Bill’s eyes were closed, so he grasped his hand. “Hey, Bill.”
Bill opened his eyes partway, looking confused.
“It’s me. Drew.”
He blinked a few times. “Drew? Hey, Drew.” Then he smiled. “Hey . . . it’s Drew Hogan.”
“Mom, how about you and me head downstairs for a quick bite to eat,” Haven said. “Do you mind, Drew?”
“Not at all. I’ll be here awhile.”
After Haven and Ginger left the room, Drew turned back to Bill. “How are you feeling?”
Bill was a little more alert now and pressed the button to lift up the head of his bed. “Eh. I’m dying. It sucks.”
Drew laughed. He’d always loved Bill’s sense of humor. “Yeah, man. It does. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing we can do about it. But they’re giving me great drugs, I’m not in any pain, and hell, I feel like a celebrity. People are popping in here all the time. Before long the paparazzi will be showing up thinking George Clooney is staying here.”
“Then you’ll end up on the cover of the Enquirer.”
“Wouldn’t that be some shit? I hope Ginger combs my hair before they do the cover shoot.”
Drew hadn’t expected this. He didn’t know what he had expected, but not the old Bill. He was glad he’d made the trip. He pulled up the chair and took a seat.
“How’s the season going?” Bill asked, obviously wanting to talk about anything but his health.
“It’s shit. We’re great at home, but can’t win a game on the road.”
“So . . . why is that?”
“Hell if I know, Bill. We’re trying to figure it out. Our goalie is working with an injury, but we’re not laying all the blame on him. We can’t put decent offense together on the road, either. Our road statistics are terrible. It’s like we’re on vacation.”
Bill laced his hands over his stomach. “Maybe you’re just trying too hard. Lose a couple games on the road, you get a mental block, and the first thing you all think is that you can’t win an away game. Then it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Bill paused, letting the oxygen he was attached to fuel his lungs. “You tense up and make a lot of mistakes you wouldn’t normally make. Especially if you’re still good at home. That means the mechanics of your game are sound. Other than your goalie injury, it’s obvious your team is solid, right?”
“Yeah.”
“No trauma or drama otherwise, with coaching or teammates?”
“None at all.”
“Then just play the same game you play at home. You’ll win eventually. Stop acting as if it’s the last game of the season and it all comes down to that one game. Just . . . play.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is. It’s not life and death, you know.”
Drew cringed and gently squeezed Bill’s frail hand. “You’re right. It’s not.”
“Hey, I wasn’t looking for sympathy here, kid.”
“I know. But you’re right. We’re stuck in our heads in the worst way.”
“Then get out of your heads and just play every game like it’s just a game. Because that’s all it is—just a game. The one you love. I think you forgot how to love it.”