RHETT

          Andy is beaming like a beacon the second we step out onto the ice.

          Meanwhile, I'm a petty guy, who has been having some pretty shitty days lately. I'm also a victim to my own bitterness, having barely retained any semblance of respect for other people's feelings, and I have to put in conscious effort to not say something snarky that I'll end up regretting.

          The distortions your own brain forces upon you when you're not at the top of your game are wild to me, and never cease to surprise me. Being happy when my best friend is beaming like the goddamn sun at the sight of his girlfriend and his daughter is the normal, human thing to do, but my anxiety is robbing me from these experiences and replacing them with a semi-permanent sense of dread.

          Instead of being happy for Andy, who rarely ever gets to see Jackie and Daisy these days with how much more packed, intense, and frequent practice has become, all I can think about is how miserable it must be to try and fail to find some balance in the midst of all the chaos and how miserable I feel. It's even worse knowing I'm too much of a coward to ever voice this to him, so I let these thoughts poison and rot me from the inside out.

          As I know all too well, this, more often than not, turns into an Ouroboros of self-loathing and self-fulfilling prophecies I've been trapped in for years at this point. It's hell living like this, but it's so deeply rooted in my brain it feels like I've been doing it since forever, oblivious to any other way of living, and having Magnolia be repeatedly mentioned around me during the past couple of weeks hasn't been doing my state of mind any favors.

          Brie, I don't blame.

          She doesn't know a damn thing about what happened between me and Magnolia and, though she might need to know—I owe her the honesty, not just for the sake of the fake relationship, but for that of the real one, too—I intend to not say more than I absolutely need to. It's one of those things that most people need to be kept on a need-to-know basis about, and I have no desire to sour what is already so shaky and uncertain between me and Brie. When the time is right, I'll pull her aside and tell her the truth, all of it, but, with how much easier it is to ignore the issue at hand . . .

          Besides, I don't even know how to approach the subject. She's always been understanding and supportive—a lot more than I deserve, especially after all I've put her through—but there's a chance this will be the last straw. I can't risk losing her again, not when it would be definite.

          Having her sit right next to Jackie isn't helping, either.

          I look at her and wonder if this is who we'll become—young parents, struggling to make time for each other and only staying together because there's a kid involved. Though that's not what I always think is going on with Andy and Jackie—and the inner details of their relationship are none of my business—I also know this isn't how he expected his life to become. Even if he's never been one to indulge in more . . . bohemian college activities, I still see the look on his face whenever he has to skip a team hangout or leave early.

          I can't do that to myself. I can't do that to Brie, either, trapping her in a relationship she might not even want just because it's what she feels she has to do. Even without a kid in the mix to complicate things even further, there's my current state of affairs, and I don't expect her to constantly be available to save my ass like I'm some damsel in distress. I don't expect her to drop everything she's doing just because little me had a bad day.

          Andy gets to show everyone pictures of Daisy, mostly unprompted, and is the picture perfect proud, doting dad. I can't exactly capture my anxiety, but it's always my plus-one to every event I attend.

          There's a special kind of hell that describes my current predicament. All I want to do is scream and explode—I want to be allowed to—but I can't, because that's what's expected from me, and I've been trying so goddamn hard to defy those expectations and prove them wrong. I've been bottling it all up, pretending to be fine when I have the presence of mind to know I'm not, because the alternative is far worse. How long can I keep living like this? How long can I stay locked in this endless cycle just because it's smart, safe, and good for the Rhett Price brand?

          When can I do what's smart, safe, and good for Rhett Price, the person?

ᓚᘏᗢ

          No one is surprised when practice goes terribly—for me, at least.

          Everyone else does just fine, as usual, and I'm still unable to focus on what I need to do. It results in me screwing up amateur moves and fumbling passes, something not even playing defense fixes because I'm unable to block any of my opponents and drag my team down regardless of which side I play. It results in me absolutely killing the team's morale, especially with an important game right around the corner, and I refuse to cost my team a victory.

          My head is spinning, fully functioning on autopilot mode, and that cannot happen. Every play has to be well thought out and adapted to the current circumstances, taking even the smallest detail into consideration. The opponent, their own characteristics, the stage of the game, the condition of the ice, my physical shape, my stamina—all of that and more. Everything counts.

