Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“It’s…different.”
“It was his fucking idea!” leaves me in tandem with wing sauce dropping onto my paper plate.
Becks’ warm sand shaded forehead wrinkles in disbelief. “No shit?”
“No shit,” I retort and lift the umami-soy infused sauced dish towards my open mouth. “He got all Tristan & Isolde on me after my last audiologist appointment and insisted we start watching YouTube signing videos together so that we can always communicate.”
“Softttttt,” Becks impishly taunts.
“First off, do not dare pretend you weren’t the one who campaigned for us to watch that sappy rubbish,” my boyfriend bites between sips of his coconut water, “and second it is not soft to want to provide the assist to my Slayer by assuring she always has a way to chirp my opponent.”
Instantly, I stick out my tongue and point directly inside signaling disgust.
“Or me in some cases,” escapes around a chuckle.
Truthskies?
I think it’s one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me.
Post rushing from a training sesh last week to attend my introductory meeting with the otolaryngologist that will be doing my surgery – who is different than my regular otolaryngologist – he made us dinner.
Asked me how I felt.
What I thought.
Was I sure this was the best decision for me.
And after listening – actually listening unlike my parents who can only see the upside to what’s called a simple surgery – he asked was it alright to express his own feelings.
Thoughts.
Concerns.
Being asked versus assumed what I wanted was in itself shocking yet hearing him explain his deep concerns about the possible side effects all but had me confessing my undying love for him like that very gross, girly movie we watched the night of my birthday when my body no longer had any interest in sex.
Though that did revamp it.
Not the point.
The idea of rare – but possible – outcomes such as complete hearing loss and facial nerve paralysis led him to wanting an avenue for me to always be able to communicate with him.
Apparently just drawing dicks on his things isn’t enough, so the idea to learn some simple signing together, was concocted.
We’ve been practicing a little here and there between pracky.
On the plane.
In passing.
And during meals…like the one we’re sharing now with Becks who had two choices when he finally came to the morning after his concussion, which were “get to rehab” or “get out of Tanner’s apartment”.
He chose the former.
And I’m grateful for it.
Turns out, his little episode was much bigger than we realized.
It was a suicide attempt gone awry.
He meant to drink the amount he drank.
He meant to pop enough pills to stop a fucking lion’s heart.
He meant to slit his wrists yet fumbled the blade due to his shaky mitts.
Trying to retrieve it is what caused the fall that Tanner heard that had him rushed to the hospital where his system was pumped, and suicide watch mandated.
I can’t imagine what would’ve happened had he not been there.
Not heard that noise.
Not provided that apple.
The apple no one else – not even his fucking family in Canada – seems to care enough to provide.
I know post league life can be difficult.
Not knowing where to go.
Not knowing what to do.
Not knowing who you are or why you are.
But having to go through all that basically alone?
That’s shitty.
And I wish there was a program for that transition.
Something to aid players who were forced out of the game into early retirement, regardless of if it was through injury or addiction.
Most of them still need the boys…a team…to help them get through the tough shit, especially in the beginning.
They can’t do it alone.
And they shouldn’t have to.
No one should.
“How were the roadies?” Becks inquires on a bite of a seasoned curly fry. “Games not the bunnies.”
“Clarification not needed,” Tanner retorts, scooting a little closer to me. “Arden knows I’ve happily been slayed.”
“Yet the soc’ reports still say otherwise,” Becks announces prompting me to pause taking another bite of my wing.
“How would you know?” Pokes my boyfriend. “They limit your access to outside influences.” Putting the cap back on his coconut water occurs next. “I damn near had to meet with the bloody treatment commissioner of Texas just to get a meal through customs.”
“Not a thing,” I teasingly murmur.
“They limit our access but that doesn’t mean I limit my listening.” Becks cockily winks. “And broadskies in here know your face. And mine.” Shame sinks into his worn complexion, forcing him to hide it by shoveling more food into his mouth. “Been to some of the same parties. Bars. Boats.” He lets his gaze glance out into the gray distance for a moment. “Suffer from the same disappointments. Identity fails…” Becks forces himself to swallow the contents of his mouth and shake off the haunting thoughts before meeting our gazes again. “Anyway, they always find a way to get their Long Island, so I hear shit.”