Page 27 of Playing it Safe

This arrangement was supposed to ease my stress, take the pressure off, and give us both some breathing room. Instead, I'm lying here in the dark, hard as stone, completely wrecked, wondering how I'm supposed to survive a fake relationship with a woman who just let me time her orgasm like a beep test.

Chapter 12

Cameron

It’s been pouring for days. Pittsburgh is always a bit dreary in late March, but this is miserable. My mother called to say she saw Pittsburgh flooding on the news and wanted to know if I was drowning. I told her it's just the stretch of Parkway that fills up every spring — the one people here call the bathtub. It always does this.

But what really matches my mood is the lake on the lower level of The Furnace parking deck. We’re all supposed to lean into the branding of our arena, but it’s hard to keep a furnace fired up when it’s filled with water.

Even I can tell what Coach has been seeing in my performance right now. It’s like the weather exacerbates whatever is going on in my skull. I can’t focus.

It didn't help that yesterday ran the way it did. David called before morning skate — the restaurant let him go — so I spent my warmup on the phone finding him a lead on a job. Then Ma called to make sure I'd heard about David. Then Ian, who didn't need money but wanted me to know he might. I handled all of it and told everyone it was fine, because I made it so.

I didn't mind any of it. That's the part I can't explain to Coach. I just came home with nothing left in the tank and slept like a dead man and woke up like this — hollow, a half-second slow.

It’s a doubleheader at the Furnace today, with the Fury and the Uprising facing Philly’s men’s and women’s teams. Cross-state rivalry. Fans setting couches on fire. Mascots pulling pranks in the locker rooms.

I make it through morning skate, barely, but by the time we take the ice, the rain is pounding the skylights, the Furnace is packed to capacity, and my energy is flat. We have no hope of the playoffs unless three other teams lose in a major upset.

That never used to bother me, but today there’s no heart in my game. Philly scores twice in the first period on plays I should have broken up.

For the first one, I read the pass, but I'm half a second late getting my stick into the lane. For the second, I lose my mark behind the net. Stupid. Basic. The kind of mistakes I don't make.

Except I do now. I make them now because my head is somewhere else — in a text thread, in a parked car, or in a kitchen holding a stopwatch — and every time I think I've got it locked away, my body betrays me.

We go down 4-1 in the second. Coach pulls me for the last six minutes, and I sit on the bench with my gloves off, staring at the ice, breathing. Grentley skates by during a TV timeout and taps the boards in front of me with his stick. He doesn't say anything, but that grumpy bastard looks worried about me. I must be in a bad way.

The final score is 5-2, and the locker room is a morgue. The guys strip out of their gear in silence. Spinner throws his helmet into his stall hard enough to bounce off the back wall. Rookie sits with his head in his hands.

I shower and change in silence. I'm pulling on my jacket when I hear Coach behind me.

"Miller. My office."

There’s not even any heat in his command, but the walk down the hall feels long. I hear the rain drumming against the building, above the bustle of the crowd shifting between games.

Coach sinks into his chair, gum working overtime, fingers laced behind his head. "Shut the door."

I do, settling into the chair, which is too small for me even in street clothes.

"I thought," Coach says in a very quiet voice, "that you were handling your situation."

"I am."

He leans forward. "I watched you out there tonight. You hesitated on every read and were late on every assignment. I've coached you for years, Cameron. I know what you look like when you're locked in. This ain’t it, kid.”

I hold his gaze. There's nothing I can add to this that he doesn't already know.

"The season is effectively over," he says, and the words land hard, even though I’ve known this for weeks. "We're not making the postseason." He chews his gum. "But that does not mean you get to check out. These last games matter. They matter for the guys in that room, they matter for next season, and they matter for you."

"Yes, Coach."

"You told me you were seeing the sports psychologist."

"I am."

"Is it working?"

I think about Odin asking me what my body feels like during a game. I think about telling Briar that her body isn't the problem. I think about standing in a kitchen with a stopwatch as she — "It's a process," I say.