion ricocheting through me is answer enough. Elsy is not my sister and I definitely don’t feel that way about her.

She’s hot. I’ve wanted to sleep with her again ever since that first time. Is that all this is?

The waiter interrupts my tumultuous thoughts. He runs through the specials, then takes our drink orders. Elsy orders a Coke, so I do, too. I don’t need to drink alcohol every time I’m around her. In fact, it’s probably better if I don’t. I need to keep my wits about me when it comes to her.

She’s dangerous to be around. I just don’t know if that’s a good thing yet.

“How are rehearsals going?” There, that should be a natural topic.

“Good. I’m keeping up with the repertoire,” Elsy says, settling into her seat. “Anastasia and I have gotten together a few times.”

“And she’s your competition?” I don’t really understand how the first chair/second chair thing works, only that she used to be first back in Boston and now she isn’t.

“Technically, yes,” she says. “Right now, I’m still getting settled. Eventually, I’ll try to move up. If it happens, it happens. And if it doesn’t…” She blows out a breath. “I’m trying to take it one day at a time and not plan everything out ten years into the future.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m kind of a planning nut.” She gives me a self-deprecating smile. “My anxiety is soothed by knowing what’s going to happen and when, and if something deviates from the plan, it tends to worsen the symptoms.”

“That makes sense. My anxiety is more, what if I let the team down, what if I get injured, what if this is my last game and I don’t know it,” I tell her. “Then I start spiraling into how I’m a disappointment and not worthy of everything I’ve achieved, and, well, I call it the dark place and I try to avoid it as much as possible.”

Elsy frowns. “You’re not a disappointment, Wyatt.”

My laugh is bitter. “I’m a college dropout.”

“So?”

“So my dad is a doctor, my mom is a lawyer, and my sister has her PhD before she’s thirty.” Frustration lodges itself deep in my chest, behind my ribcage, and I rub the ache, trying to clear it away. It doesn’t work. “I’m not diminishing the work it took to get to the NHL. I recognize that I’m lucky. But I can also recognize that in my family and within their friend groups, I’m nothing but a hotheaded college dropout with no career prospects once hockey dries up.”

My breathing is coming a little faster now. I’m not angry, not at her. At my family, yes. At my circumstances. At the world.

But I could never be angry with Elsy. I don’t think I have it in me.

She reaches across the table, grabbing hold of my hand. My skin lights up at her touch. Flipping my hand over, she sets her palm on mine, squeezing my fingers.

“Wyatt, you are an incredible hockey player,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “But that’s not all you are. I’ll have to prove it to you.”

“How are you going to do that?” My voice comes out in a croak.

“I’m not sure yet,” she admits. “If you need me to, I will.”

I think I need her to. But I don’t know how to ask for that.

Fuck. Guess I better book in for another session with my therapist. Probably wouldn’t hurt to connect with my sports psychologist, too.