Page 141 of Scoring Lessons

I opened my mouth to speak then closed it. I couldn’t answer. Mostly because…hell. It was so simple. So clear as day, and I couldn’t see what was in front of me until she pointed it out.

“Depression can manifest in different ways, Wesley. In this case, it’s through these thought patterns—the I’m not enough, I’m going to ruin this. I want you to know that what you feel is real. It’s hard to admit out loud, and the fact that you just did shows how much you want to work on getting better.” She set her pen down and leaned forward. “When you have these thoughts, I want you to start noticing them. Don’t fight them yet—that will take time. Write them down if you can. We’re going to work on where they come from and whether they’re actually true.” She picked her pen back up. “Because right now you’re treating them like facts. They’re not facts. They’re old stories.”

Old stories.

I sat with that thought for a moment.

“What if I’ve waited too long?” I asked the question that terrified me to my very soul. “With her. What if—what if I get my shit together too late and lose her for good?”

She studied me with a steady, unhurried look on her face. “Can I ask you something?”

I nodded.

“Are you doing this for her? Or for you? Because if you’re doing it for her,” she said, “it won’t hold. You have to want to do this. Because if you are—doing it for yourself, that is”—she tilted her head slightly—“then it doesn’t have a deadline. And you don’t have to be finished to show up for someone. You don’t have to be perfect to be with her.” She let the words hang before she continued. “As long as you’re showing up for yourself every day, that’s enough to build something on. Perfection isn’t a requirement. It never is.”

I’d spent my whole life waiting to feel complete before I let anyone close. Waiting until I was good enough, solid enough. I’d been so convinced that the work had to be done before I was allowed to love someone or be loved back.

But maybe that wasn’t how it worked.

Maybe the work and the love weren’t sequential. Maybe they happened at the same time, alongside each other, one making the other possible.

Maybe Olivia hadn’t needed me to be finished.

She’d just needed me to stay and give it a real try.

FORTY-ONE

OLIVIA

MY BEST FRIEND.

The Strikers were officially not going to the playoffs.

It hadn’t been surprising, but it still sucked.

The Vancouver Sharks had been relentless—stronger every game, especially since bringing on Emanuel Casanova. The first Afro-Latino coach to land a permanent spot in the league, and from what everyone had been saying all season, he’d earned every bit of it. A former star defenseman who retired too early after a career ending injury, but that didn’t stop him from creating a name for himself in the coaching world.

After the tough loss, some of the guys decided to drown their sorrows at Tim’s. They loved finding any excuse to go to our favorite dive bar.

I understood the comfort they found in here. It was a place that hadn’t changed in thirty years and wasn’t planning to. With its sticky floors and booths with cracked vinyl seats patched over with tape. A jukebox in the corner that someone was always feeding quarters into. The lighting was dim and amber, making everyone a little warmer, and the walls were cluttered with old license plates and neon beer signs that buzzed faintly under the music.

Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” filtered through the speakers. I absentmindedly played with the straw of my watered-down drink and bopped my head to one of my favorite songs, letting the bass do what it could for my sour mood.

Everyone was here. Except for Wesley. It shouldn’t have disappointed me. But I couldn’t lie—it did.

We still saw each other at work, but only in passing. My eyes couldn’t help but look for him when I knew he was close. If he noticed the times I stared at him a little too obviously, he didn’t show it.

I was aware he would steal a glance or two sometimes when he thought I wasn’t aware of my surroundings. Because that was the thing about Wesley—it was too hard not to be hyper-aware when he was near. He was like a magnet, pulling me toward him without meaning to. It was like my body and soul wanted to cling to him—to the guy who had become my safe place. But another part of me—the one who had gone through too many things—wanted nothing to do with the guy who broke her heart.

The constant inner battle was…exhausting.

It had been over a month since we’d spoken, and the hollow feeling in my chest only grew bigger every day.

Was he okay? Was he eating? Sleeping?

I knew the struggles he’d been carrying this season better than most. And regardless of how things ended between us, I wanted nothing but the best for him—even if I was still mad he’d pushed me away and didn’t tell me why.

Was he officially leaving Chicago? We hadn’t received any trade updates, but they could have been keeping it under wraps until they wanted to share something more official, since this sport was ever-changing.