"So what was that? What was any of it? Because I need you to tell me, Marcus. I need you to say it out loud." My voice cracked on the last word and I hated myself for it. "Did I mean nothing to you? Because them — I get it. I don't give a fuck what any of them think of me. But you? You were everything. You were the whole reason any of this was okay. And now it's like none of it happened. Like I made it up. Like I didn’t fucking matter."
He didn't say anything.
"You chose yourself." I said it without anger. "I get it. But don't stand there like you didn't make a choice and I’m the only one suffering for it."
"I'm sorry," he pleaded. "I am. I’m so sorry. I really do love you. I don’t know what to do here. Maybe one day you'll understand. This is hard for me too, this impossible fucking position I’m in. I wish things were different, but I can’t."
Those words again.
I can’t.
Something finished dying in my chest with them.
"Fuck you, Marcus." Still quiet. Still level. "You left me alone in all of this. You did that. So fuck you."
He reached out for me and I walked away.
He didn't call after me.
That was the last thing we ever said to each other.
I played every game.
Every single one. I showed up to every practice, every film session, every game, and I played like my life depended on it. Because in some ways it did. The ice was the one place none of it could reach me. The one place where I was just a hockey player and they needed me whether they liked it or not. Where my value was visible and undeniable and nobody could take it away from me.
Fourteen goals that season.
Twenty-two assists.
I came every single day and I took the comments and the locker room and the missing gear and the marker and all the rest of it and I put every single piece of it directly into my game.
But I was exhausted.
And the worst part was that some mornings, before my alarm went off, there'd be three or four seconds where I'd forget.
Three or four perfect seconds where Marcus still loved me.
Then I'd wake up.
And I hated him for what he'd done to me.
But some part of me still missed him.
After everything, some part of me still wanted him.
That was the part I couldn't forgive myself for.
It was fucking pathetic.
Chapter 36
Jamie
Two weeks off the ice.
I've never hated a sentence more in my life.
I show up anyway. Every practice. Every film session. Every drill I can't participate in. I stand at the boards in my compression sleeve and watch and take notes and talk to Fitch because this is still my team and two weeks off the ice does not mean two weeks off everything. I couldn't stay away even if I wanted to. This is my life.
