Page 41 of Playing for Keeps

“It wasn’t like that for me,” I said, and once it was out, there was no taking it back. “We were fine, money-wise. More than fine. My father was a lawyer. Good at it, too. My mom stayed home. We had the big house, the backyard, family vacations. People looked at us and probably thought, ‘That’s a perfect family.’”

I glanced at Emma, expecting her to say something, but she just waited patiently.

“The first time he hit me, I was seven. I think. Yeah – seven. It wasn’t even a punch, not really, just the back of his hand. The sound was worse than the pain. That crack. I remember that more than anything. I remember thinking I’d broken something. My head just… rang. The second time, I told myself it was my fault when he tripped over the toys I’d left on the floor. The third time, I didn’t tell myself anything, because I knew better than to try to make sense of it. Sometimes it was because I hadn’t turned in an assignment. Sometimes because I left my shoes in the hall. Sometimes because…” I stopped. Shook my head. “Most of the time I never even knew.”

My jaw tightened, but the words kept coming.

“He never touched Grace. Not once. She was safe from him. But me?” I laughed, except there was no humour in it. “Whatever was bothering him, he took it out on me. I learned how to read the sound of his footsteps. The slam of the door when he came home. If his briefcase hit the floor a certain way, I knew I had to disappear upstairs, try and hide in my room, wait it out. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes he came looking. Seven years old, and my own father thought the way to make himself feel better was to beat the hell out of his kid.”

Emma didn’t look away. That steadiness made it both easier and harder to keep going.

“I got bigger and stronger, which helped a little. Not because I fought back – not at first – but because I could take more. Act like it didn’t hurt. By the time I hit high school, I was tall, already training, already working toward hockey. And he saw that I wasn’t easy to push around anymore, so he switched tactics. He stopped using his fists and started using words. Told me I was worthless, that I’d never live up to anything. I still don’t know what hurt more – the hits or the things he said. I used to think it was the bruises. Then I got older and realized I still hear his voice. So maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s both. I don’t know.”

I looked down at my hands, made fists, then slowly opened them again.

“I don’t talk about this. Not with teammates. Not with women. I keep it hidden because I’m supposed to be tough – and I am – but not like that. But with you, it just… comes out. I don’t know why. Maybe because you asked without really asking. Maybe because you didn’t give me that head tilt people do when they’re about to drown you in sympathy. I can’t stand that look. I can’t stand pity. I can’t stand…”

I stopped talking, not because I was finished, but because I’d already said more than I meant to. The air felt safe somehow and I didn’t want to lose that by drowning it in too many words.

Emma’s eyes stayed steady on mine. “Thank you,” she said. “For telling me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“I know,” she said, and something in her tone made it easy not to feel embarrassed about that. “If it helps… I won’t make it bigger than it already is.”

“It’s already big.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But it’s yours. You get to decide how it lives.”

I took a deep breath and picked up my tea again, staring at it and letting the heat soak into my hands.

We sat there in silence. The lamp hummed softly above us. Somewhere in the house, the furnace clicked on.

Emma edged a little closer. She didn’t reach out, just moved in enough that I could feel the warmth of her arm if I wanted to notice it. I did.

I didn’t feel exposed, which surprised me. I felt… safe, because she wasn’t trying to fix anything. “I should get going. I have a game tonight.” Much as I wanted to stay there with her, I also wanted to do the job that saved me.

I stood, and she got up as well. I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and glanced at her. “Are you coming?”

“Of course. It’s been too long; I need to catch up.”

“Good,” I said, and my voice sounded lighter than I expected, almost relieved. “It’s home ice. You’ll like the energy.”

“I always do,” she said, which made me want to rub my thumb over her cheek. “Thanks for helping me hang the planet.”

“Anytime,” I told her. “Tell your mom it looks perfect.”

“She’ll be insufferable,” Emma said, smiling. She reached up and fixed my scarf like I was a kid, like I was hers. Then she took a step back and I already missed her being so close to me.

“I’ll see you later,” I said.

“Later.”

I headed to my truck, the cold sharp in my lungs. I sat there for a minute with my hands on the wheel and thought about how she had looked at me – warm and unflinching. She hadn’t called me brave, hadn’t told me I was strong, hadn’t dressed it up in words people use to make sense of things that don’t. I wasn’t used to feeling this safe with someone and it made me not want to hide from her. For the first time I could just let my past be part of who I was. It felt heavy and a little strange. But just like the lamp, it was exactly right for the room.

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EMMA