I’m having some happy fantasies about a caffeine and sugar infusion myself when I pass Evie and she cranes her neck, asking, “So you did come up with something. Great work!”
I tip the paper her way, feeling a little shy about my still-crappy drawing skills, but happy that she’s pleased. “Yeah. I don’t know who it is, but I drew him. That trick you gave me really worked.”
Her smile stutters as she nods. “Yeah, it sure did.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask, glancing between her and the drawing.
“Not at all,” she says, pressing her lips together for a beat before she adds, “But I’m pretty sure that’s…my dad.”
Stunned, I glance down and suddenly I see it.
She’s right. That’s Xavier Olsen, staring up at me from the page, daring me to say a word about the way he’s raising his daughter.
Chapter 11
Evie
You can do this. Stay focused.
Everything is going great, management is giving you another chance, and you’re killing it this session. You can’t go off the rails now.
I give myself a mental pep talk all the way down the hall and up the two flights of stairs to the courtyard area where players and staff members eat lunch on sunny days, but my confidence is shaken for the first time today.
And right when everything was going so well!
From the moment the players started filtering into the art room, I realized my makeover might do more than potentially help me get laid in the not-so-distant future. These clothes seem to have other valuable powers. Apparently looking like an adult who has her shit together instead of an unkempt toddler goes a long way to convincing other people that it’s true.
Right off the bat, I noticed a marked difference in the way the team treated me. Even Sassy Sven kept the sass at a respectful level. I’m sure my threat to withhold donuts from anyone who had a bad attitude helped my case, but even before I laid down the law about making an effort in order to earn their treat, most of the guys were on board right away.
Having them draw someone who holds power over them was a good call, too. I tapped into a source of deep feeling and passion and gave them a clear direction for their work that was much easier to get a lock on than the anger iceberg assignment.
I was already planning my write-up for my advisor and feeling proud of the way I adjusted course with the team when Ian swaggered in fresh from a shower, looking even yummier than usual.
But I blamed the way my belly flipped and my nipples tightened when his gaze locked with mine on my jeans.
My jeans are stretchy and tight. They make me aware of my thighs and hips and other intimate parts in a way that I’m usually not. And being aware of those parts makes me think about those parts which in turn leads to thoughts of how much I’d like to rub those parts all over someone else.
Preferably Ian, tonight at our first Hookup 101 meeting.
Sometime in the past two days, my frisky levels have skyrocketed. I don’t know if it’s the new clothes or the makeup or the way men look at me as I walk down the street—in a way they’ve never looked at me before—but I have a bad case of Nookie on the Brain. I actually whipped out my vibrator last night for the first time in months in an attempt to take the edge off, but self-administered orgasms felt empty somehow.
I don’t just want the release. I want a connection with another person, someone I find sexy, fun, and fascinating, who feels the same way about me.
For a moment there, when Ian was staring at me with shock and appreciation in his eyes, I thought maybe, just maybe, his feelings for me might be starting to change…
But then I saw his drawing.
Oh my God, that drawing…
I can’t believe he couldn’t see that it was my dad. The jean jacket is just like the one he’s worn every fall and spring since I was a kid and the curl on the lip is a dead ringer for my father’s. Ian could have drawn anyone in the entire world, but his subconscious brain locked in on my dad as the one person who makes him feel angry and out of control.
If that doesn’t prove he still sees me as a little sister, I don’t know what does.
And what’s worse, we’re going to have to talk about it. In front of all the other players.
That’s part of this project. First, we funnel our feelings into the creation of our portraits. Next, we’re going to try to break the hold these people have on us with a simple ritual and a little fire.
“Excellent,” Slavic Sven says when we’re all gathered around the firepit in the corner of the courtyard, where in exchange for two donuts, a very nice janitor agreed to keep a fire burning for me this afternoon. “I was hoping we’d burn them.”
He starts to toss his picture into the flames, but I lift a hand.
“Wait.” I hold up my own drawing, a picture of Vince with a pitying expression that I sketched last night. “Before we burn them, we’re going to speak a few words to take our power back. First, I’d like you to briefly state how this person hurt you or why they still upset you so much. For example, I’m angry that Vince blamed me for the failure of our relationship, making me think there was something wrong with me, when in reality he was probably too busy dating two women at once to give our relationship the focus it deserved.”
“Oh yeah, he totally was,” Sassy Sven says. “No way did he and that blonde meet, fall in love, and get engaged in just three weeks. He was two-timing you, Sheepish. Like a dirty dog.”
“Her name isn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I say, cutting Ian off with a smile. I have to stand on my own as much as possible with these men or I’ll lose what respect I’ve earned so far. And this is already going to get weird enough when it’s Ian’s turn to toss his image into the fire. “Sven is right. And that’s a big part of why Vince had the power to make me lose control on Friday. But I don’t want to be at the mercy of those kinds of feelings anymore, which brings us to step two. Forgiveness.”
“Fuck no,” Kyle says. “I’m never talking to my dad again. Not for all the money in the world and two Stanley Cup championship titles.”
“And you don’t have to,” I assure him. “This isn’t about repairing these relationships or even making contact with these people. It’s about releasing that anger so it doesn’t call the shots anymore, so you can finally be free of old baggage that’s dragging you down, causing you pain, and affecting your game. It’s based on an ancient Hawaiian practice called Ho'oponopono, which means to bring things back in balance. It’s a simple but powerful tool for increasing self-love and healing old wounds.”
Kyle is still frowning, but he nods. “Okay, I’m listening. How do we do that?”
“Just a simple phrase,” I say, lifting my paper and locking eyes with Vince. “Vince Victor, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you, I love you, goodbye.” I pull in a deep breath, exhale completely and then open my fingers, dropping the paper into the flames.
Kyle grunts. “But I don’t forgive him or love him. I can’t.”
“Forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting,” I say. “You don’t have to forget but letting go of that anger is vital for your health and well-being. Like Nelson Mandela said, ‘resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies.’ That rage you’re holding on to isn’t hurting your dad. It’s hurting you. And it seems like he’s already hurt you enough.”