          This isn't the time for my brain to shut off, which is ironic considering how much time and effort I dedicate to wishing I could do it on demand. I can't not think about what I'm doing when I'm on the ice, as one seemingly small distraction can easily mean a downfall—either for me or for the team. I can't afford getting injured now.

          And yet, I'm fucking distracted. Brie, Magnolia, my future, my career—everything is a fucking mess right now, and I have no idea how to fix any of it.

          Even Andy can see it; although he plays the part of the understanding team captain and concerned best friend perfectly, I know him—and myself—well enough to know he spends the entire practice wanting to strangle me with his bare hands.

          I understand the urge, though, and I'd be feeling the same way if I were captain (which is too big of a responsibility for me, I can see it now). If anything, it only makes the guilt harder to bear, as this is special treatment no one else on the team is getting. I've gotten away with underperforming for far too long, and the only person willing to do something about it is Coach Gonzalez.

          And do something about it he does.

          He rips me a new one right there on the ice, in front of the entire team and everyone sitting on the stands to watch us practice. It's utterly humiliating to be screamed at by the head coach, his spit hitting me square in the face, even while wearing my helmet and all this protection, but I ground myself by reminding myself over and over again he's not in the wrong here—I am.

          Maybe he's wrong in the way he goes about the execution and how he conveys his feelings, but nothing about his fury is unfounded.

          Though all I want to do is dig a hole through the ice and hide myself in it, pulling a Walt Disney or however that conspiracy theory goes, I stand there and take the rant and wake-up call like a goddamn champ. I stare right into Coach Gonzalez's eyes, jaw tightly locked so I won't randomly vomit all over him, and hope this firm posture proves how willing I am to make everything work.

          I can't just be good. I can't just be adequate. I have to be perfect.

          Somehow, there still needs to be some balance, the one thing I've been struggling to achieve.

          I can devote every waking moment of my life to this sport, to the craft, and train like a madman. I can follow a strict diet and exercise regimen. I can do the bare minimum academic-wise to keep my head above water and use the rest of my time to skate laps, develop new strategies, and correct my mistakes, cover all my bases.

          I can fix things with Brie, keep Magnolia out of sight and out of mind, and act like I have my shit together at all times. I can present myself as a model athlete, a delight to be around, and the dreamboat every brand wants to have as an ambassador.

          These are realistic, achievable goals. They are also demanding, and a surefire way of burning myself out.

          That's where balance comes in, and it's the one thing I can't find.

          The walk of shame towards the locker room is exactly that, and no one tries to comfort me or sugarcoat it, both because they know I don't want any of that shit, but also because the guys all know I need to sit with these feelings. I deserve to sit with these feelings and take it like a champ-ee-on. Smile, nod, pretend.

          I am okay. I'm okay, guys. It's fine. Coach is right.

          I'm a goddamn liar, that's what I am, but I'm doing what has to be done for the sake of the team. I can't fail them, not now.

         "If you want to sit there and feel sorry for yourself, that's your prerogative, but don't bring down the team morale along with you," Andy tells me, hair still wet from his shower, when it's just the two of us in the locker room. Time passes by without me noticing it, slipping through the spaces between my fingers. His voice is stern yet calm, like he's lecturing a child. "You know what you're doing to yourself, but I don't think you realize just how much that affects the entire team."

          I huff. "Actually, I do, and—"

          "You're my best friend. I know you've been going through a rough patch these past few months and I love you to death, man, but there are things you need to keep off the ice."

          "I don't need a lecture, so save it. I know I'm fucking everything up—"

          "Good. Then I don't need to waste my breath with a speech you won't listen to because you always do whatever you damn please. Get help, Rhett. I mean it. The sooner you get this . . . anxiety checked out and accept that you need and deserve to be helped, the better. For everyone." He pauses, looking at something outside of the locker room, then glances back at me. "If you won't listen to me, maybe you'll listen to Brie."

          Strangely—and ironically—enough, this is the one time I don't want to listen to Brie. Andy's lectures are bad enough as is, even though I know they come from a place of genuine concern, but at least I can fool him for long enough to give myself time to pull it together.

