Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(63)

“My point is—how are those visualization exercises going?”

After a moment’s indecision, I decide to level with him. “I gave up on that pretty fast. It just wasn’t working for me. After a few minutes sitting there with my eyes closed, I get sleepy. Or my mind wanders. I find myself visualizing my sushi order instead of the rink.”

“Uh-huh. So you don’t believe that visualization can help you?”

“No, sir. I guess I don’t.”

“Hmm. When we’re young, we do tend to believe visualization works. So if you feel this way now, then you probably feel that visualization has failed you. Humor me, okay? Tell me about a time when you were visualizing hard, and nothing turned out like you planned.”

“Uh, okay. How about my marriage?” Jordanna and I visualized our future together with so much gusto that we bought a five-bedroom house, intending to fill it with little Tankiewiczs.

Spoiler alert: there aren’t any little Tanks in the world.

“That’s a good answer. Your wife said ‘until death do us part,’ but then asked you to move out.”

“Exactly,” I agree, because it’s easier than going into detail. “The way you look at it, every failed marriage is a failure of visualization. Do I sound like a shrink now?”

He ignores the jab. “Failed visualization and failed teamwork. Last night your ugly goal put a score on the board. But it wasn’t the kind of teamwork a player dreams about, right?”

“Although it still counts,” I point out.

“Go Brooklyn,” he agrees. “But I’m still a believer it’s all connected, Mark. If you can’t visualize the kind of teamwork that gets your production up, then you’re closed off from that success. And the reason you can’t visualize it is because other people on your team have let you down so badly. Including your wife.”

“Whatever. Fine. I’m willing to accept some of the blame. But only up to a point.” My teammates have been particularly cool to me lately. Because I let Bess down. I don’t know what they’ve heard, exactly. But the chill factor is real. “It’s pretty hard to picture a day when I’m on the same wavelength as this team.”

“Mmm,” he says, maddeningly. “But when you’re open to the universe, you’re open to the puck finding your stick.”

“That is some really woo woo shit, Doc Mulvey.”

He laughs. “And I love woo woo shit. I was that kid who stood in the middle of my basement holding a plastic light saber, trying to feel the force.”

“Yeah?” I laugh. “Fine, me too. But that’s every little boy.”

“Here’s the thing, though.” He leans forward in his chair. “Did you feel the force?”

I blink. He’s right, damn it. As a kid, I’d stood there, eyes closed, knowing to my bones that my X-Wing fighter was parked beside me in the sand and feeling an unexplained energy ripple through my body “Sure, I felt it. But not since I was seven.”

“Try again, Mark,” Doc Mulvey whispers. “Humor us both. Try to feel it again. Whether you call it the force, or luck, or meditation. Try to see yourself at one with this team. Your stick is that light saber, okay? And there’s a magnet inside it that draws the puck whenever you’re ready.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes. Sure, pal.

“Feel the force, man. What do you really have to lose?





When my thirty-minute session is up, I swing by the locker room to grab my gym bag.

The only guy around is Jason Castro. The moment he sees it’s me, he shoves his ear buds into his ears and makes himself busy with his phone.

I don’t like it, but I don’t even blame him. He’d warned me not to hurt Bess, but I did anyway. I deeply regret it, but nobody cares.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s that Bess isn’t my agent. Thank God for Eric. If I had to chat with Bess about hiring a New York accountant or finding an apartment I would probably lose my mind.

I might be losing it anyway. It kills me to know that she’s right here in Brooklyn, yet I can’t see her. I should have known that it would turn out this way. None of this is her fault. It’s all mine. She asked me for the one thing I couldn’t give.

It’s lunchtime, so I take myself out to eat. As I’m finishing up, my phone buzzes with a text, and I have a knee-jerk moment of optimism, wondering if it’s from Bess.

As if. It’s from Henry Kassman. Got something for you. Come visit.

Finally, I reply. This afternoon?

Sure, he says, as if he hasn’t steered me away every other time I’ve asked.

Instead of taking a nap, I catch the ferry across the river and walk up the East Side to Kassman’s fancy apartment building.

The moment after I enter Henry’s penthouse, I understand why Bess ended up in my hotel room that afternoon, crying her eyes out all over my T-shirt. Even from fifteen paces I can see that Henry Kassman looks dreadful. He’s horribly thin, and his skin is gray. He’s wearing pajamas in the middle of the day, which is just plain wrong.

Now I want to cry, too.

“Tank, my boy,” Henry says in a slow, thready voice. “You’re looking well.”

I take a deep breath and man up. “You flatter me, Kassman.”