I am a good goalie.
Next.
I am healthy and strong.
Next.
I am going to win the Stanley Cup.
Next.
My dad is happy and healthy.
My dad is perfect just the way he is, even with his mind fading.
My dad is the best dad there ever was and ever will be.
My dad is my best friend.
Okay, nope, I think I hate this game actually.
I grunt, slapping the marker down. I imagine this is part of the whole healing process, which is stupid. Why did I think this was a good idea? Now I’m just thinking about my dad, and my skin is trying to crawl off of my body.
I hate that thinking about him now immediately brings up the thoughts of his condition. He’s literally the best dad in the world. He’s been my biggest support, just like my mom, my entire life. He took me to every practice and spent hours helping me improve. He learned how to skate just to be able to help me. He taught me how to tie a tie. He taught me how to be me.
And with all of those moments and his impact, the only thing I can think of when he pops into my mind now is that I’m losing him. Maybe not physically, but losing all the same.
My eyes burn, and something hits the sticky note beneath me, pulling my attention downward. Shit. And now I’m crying.
Good going, Shay. This is what your little sticky notes have done to me.
Digging my phone out of my pocket, I go back to her Instagram to try to distract myself. I deep-dive through herprofile, scouring every post until there’s nothing left. So, I move on to her tags, and when I see how drastically different hers looks to mine, my heart aches.
While mine is full of positivity and everything good about the Nighthawks right now, hers is full of compilations of injuries, of people talking about that game where she got hurt. Fuck. I can’t imagine having a constant reminder like that. A place that helps me get out of my head and relax likely does the opposite for her.
I don’t stop reading at the first few posts. I keep going, anger and disappointment taking over with every new scroll. She shouldn’t have to see this shit. I want to report them and make them all disappear, but I know that new ones will only surface, and it would be pointless.
So, instead, I go to our messages and send her one.
You’re a badass, Shay. I’m in fucking awe of you.
CHAPTER 15
SHAY
My phone rings, ripping me from my thoughts about my therapy session with Lorea last night. It’s my mom.
“Hello?” I answer, immediately second-guessing picking up.
Lorea called me out on my shit this last session, telling me that I’m avoiding my feelings for Matt because I don’t feel deserving of love, which is bullshit. I know I deserve love. Abutfloats on the tip of my tongue, and I want to internally scream. I’m not broken or ruined; deep down, I know that. But it’s really damn hard some days to not question my worth when everyone else seems to.
“Hey, sweetie pie.” My mom is almost too cheery to tolerate this morning.
It’s barely five a.m., and I still have to finish packing my bag before I head to the airport.
I put it on speaker so I can keep packing. “All ready to go?”
Moms must have a sixth sense, I swear.
