But I ignore him, continuing to pull him to the only place I know we can talk in private—the very room we first met when he was there for me in my time of need. Well, it’s time I repay that favor.
Flexing my hand, I reach out and take the doorknob with my left hand, begging it to be strong right now. Angling my wrist, I slowly twist it, and it clicks open, a burst of pride hitting myadrenaline. I pull him inside the room and shut the door behind us, locking it so no one interrupts.
His back is to me when I turn around, his helmet still on but his gloves and stick now on the ground. His shoulders are rising and falling fast, his breathing erratic. I give him a second to his own thoughts.
A heavy sigh, almost a growl, tears through him as he rips his helmet off of his head and throws it against the mats stacked across the room. “Fuck!”
Slowly, he turns around to face me, eyes bloodshot and sweat pouring down his face, his hair soaked with exhaustion. He’s looking anywhere but at me, and I get it. He wants to avoid the emotion he’s feeling, and for some goalies, that works—blocking the rest of the world out. But clearly, from what happened last time, that strategy isn’t in his favor.
“Matt,” I murmur, and his intense stare finds mine before I finish saying his name. “Talk to me.”
His nostrils flare, and he chuckles, his head tilting to the side. “I—” His voice cracks, and he shakes his head in disgust. “Shay, what do you want me to say?” His voice grows louder, but I know he’s not shouting at me. He’s yelling at himself. His eyes slam shut, giving him enough confidence to deliver every word with clarity, and he smacks his chest with each beat. “I’m going to cost us this game. I’m going to be the reason we fail.”
He sucks in a heavy breath, his face distorting with emotion as he exhales quickly. I can see him try to catch his breath, but he can’t. The panic attack is already rooting deep into his psyche. His bottom lip, hands, and body shake, his breathing loud and piercing.
I can see him mentally trying to put Scotch tape over cavernous wounds, taping together shards of glass and fear. They’re not going to last, and he’s going to explode. But when he does, I’ll be right here.
When I take a step toward him, he sniffles, and I watch the shift happen in his eyes, the walls crumbling to nothing and exposing the terrified little boy who just wanted to play hockey because it was fun.
Somehow, his breathing quickens even more, his head and shoulders bobbing with the gasps. I don’t know if this will work, but I saw it in a show once, and if anything, maybe it’ll comfort him just enough.
I reach him in two steps, my hands finding his jaw and pulling him down enough to crash my lips to his. He’s frozen for a second, his breath caught in his lungs. But then his hands find my waist, yanking me to him, and his tongue parts my lips, deepening our kiss.
We’re a mess of emotion, sweat, and desperation. He’s kissing me like he’ll die without it, and from his intensity, I’m starting to believe it. A deep groan vibrates against my lips—no, not a groan, but a sob.
With my hands on his cheeks, I pull back and find tears streaming down his face. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s you and me through this, remember? Until the end.”
He tucks his tongue between his teeth. “Shay, what if … what if I can’t do this? What if I can’t pull it together and play at my best? What if everything they’ve said about me is true?”
“It’s not,” I shout, cutting him off before he finishes his last word. “It’snot.”
Something comes over me, from deep inside my chest, in a place I locked and threw away the key.
“Was the only reason I became a goalie to hide my face because I was so hideous? Am I aworthlessexcuse for a professional athlete?”
His face morphs with disgust as he processes what I’m saying.
“Am I a whore, only coaching a men’s team to get close to the guys so I can sleep around? Am I the worst decision this franchise has ever made? Would it have been better off had I died on the ice the day of my accident?”
I drop my hands from his face as both of our spines straighten—his because he realizes the point I’m making and mine because I truly and finally believe that nothing I just said was accurate. I didn’t spiral or question my worth because I finally know who I am.
“Seriously, Matt, do you believe all of those things to be true?”
He scoffs, “What?! No, of course not! But—” He stops himself this time. “I get it. I get it.”
He sighs, and I can see some of the tension in his body releasing. Gradually, his shoulders start to lighten, the weight falling by the wayside.
“Don’t believe their lies, Matt. They don’t know you, and if they did”—I pause, knowing the fastest way to yank him out of his head right now is to make him smile—“they would mock you far harder for your warm-up playlist than your abilities on the ice,” I tease him with a smirk, jabbing my finger into his chest.
Amusement twinkles in his gaze, and the straight line of his mouth breaks, tipping up. He laughs,once, and I might have to start doing cartwheels to get this energy out.
“Don’t talk about Britney like that. It’s a killer playlist.”
Holding my hands up in defeat, I chuckle. “Hey, I’m not hating on it.”
“Yeah.” His confidence starts to climb again, and he teases me right back. “I remember the first time we met here, when you were aggressively crying and shout-singing ‘Hollaback Girl.’?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I take a step forward and rise up onto the balls of my stilettos. “This pep talk is aboutyou, mister.”
