Me too.
Honestly, what does he possibly expect from my response? Anger spikes inside me, my go-to shield.
Yeah, it must’ve been nice to be an onlooker and not the one painting the ice red. Glad you still have full use of both your arms.
“It’s impressive that you’re here. A fucking miracle,” Isaac says, filling in the silence since I apparently took too long.
A miracle. Yeah, it’s a miracle I didn’t die on the ice. A miracle I can’t squeeze my shampoo bottle with my hand. A miracle I’m now a coach when I should still be playing. Such a goddamn miracle?—
Shay, stop it.
Forcefully, I take a deep breath in and slowly expel it, trying to grab hold of the thousand whipping thoughts and emotions tornadoing inside of me.
They’re just trying to make conversation, not mock you. Relax.
“It’s been a journey.” I force the words out, trying to be less bitchy than my inner monologue sounds. “I appreciate it.”
Their faces drop, frowning right before they burst into laughter, pointing and tearing me down to pieces.
Shay, stop overreacting. That didn’t happen.
They nod, offering me kind smiles, and I turn away a second later and focus on the game that I’ve already missed too much of.
The Penguins have possession in our zone. Matt is in position, blocker and glove at the ready. He deflects an easy shot, then quickly stops the redirect, holding onto the puck until the ref blows the whistle.
They reset, and play starts again. Most people are probably following the puck, and I glance over at it often, but my main focus is on Matt. He wants to win—the whole team does—and if there’s a small chance I can offer any help at all, I’m going to try my hardest. I’m going to study his game. Every shift, every move he makes.
I have knowledge, and I have a great eye for the game. I’ve always been complimented on that. Time to put it to use again.
By the time the first period is over, my first page is nearly full of notes. I note the difference in positions he greeted each player with. In the way he shifted his body to shots and plays.
I’ve come to one conclusion. He’s a perfect goalie, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do for him. But when we get into the second period, I finally find one tiny mistake. He’s not closing his edge out fully on shots to his left, leaving a gap that, eventually, the right player is going to take advantage of.
A spark, the tiniest burst of energy, ignites inside of me, and tears nearly well in my eyes. I haven’t felt that feeling for a long time. Maybe,just maybe, I can get a piece of myself back through this—and through Matt, a part of my spirit that I thought was gone forever.
CHAPTER 8
SHAY
Physical therapy this morning pissed me off more than anything because we’re working on squeezing things like shampoo out of a bottle. Granted, he isn’t wasting shampoo while I try to get it, but doing the motions and exercises that mimic it. I swear physical therapists don’t get the credit they deserve sometimes because mine also listens to my complaining, caring just as much about my mentality as he does for my physical progress.
I also met with Lorea this morning via Zoom, and it was a good session. I wish she would stop trying to throw me off of a cliff in my comfort zone because every time I feel like I reach a new peak, she puts a different mountain in front of me.
Her newest challenge, since I’m getting more comfortable being near the ice, is to go to my old team’s game tonight. I know I can do it. I can sit in the box and watch it, just like I have for a couple Nighthawks games, but a Mavericks game is different, and she knows that.
Deep down, I think I’m ready, but I’m scared. It’ll be my first time watching their game since I left. But it’s something I’ll have to do eventually, right? Better now than never.
Lorea says it’s part of my healing journey—facing my fears. She’s probably right, and this will help, but right now, as I’m walking into the arena, I don’t feel an ounce of that optimism.
You’d never know by the smile on my face and lightness in my step. That’s all for show. I can’t look like I hate being here. The press would be insane. I’m excited to see the girls. I can’t ignore the thousand naggingbuts lingering in my mind, ready to follow that sentence.
Security lets me through, and I make my way up to the team box, reserved for family, friends, or associates of the team, grabbing a water and popcorn so I have them to distract me from nervously fidgeting.
The attendant, Greta, who I’ve known professionally for years, smiles as I approach, recognizing me. “Ms. Rooney. Good to see you here.”
I smile back. “It’s been too long, Greta. You look great.”
She beams, the wrinkles around her eyes a beautiful display of the happy life she’s lived. “You too.”
