Carried Away

“Any questions so far?”

“A million…” I say, examining his profile which is intense and laser focused on the kids. “how long have you been running this program?”

“About a year.”

“Why? I mean, I know you sports stars have your pet causes, but why kids?”

He doesn’t answer immediately and I get the impression he’s deciding how much he wants to tell me. “I was these boys…someone helped me.”

“Do you mind if I ask who?”

He looks over his shoulder and measures me. “The cop who caught me breaking into the high school. He played one year in the NHL. Ran a league for inner city kids.”

I’m strangely both surprised and not surprised at all. If I’ve learned anything about him, it’s to never rule anything out. “Why were you breaking into the school? Off the record.”

He crosses his arms. “Boosting computers to pawn. Not a secret.”

One of the boys skates up to us. He’s got light brown shaggy hair sticking out from all sides of his helmet, a wide bright grin, and large hazel eyes with way too much trouble lurking there.

“This your girl, coach?” he says, with a half-cocked grin, overconfidence just oozing out of him. “She’s cute.”

You’ve gotta be kidding me. This kid doesn’t look a day over thirteen.

“Show some respect, Kyle. Miss Anderson is a reporter for The Gazette.”

Kyle’s grin doesn’t diminish one bit.

“Cool. You gonna write and article about us?”

“I am.”

“Make sure you write something good about me, okay?” he says and skates away.

I see a successful career in law for Kyle should he ever wish it. Or politics.

“Why does he talk like a thirty-five-year-old player?”

Jake gives me a faint smile. “Foster care since he was five. Arrested for selling drugs when he was twelve.” Any noticeable humor on Jake’s face is gone. He’s back to being shuttered and distant.

“He’s seen more than most thirty-five-year-olds.” Jake taps the railing. “Let me finish up with them and we can talk.”

Then he skates back to the boys, leaving me alone––and with more questions than I had when I arrived.

“What’s that?”

Jakes raspy voice makes me jump in my seat. I was in the middle of blocking more Twitter trolls when he snuck up on me. I look up to find all six foot plus of him standing a few feet away in the aisle of the stands, glaring at my phone which I immediately turn off and stuff in my tote.

“Nothing…more blowback.” I get no response to this, only more silence––his signature reaction. “What?”

“How bad is it?” He takes the seat right next to me and I immediately straighten my legs. Ever get a feeling that someone doesn’t want to be touched? Yeah, that’s what I’m getting from him.

“Pretty bad. Most of which I can’t repeat.”

“So delete your account.”

“No. Absolutely not. Then they win. I won’t be bullied into staying silent.”

“It’s Twitter. It’s not real life.”

I’m sure he’s had his fair share of haters. “Is that why you aren’t on social media?”

He turns to look at me. “Never had much use for it anyway. The team was handling my accounts until…” He shrugs.

“How bad did it get for you?”

“I don’t know. Never looked at the accounts.”

“But?”

He smiles tightly. It’s cold and lacking any humor. “I had to sell my townhouse in Boston. My neighbors couldn’t take the press harassing them all the time.”

That breaks my heart. Along with it comes a pang of guilt. I know something about the press and their thirst for a story. It can easily override common decency. “If you’re not first, you’re last,” Ben used to say.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs again. It’s then, as I watch him absently stare out over the rink that I realize what it is about Turner that gives size and dimension to the dark cloud hanging over him. It’s not lack of emotion. It’s too much emotion.

It’s grief.

“How do you do it? How do you keep going when everything falls apart?” he murmurs. “When you’ve screwed up so badly, there’s no way to repair it?”

I’m not sure if he knows he’s speaking out loud. That he’s let his guard down when he’s usually so buttoned up I can barely get a word out of him.

I don’t have to guess what he’s referring to, either. I can see the guilt on his face every day. Carrying the weight of someone’s death on your shoulders must be exhausting.

“Everyone screws up, Jake. I’ve screwed up more times than I want to admit, but it’s not going to stop me from trying again. I’m not going to go down without a fighting for what I want.” When all I get is silence, I glance sideways and study his profile. Elegant and proud. He seems a million miles away. “You know what tomorrow is?”

“What?” he says, humoring me.

“Tomorrow is another chance to get it right.”

He takes a moment to look me over, his gaze sailing over my face. “What do you expect out of life, Anderson? Because I’m afraid you’re gonna be sorely disappointed.”