They all shout their cheers of victory, praising me endlessly. I can’t possibly imagine what winning the Cup will feel like because right now, I’m on top of the fucking world.
After we get done celebrating on the ice, we make our way to the tunnel. My skates hit the rubber, and I feel a tingle at the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.
Lifting my gaze, I immediately find the source. Two pools of green, like grass on a sunny summer day, where there’s no cares in the world, only possibility have me completely entranced. Her red hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail, letting her stunning face truly shine.
Matt, I scold myself for thinking about her as more than a coach, but it certainly wasn’t the first time, and given the fact that she seems to get more beautiful every time I see her, I doubt it’ll be the last.
Her lips are in a sharp line, but as I get closer, about ten feet between us, they tip up, and she nods with approval.
“You think I did good?” I ask her as I approach, slowing slightly.
Tipping her head side to side, she bluffs before grinning, that smile of hers taking my damn breath away. “Not bad, MacArthur.”
I click my tongue, feeling my cheeks warm with her compliment as I smirk. “Thanks, Coach.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, a myriad of emotion swirling in her eyes—confusion, shock, but eventually acceptance and glee. She doesn’t say anything else as I keep walking, following the guys to the locker room. But I keep replaying her voice in my head until the record damn near breaks, her voice distorting slightly in my mind.
I’m aware I have an unhealthy obsession with people’s opinions of me. It’s something I’ve struggled with since I was young. But I have a new obsession too—Shay’s opinion.
I need her to talk hockey to me. The good, the bad. Everything. Shit, she could talk to me aboutanything, and I’d hang on every word.
What the hell is happening to me?
It’s the high of the win and the shutout—that’s it. I’m on cloud nine right now. It could have been Andy talking to me, and I’d feel the same way.
Doubt it.
Since when did my internal monologue turn against me? It’s aggravating.
Regardless, it doesn’t matter that I’ve had a crush on Shay Rooney since I was in college or that she’s my new goalie coach. Nothing matters but getting to the finals and winning. She’s an athlete, competitive as fuck. I’m sure she feels the exact same way.
The problem with an emotional high is that there’s always a down, and lately, I feel like I’m on a goddamn roller coaster between my dad’s unstable condition and the game. It’s like I’ve got my legs on two rugs and someone’s just pulling at them both.
I haven’t heard from my mom in two days, which is unusual for her, and it only makes me worry like a madman that something’s wrong. But I’m trying not to be overbearing or a backseat driver to his care. She’ll call when she has free time. I texted her, saying I missed them and hope everything’s okay. That’s all I can do. Well, aside from going to my room after practice right now and processing my emotions the only way I know how … out loud.
Some people journal, keeping a running diary of their thoughts and emotions. I sort of do the same, but mine isn’t on paper. It’s on my phone in the form of rambling voice notes. I can’t remember when I started this, but now it’s the only way I can work through my emotions and understand them.
I also use my voice notes as a way to get out pent-up anger, confusion, anything. It’s a flow of my consciousness. No one else ever hears them. They’re sacred. No judgment. No opinions.
Unlocking my phone as I approach the equipment storage room, I open the door, slip inside, and shut it behind me, flicking the lights on afterward. Thankfully, no other star goalies have stolen my sanctuary today.
This room is old equipment, basically a fancy makeshift storage closet, the size of someone’s living room. It has rubbermat floors and high ceilings with soundboards because it used to be a weight room.
The sound of the recording beeps as I hit the red button on my phone, the voice note ready to capture every word.
A sigh pulls all the air from my lungs, and I aimlessly pace around the room, finding that comforting place in my mind that’s formed over time—a safe resting ground for my racing consciousness.
And then I part my lips and let everything flow. It’s not always smooth and concise. It can be chaotic and unexpected, frustrations coming out of me that I didn’t even know I had. But talking it out always helps me get to the bottom of what I’m feeling.
“I’m upset I haven’t heard back from my mom. I messaged her a couple of days ago and she said she was busy with his appointments and care and would call me today. Well, now it’s seven p.m., and still no call or response to the text I sent this morning, asking if everything’s okay. I’m ten minutes from having a wellness check on the both of them if they don’t call me. How am I not supposed to worry or freak out? They’re states away from me, and I can’t just pop over and check on them.”
I take a shaky breath. “My mom sees him every day. The decline isn’t as drastic to her because she’s with him twenty-four/seven. But when I see him, sometimes days between FaceTimes, I notice the hollowness taking hold in his eyes. Some days are better than others, and sometimes, it’s like he’s really him again. He remembers everything and is his normal, jolly self. But then a light switch goes off in his brain, and he’s gone in the blink of an eye, his memories of the last few years vanquished. There’ve been a couple of times where I’m talking to him, and he thinks I’m still playing in college even though I’ve been in the league for almost ten years now.
“I’m so fucking mad at the world for not having a cure for his Alzheimer’s disease. All this money and research, and they can’t stop the deterioration? It’s absurd. It’s not fair that I have to mourn him while he’s alive and when he dies. No, it’s not even just twice. It’s a thousand times over. It’s every time we talk on the phone and a piece of him isn’t there. I mourn him in a million pieces, in a million ways, missing versions of him that are gone forever.
“How in the hell am I supposed to not think of that every second of the day? It’s getting harder to force out of my mind, even on the ice. I don’t know how I’m going to manage it if he gets worse in the next few weeks. More than ever, I selfishly need there to be a cure so he can be himself again, so I can focus one hundred percent on my game, and he can be there when we win, well aware of what's happening."
I ramble and ramble about how unfair life is, about how I’m tired of my deck of cards, how bad I feel that my mom is practically doing this alone while I play a sport, a game. Sometimes, it feels ridiculous to be here instead of with them. Sometimes, I hate myself for getting on a plane that’s not taking me to them.
