Having a history of mental health problems.
Being a sportsperson.
My dude hits at least two out of the five risk factors that may make a person more likely to have post-concussion syndrome.
Fuck.
About 1 in 10 people still have problems one year after the injury.
One in ten people. And he’s that one.
Jesus fucking Christ. The more I read about PCS the more concerned I get. This guy, the father of my son, the man who seems intent to come back into not just my life, but our son’s life, is playing Russian roulette with his fucking brain.
Every time he steps onto the ice he takes a huge risk.
Why would you not just do something else? Something safer. Something less likely to make you, oh, I dunno, die?
“I can hear your teeth grinding from here.” Mom picks upher coffee cup and sits across the table from me. “What’s up, buttercup?”
Slamming the lid of my laptop closed, I try to force my jaws apart. All I can do is snarl.
“Victoria?” Concern laces her voice. “What is it?”
“He’s a fucking idiot.”
“Who?”
“The father of my child.”
Her eyes flex wide. “You know who he is?”
Nodding, I open my mouth and everything falls out. When I’m done telling her, she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “That’s so tragic. You thought he disappeared on you, and he forgot who you were. That’s…brutal.”
She doesn’t need to tell me that. It’s all I’ve thought about since I learned the truth about what happened with Raffi.
Bad luck, that’s all it was. It wasn’t anything sinister or cruel, it was nothing personal. We slept together, he hit his head, and he forgot I ever existed.
What a kick in the crotch.
“Toooorrrrriiiii.” Her voice stretches my name out so it lasts for far longer than a two syllable word should last. “I’ve seen that look on your face before. That’s your ‘someone’s going to die’ look. You can’t murder the father of your child.”
“Why not? Saves him killing himself on the ice.”
She holds up her hand, but all I see is red. “You don’t know what his circumstances are. Playing hockey could be all he’s ever dreamed about doing since he was a little boy.”
“When your dreams come with the risk of death, it’s too high a price to pay.” My body shakes with inexplicable anger. I’m not sure whether I’m actually angry at Raffi, or myself, or the universe for being such a shithead and doing this to me, to him, to all of us. But most of all, to Wyatt.
Other than being a complete dumbass and putting his life on the line every time he plays on the ice, he seems to be everybit the nice guy I thought he was when we first met in fake-prison. But if he’s going to be so careless with his own life, what would that mean for Wyatt? For me?
Should I let Raffi into Wyatt’s life when there’s every goddamn chance his dad will bump his head and forget he ever existed all over again?
That’s something I’m going to have to think about. But right now, I need to release some aggression.
Standing up, I almost knock the chair over.
“Where are you going?” Mom’s concern hasn’t abated. Don’t blame her, I’m spitting fire.
“Lauren, one of the Fit Factory trainers, is taking a pump class at the gym. Maybe I’ll be less homicidal when I’m done lifting weights.”
