No crying at all or the punishment was worse.
Hockey was the cure.
The answer to everything wrong about myself.
Every mistake.
Every weakness.
Every feeling.
Every part of myself he couldn't beat out of me no matter how hard he tried.
I spent years curing myself.
I skate until the rink staff shows up. Go home. Sit on the floor with my back against the bed and stare at the wall until it's time to do something else. Rinse and repeat the same for the next two days.
The text comes in on the third day.
Rhys:
hey. you good?
I stare at it for a long time.
I'm sitting on my dorm room floor with my back against the bed and my phone in my hand and my shoulder aching and my head full of static. I've been staring at the ceiling for an hour trying to convince myself that what happened in that locker room was something I can put in a box and close.
I can put it in a box.
It didn’t mean anything.
I'm not gay.
Not here.
Not on this team.
Not in a way that touches anything that matters.
No one here can know.
Jamie:
Fine
I type back.
Dots appear.
Rhys:
you sure?
Jamie:
Yes. It's fine. We're good.
A longer pause this time.
