“How?”
“Well, let’s start by cutting your hair. Maybe doing some things that would make you feel more like yourself,” she suggests teasingly, reaching across the table to ruffle my hair. “But seriously, you have to live sweetheart and keep fighting for your life, as miserable and messed up as it may seem right now. You have to keep moving forward otherwise, this second shot you’ve been given will have been for nothing. You only get this one precious life, Kai. What are you going to do with it?”
***
Ispendthenextmorningtaking my mom’s advice and trying to work through my massive to-do list. To start putting the pieces of my life back together. I go through my emails that have been piling up mostly from the team lawyers and director of PR. They want an official statement about my earlyretirement. What am I supposed to say—I’m retiring because I had somehow gotten entangled in illegal gambling with members of the mob? That someone had tortured me, nearly killed me until I was crying for my mother? Nope. I’m not touching that today. I have to start smaller. I elect to tidy my apartment instead, to the extent that I could with only one working leg. That at least feels manageable. I hobble around and throw away some empties, stray takeout containers, and get-well-soon flowers that have been rotting around my apartment since I returned home. This place is disgusting.
Then I research architecture programs and civil engineering graduate programs in Boston. All interests I might have majored in if my future hadn’t been decided for me at a very young age. And that feels surprisingly refreshing, doing something just for me.
But, of course, my mind drifts back to hockey. The way it always does. I suspect it always will. Maybe I can’t play anymore but I could coach. Minor leagues, professional teams—they all need coaches and assistant coaches. Who would be better equipped or trained to do that than me, a former NHL player?
Chapter 88
Jenna
Iknockonhisdoorfeverishly. I’m in over my head here and probably way out of my bounds, but I’m sick of watching my two best friends fall madly in love with each other and then blow their relationship to smithereens the first chance they get.
I’ve had enough and haven’t they?
“Kai, I know you’re in there, let me in, god dammit!” I pound on his door again with my fist tightened.
Finally, it swings open and Kai, disheveled and unkempt, greets me with a hostile rough, “What are you doing here, Jenna?”
I grin sardonically. He looks surprised, but not angry. Which issomething, I suppose.
“The better question is what the hell are you doing with your head so far up your ass, Kai? And thank god I’m here to help you pull it out,” I quip.
“Nice to see you too. Please make yourself at home,” he says sarcastically while I stomp into his penthouse apartment.
“What the hell is going on with you two? And what is that smell?” I ask, wrinkling my nose in disgust. He backs up a bit on his crutches, giving me a wide berth.
“Well, I haven’t been able to clean that effectively with one leg and I’m sure you already talked to Kendall about what’s going on between us,” he answers. I venture further into his apartment, peering around with him on my heels.
“I have but I’m more interested in hearing your version,” I reply, folding my arms and leaning against his kitchen island.
“Fine but can we sit at the couch or table? My leg is killing me.”
“Lead the way.” I follow him to his spacious living room that I’m sure at one point had been clean and organized. But there are glasses on the coffee table, boxes on his floor, loose clothes on furniture. He plops down on the couch and I sit in the leather loveseat. He’s wringing his hands together nervously.
“Kendall and I are taking a temporary break,” he sighs. “While I try and figure my shit out.” He runs both his hands through his hair.
“Okay and how long exactly do you envision this break lasting?” I lean over and prop my chin on my clasped hands and elbows on my knees.
“I don’t know.”
“Right, okay. So how will you know when your shit is figured out? What’s the indicator of that?” I’m not purposely trying to be a bitch or a thorn in his side. I just want to get to the root of all this. I’m tired of sitting on the sidelines.
“I don’t know, Jenna, Jesus. If you haven’t noticed, my life is a shitstorm right now.”
Okay, I have to start easier. Softer. He’s already in rough shape and he doesn’t need me piling on. He needs support; we could figure out the rest after.
“Okay, well I think I can help with that,” I say.
“How?” he eyes me skeptically.
“Let’s start with your apartment. Get this sucker clean. And we’ll go from there, start with smaller easy tasks and work our way up. Whatever I can help you with I will,” I offer.
“I’ve been trying to clean it all morning but haven’t made much progress… clearly. You’d really do that?” He seems unconvinced but it quickly transforms into pure undiluted relief.
