Out of Play

I know it’s big. They’re good. Really good. I steel myself, knowing she’s trying to bait me into another conversation about college that I don’t want to have. “Both UAF and UAA have good programs, and then I’d still be in Alaska and not so far away.” And still playing with guys like I’ve been doing since I was eight.

Mom frowns. “UAA doesn’t even always have a women’s team, Pe

“Can we talk later?” I ask because the fact that UAA only sometimes has a women’s team is why I want to go. Not that there’s anything wrong with a girl’s team—it’s just not me.

I stare at the table, hoping she’ll drop the subject because I really don’t know how to answer in a way that’ll keep her happy, and me in Alaska where I want to be. Mom, Gramps, and everyone else thinks it’s important to get out—explore the world, figure out who I am or whatever. I already know who I am. Ru

Her frown holds for a moment, and then her face softens. Like she’s decided she’ll let it go for now. Thankfully.

“Did you go to the party last night?” she asks.

I sit at the end of the bench on our table, unsure yet if I want to be sitting or not because now I’m thinking about Gramps. If I tell the truth, she’ll know he’s not doing as well as I want him to.

“I take it that’s a no?” She sets down her mug, a look of concern on her face.

“Gramps made an odd pie last night.” I let out a sigh and push to standing. Thinking about Gramps hurts too much. I need food.

“I wondered why no one had cut into it.” Mom re-shuffles on the bench and takes another long drink. “You okay?”

I shrug because I’m definitely not okay, and I pull out some bread. Gramps has yet to mess up a loaf of bread.

“The cabin renters came in a couple days ago,” she says.

“I saw.” I slide my bread in the toaster. “How long are they here for?”

“Undetermined.” She holds my gaze for a while.

“Okay.”

Mom’s never wanted people living in the cabins, so whoever it is must be giving her some serious dough for her to even consider allowing someone there open-ended.

“Don’t worry. I warned them that we only do breakfasts in the summer and that they’ll be alone for all their meals. So, just the regular stuff, you know. Bedding laundry, garbage, maps, answering stupid questions like why we call them snowmachines instead of snowmobiles…” She gives me a wink.

“Okay.” It means more work for me, but also a bit of cash. Mom and I split the profit from the cabins, so while it sucks, it’s doable. I need parts for my old Corvette anyway.

“How was your night?” I ask as I spread butter across my toast, licking the extra off my fingers.

“Oh, fine.” Her eyes don’t meet mine as she stands and walks for her room. “I need a shower.”

“Oh-kay.” I stand a bit stu

Her shower turns on, and it’s stupid to just stand in the middle of the kitchen with my toast, so I sit and rest my feet on the low windowsill. Smoke billows from the chimneys of two cabins, and the snow reflects the sunlight in billions of tiny sparkles like it does when it’s this cold. A guy steps out. One who looks the same age as I am. I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe I should’ve been paying more attention the past couple of days.

When I’m about to give up on staring and hit the hot tub, he lights up a cigarette. I scan him again. Brown hair that’s too evenly colored to be natural and a coat that probably cost more than my whole bag of hockey gear. I can see his frown from here, making me wonder why he’s spending so much money to stay here if he looks so pissed off.

I’ll definitely be doing some digging when Mom leaves for her shift.

Chapter Three

Bishop

I’ve been here for three days and it feels more like three years. Gary’s in and out of my cabin a million times a day. He checks the whole cabin and me each time like I’m in prison or something. Once in awhile, he acts like he’s just coming to visit, but I know it’s an excuse to check up on me more often. To make sure I haven’t either died of boredom, or went outside and drowned in all the snow. Who the hell would want to live in a place where it gets this cold? I freeze my balls off every time we take one of our walks. I’m still trying to figure out the point of those. We don’t even talk…just walk. I’m pretty sure I could walk in L.A. if that’s all I’m here for.

But no. That would be too easy. And I’m sure he’s torturing me with snow-hikes because he thinks I’m in here snorting cocaine or something. Which is ridiculous. That’s not something I mess with.

So I drink a little. Take a few pills here and there to help me get by. It’s not like I don’t have a prescription for some of them. This is a hard life. Don, of all people, should get that. He’s managed enough bands to know how it is. To know how you start to feel like you’re losing your mind.

I don’t have a problem.

Gary managed to miss the pills in my bag, and I’ve only taken one in the three days I’ve been here. It’s not like I can tell him that, though. He’ll blow it out of proportion and call his brother. Don’s pretty good at turning stuff around on me, and Mom goes along with everything he says.

Case in point: me sitting in this tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. She never would have made me do this on her own, and it’s definitely not what’s best. I can’t even relax inside if I want to smoke.

Trying not to shiver, I take a drag of my cigarette. Sitting on the porch with the door open isn’t giving me any heat. And they said this was supposed to be a vacation.

After putting out my smoke, I go back inside, shrug off my coat, and start pacing the cabin. I’m starting to go stir-crazy. I’m not used to sitting around like this. My hands are shaking, so I rub them on my jeans hoping it will help. The longer I stay locked behind these log walls, I feel like they’re shrinking on me. Like they’re closing in…in…in, trying to crush me. Trying to squeeze the life out of me. It feels like it does when I’m in a crowd. Like I can’t suck in enough air. It’s ridiculous. What kind of fucking rock star can’t deal with a crowd?

My head is all hot and my feet are cold. Gary said it’s because of the oil stove and heat rising. I don’t get why the people don’t just put in a regular heater. This is Alaska, not the stone ages. I’m pretty damn sure everyone in California has a regular heater, and we hardly even use the things.

I push the hoop in my bottom lip around in the hole while I pace. This is so screwed up. The longer I stalk around the room, the faster my heart starts beating. The more I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t get out of here soon.

It’s just this place. I miss my house, my drums. That’s all it is. I’ve had drumsticks in my hands for as long as I can remember. It’s crazy how I can love something and hate it at the same time. Playing is my life, the crowds suck it out of me.

Again, I try to find something to do with my hands, but they have minds of their own and keep trembling.

I lean against the kitchen counter and do that deep breathing bullshit my doc told me to do when I feel on edge. In. Out. In. Out. When it doesn’t work, I busy my hands by pushing them both through my hair and lean over.

In. Out. In. Out.

Still nothing.

The walls move in another foot, and that’s when I know I have to get out of here. Pushing off the counter, I go straight for the front door. It’s open about two seconds before I remember I’m in Alaska and my junk is liable to freeze off if I don’t stay as warm as possible.