Page 6 of Knot Your Pucking Secret

Maybe I should have taken the girls up on their offer to leave this for another day, because I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for this shit. But, we’re here now and while every instinct is telling me to crawl back into my nest and let the world rot around me, I need to put my big girl panties on and face this head-on. It’s the only way I will ever move forward. It’s the only way I’ll find my wayback to myself instead of letting a pain I never chose dictate the woman I become.

Boxes upon boxes sit stacked in my cramped living room, freshly delivered and towering around us, each of us with our own pile in front of ourselves, trying to find something—anything.

So far, there has been nothing of interest.

Bills from when I was a child, random medical reports from when Patrick was a star forward on the team and a few paper receipts for old fines from long before I was born.

I haven’t given up hope yet, though. There has to be more hidden amongst decades of paperwork than unpaid and paid bills. Somewhere in these boxes is an answer. A reason. Something that explains why.

I can’t ask the man responsible anymore. Not even my mother or fathers.Dead men tell no tales, after all.

Giving up on the box in front of me, I reach for the next in the stack I’d claimed. Nothing has been labeled, which only makes this job even more painstaking.

Cracking open the lid, I find the first frame. I can’t stop the smile that tugs at my lips as a young girl, no more than six years old, with pigtails and her missing front teeth smiles back at me. I’m dressed in the Cardinals’ colors, my hockey kit looking at least two sizes too big for my frame. The uniforms had been made for young future Alphas and Betas.

Boys.

Not a petite future Omega like I was.

I remember this photo.

I had spent the entire summer at the camp the team ran for the children. Patrick had questioned whether it was actually something I wanted to participate in.

I was the only girl, far smaller than any of the other kids in attendance, but that didn’t take away any of my enthusiasm or knowledge of the game.

I outplayed children far older than me. I’d proven my worth time and time again during those months.

I had offers to join the team. Did I accept? No. Understanding the game fascinated me far more than playing it ever did. While the other kids chased the puck, I chased patterns, statistics and game plans. Even then, I wanted to know why a play worked more than I wanted to be the one scoring the goal.

Placing the photo frame to the side, I reach for the next one in the pile. Uncovering the frame, all the breath catches somewhere in my throat. A gasp escapes me before I can stop it. I am younger in this photo. One of my pigtails sits lopsided while the other droops against my shoulder, and every one of my baby teeth is still intact, making me no older than four…maybe five.

But it isn’t me that has me so caught off guard. It’s the little boy standing beside me. A little boy I’d somehow forgotten until this very moment. My thumb brushes over his tiny face as memories I’d buried begin surfacing one after another.

We met at the park my nanny used to take me to while Patrick was settling into his role as coach. I remember noticing the split on his lip before anything else. Even then, I knew enough to recognize that cuts were supposed to hurt, and something about seeing one on someone so quiet had broken my little heart.

I’d spent what felt like weeks trying to find out what had happened to him, pointing to his lip, miming questions with the dramatic enthusiasm only a child could manage.

He always answered me.

I just never understood a single word.

His language wasn’t one I’d ever heard before, yet, somehow that never stopped us from becoming inseparable.

Children don’t need a shared vocabulary to become friends.

We built entire worlds out of stick, bark and our own imaginations. The park transformed into castles, pirate ships and enchanted forests depending on whichever game one of us invented first. The rules changed every five minutes, and neither of us ever cared enough to argue about them. I’d have to watch him lead by example as there was no way of knowing otherwise.

Somehow, we always understood each other anyway.

I never learned his real name. So I gave him one of my own.

The memory tugs another loose.

I’d tripped while racing him toward the swings, my knees skidding across the rough concrete before I could catch myself. I remember the sting more than the fall itself. But I remember his reaction most of all. The color drained from his face so quickly I thought he might be the one who’d been hurt. His wide eyes locked onto the blood trickling down my knee, pure terror replacing the shy smile he usually reserved just for me.

At the time, I hadn’t understood it.

I thought he was frightened because I’d fallen.