Page 71 of Playing it Safe

I don't even have to think about it. "I'm in Boston. Helping my mother clean out the basement. My dad has a follow-up for his hip, so I'm driving him to the appointment. Patrick's probably between jobs, so I'm finding him something. Nicky's home from school and needs help with her car. Ian might need a cosigner on a lease. David⁠—"

"Hold on." Odin holds up a hand. "You're three sentences in, and you've described five other people's problems. I asked what you're doing."

"That is what I'm doing."

"That's what you're solving. What are you doing for yourself? What does Cameron want to do?"

I stare at him. The question is so simple it feels like a trick. What do I want to do? I don't freaking know. I've never asked myself that before. Off-season has always been a list of other people's needs, arranged by urgency.

"I don't know," I admit.

Odin doesn't look surprised. "Okay. Let me ask it differently. When you picture this summer in Boston — the appointments, the basement, your brothers — how does your body feel?"

"Tired."

"Before you even get there."

"Yeah."

"Now picture June in Pittsburgh. You're at home. The renovation is done. The morning is yours. Nobody needs you for anything. What do you do?"

I close my eyes. The image comes faster than I expect. I'm in the kitchen. Light filters through the windows, slanted and warm. I make coffee. I sit on the porch. I read something — not sports psychology, not philosophy. A novel. Something with a plot. Puck is on the railing, supervising the squirrels. The house is quiet, and I can hear birds sing.

"I'm on my porch," I say. "Reading."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"How does your body feel?"

I almost laugh. Odin lets the silence stretch. I sit within it and notice my shoulders have dropped about two inches since I closed my eyes. I didn't know they were up.

"Cameron, I want to be direct with you about something." Odin leans forward. "Your game has been affected all season. We've talked about the hesitation, the second-guessing, the instinct to control every outcome before it happens. You've made progress. You had stretches when you were playing loose and trusting your reads again."

"And then I blew it up."

He pauses, coffee halfway to his mouth. He sets it down. "Okay. Tell me about that."

I tell him about the fight. Not the specifics — not Briar's name, not the words we used — but the shape of it. I tell him that someone I care about said things about my family that were true, and I left because the truth sounded too much like what my ex said, and I couldn't separate the two voices in my head.

Odin listens fully, intently, and it’s uncomfortable because I’d rather be invisible right now. "What did your ex say?" he asks.

"That I was savage. That my intensity was too much."

"And what did this person say?"

"That my family treats me like a resource. That I martyr myself."

Odin lets that sit. "Are those the same thing?"

I shift in the chair. "No."

"No," he agrees. "One is a character judgment. The other is an observation of a pattern." He takes a sip of his pale coffee. "Which one made you angrier?"

"The second one."

"Why?"