It’s only me, my thoughts, the equipment, and my desire to get skinny.
Until Owen Adler is on the TV above me.
I bring my brows together as I watch him, visibly exasperated, on the screen. It’s a postgame press conference, and he’s all sweaty and annoyingly yummy-looking.
“Adler, how has it been without your brother on the ice?”
Oh no.
Owen sits up in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, I don’t know what you want me to say. It sucks. I miss him, but I fully support Evan’s choice.”
Another reporter stands up. “How do you feel about the support Evan has received?”
Oh, Owen is about to blow. “Obviously, I’m thankful. It was a huge deal for him to choose his mental health over his love of the game.”
“With him being the IceCats’ ambassador for mental health, shouldn’t he have recognized his issues before he stepped onto the ice?”
I grimace. So apparently, that reporter wants to die. With a level of composure I really didn’t see him having, Owen leans forward toward the mic. “He did, but he tried to push past them to play the game he loved. Even knowing his struggles, he still played, and he still raised awareness. I know it’s being said he’s a quitter and all kinds of other bullshit, but I find him to be a hero. He wants to bring awareness within the NHL for all players, and yet, he was fighting his own brain. That’s impressive to me. That makes me proud.”
I start clapping my hands. “Yes, Owen. Yes.”
Another reporter stands. “There is talk of you taking on his role as the mental health ambassador for the IceCats. Is that true?”
Oh. Oh wow.
“Yes,” Owen says then, his shoulders back, looking so damn confident. “While I don’t suffer from anxiety or depression or even addiction, I don’t want anyone to ever go through what my brother has gone through. There is such pressure for males to be stronger than our mental health. To push through and not admit when we need help. Listen, it’s scary and I struggle when I need help, but my brother’s bravery only proved that I need to take a page from his book and take care of me. I want the same for my teammates and all the players in the league. It’s okay not to be okay, and that is what needs to be normalized.”
Pretty sure I just came.
Change the lyrics from “Talk Dirty” to “Talk Mental Health,” and I’m here for it.
With that, Owen clears his throat. “I am very much still processing playing without my brother for the first time in my life, so unless someone has a hockey-related question, I’m out.”
When someone tries to say something about Evan once more, Owen gets up and leaves. I watch as the questions are directed to the other players, and like Owen, they’re fully supportive of Evan, which is absolutely inspiring. I wish the whole world would be like this, supportive and ready to break the stigma of mental illness. I don’t think Evan knows how much he has done for this sport and the mental health initiative the IceCats are trying to push throughout the NHL.
I carry on with my workout, but like he has been, Owen plays in my thoughts. I want nothing more than to give him a huge hug. Thank him for speaking out and tell him how proud I am. How lucky Evan is to have him. How I think he is super sexy and I wouldn’t mind rolling around in his sheets.
Jesus.
I wish I wouldn’t do this to myself. It’s obvious that nothing will ever happen between us. I don’t see him on the regular, nor do I hang in his circle. I’m a busy college student, while he’s following right in his daddy’s big ole footsteps. That thought kind of makes me want to watch a game, but I haven’t watched a hockey game since my dad retired.
But that isn’t even the biggest factor. You don’t see hockey players with thick girls. It’s always supermodels from Sweden or Norway. Blondes with gorgeous lips and perky boobs. Some players may be attracted to thicker girls, but I know good and well Owen wouldn’t be attracted to me. He wasn’t when I was skinny, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be now.
It’s not productive to even think of him.
I’m wasting precious thinking time on him.
I shall use that thinking time on someone even more unattainable—Chris Evans.
“Because Chris Evans is an ass man,” I say only to myself, which is why I laugh like I told a really great joke.
When my time is up, I step off the treadmill and sanitize everything before gathering my things. I have two book bags, one for work and one for school, and then there’s my workout bag, so I look like a bag lady as I shut off the lights and head out of the gym. I make sure everything is locked before I tuck my keycard into my pocket. I’m heading toward the exit that leads to the parking lot and my office, where I need to drop off some stuff before heading home, when I notice someone coming down the other hall.