          Brooke Sheridan, however, knows me better than that. She'll always have inside knowledge about me that no one else in my life ever will, for better or for worse, and it's a blessing in disguise sometimes. It can also be damning, as there aren't many things I can keep from her, even when she actively tries not to pry (the effort does count, though). and it's not like she wasn't present to hear the screaming, anyway. 

          Andy, ever the traitor, even wishes her good luck as they switch places, and I straighten my back as she struts inside the locker room like she's allowed to be in here.

          This isn't a sacred place or anything of the sort, but it doesn't match her vibe. She deserves better than a half-assed conversation in a sweaty, dirty locker room that reeks of masculinity and body odor. She waltzes in, all prime and proper with her strawberry and ginger-scented shampoo and I'm a goner.

          "I know what you're going to say, but I'm not in the mood to be yelled at by someone else," I groan, just as she sits in front of me, slender legs swung around either side of the wooden bench beneath us. She quirks an eyebrow—perfectly groomed, because of course even her eyebrows are in immaculate condition. "I heard it from Coach Gonzalez, I heard it from Andy, and I hear it all the time in my head, too, so, if you're here to remind me I'm a horrible person—"

          "I don't think you're a horrible person, but I also think you should let me speak," she chimes in, scooting forward. We're sitting in the same position, though she occupies a lot less space than I do, and a shiver runs through my spine when the outer part of her knees brushes against the inner side of mine. "Coach Gonzalez is a dick, over and out, but Andy and the team all have your best interests at heart. Coach, too, in his own way, even if he is going about it completely wrong, but all those people are worried about you. However, they're also worried about how all of this is going to impact your performance on the ice and the team's chances at winning the championship. Yes, I know that's weighing on your mind as well," she dryly adds, the millisecond I open my mouth to point that out, "and I'm not saying you shouldn't be worried, but I need you to understand no one here is actively trying to hurt you. Not personally, at least."

          I sigh, feeling like my heart's been replaced by an anvil. "I know, Brie."

          "It's not like any of this is fair or that it was okay for Coach to start screaming at you like that, and I cannot begin to imagine how much pressure you're under, but there's a crowd of people worried sick about you. You can't blame the people who care about you for—"

          "But are they worried about me, though? Or are they just worried about Rhett Price, ice hockey prodigy? Rhett Price, the legacy player, the nepo baby?" She flinches with the sudden harshness coating my voice, but I only allow myself to be stricken by guilt for a moment. The longer this stays bottled up, the worse, but does she have to be the one to put up with it just because she's the only one willing to put up with me? "Not a day goes by without me feeling like shit, and you know what makes it even worse? Knowing the reason things have gotten this bad is because of me. It's a never-ending cycle I can't break out of."

          "Do you want to break out of it?"

          "What do you think?"

          She inhales. "I think you're so far up your own head and your own ass that you've trapped yourself in this maze and have convinced yourself there's no way out. I'm not saying you're not trying, but I think you don't give yourself enough credit for trying, so you think you're not doing enough. Sometimes, trying is all we can do, and that's good enough. You're good enough for yourself, even if there's some blockage in your brain refusing to see all the evidence and focusing on your mistakes instead. You're good enough to me, for what it's worth." Her hands timidly trail up my shoulders, then gently cup my jaw to tilt my head up so she can look me square in the eye. "I believe in you, Rhett Price. Let me in, for once in your life. Trust me, baby. Trust me."

          I want to.

          I want to trust her so badly it hurts my soul and chars my bones, but she's right—there is a blockage. I don't know what it is for sure or what the nature of it is, but it's there, and it's driving me up the wall. It's all my fault, too—you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes—but there are more important games and prizes at stake than my idiotic pride.

          There's the championship. There's my professional career. There are my sponsorships. There's my reputation. There's my relationship with my family. There's my friendship with Andy and with the rest of the team.

          There's my relationship with Brie, which I've conveniently been neglecting ever since she dared to try and bring down the castle walls surrounding me on every side.

          So, when she leans forward to press her lips against my forehead, then against my mouth, I leave the door unlocked.

          Just in case.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

rhett: >:(

brie:

rhett: :)

alternatively: he's the black cat, she's the golden retriever. i love me some grumpy sunshine trope-y chapters what can i say!!