Page 57 of Here We Go Again

I flex my fingers a few times. “It’s good, mostly,” I lie, but then, something about Becca’s vulnerability, the way she’s being so honest about her fear of flying, makes the truth just … fall out of me. “Actually, it’s not good,” I correct. “I’m still dealing with a lot of nerve pain. And when I’m on the ice, it’s worse. The doctors say it’s the cold combined with the pressure of gripping a hockey stick. It triggers pain that shoots up my arm and makes my muscles seize. Then I drop my stick, and I need about ten minutes of massage before my hand feels normal again. So that’s been fun.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment. “That really sucks,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug. “My doctors are confident I’ll get there. I guess nerve damage takes a long time to heal, but with training camp starting in a few weeks … I don’t know. Time is the one thing I don’t have.”

She reaches for my hand, flipping it palm up. She gently runs her fingers over the length of my scar to where it curves around my wrist. “They did good work,” she says, her voice low. “When this fades, you’ll hardly be able to tell it’s there.”

“So they tell me,” I say.

Her fingers slide up my wrist to the small tattoo on the inside of my forearm, two hockey sticks lying side by side, one for each of the teams I’ve played for in my professional career. “When did you get this?” she asks.

I point to the first stick. “I got this first one in North Carolina when I was playing for the Appies. To cover up a different tattoo, actually.”

“Is there a story there?”

“Let’s call it … a drunken mistake?” I say, and Becca grins.

“I need more details.”

I sigh. “I’ll tell you but you can’t laugh.”

“I make no such promises,” she says, but I tell her anyway. I’d tell her anything.

“I was playing for the Appies, and I wanted something related to the team, but I guess my handwriting wasn’t great, so I wound up with the word apples instead.”

Her eyes widen, and I can tell she’s fighting a laugh. “Just the word apples?”

“You can still see traces of it if you look close. Behind the lines on the hockey stick.”

She takes my arm in both hands and peers down at my tattoo. “I love this story so much,” she says. “But also, the cover up is really good. I never would have guessed if you hadn’t told me.”

“Yeah, they guy did great. And then I got this second hockey stick when I moved to Georgia to play for the Jaguars.”

“That’s clever,” she says, hands still resting on my arm. “I like it.”

The plane finally hits a spot of the rough air the captain warned us about, and it dips a little, making my stomach swoop as Becca grips my arm, one hand directly on top of my wrist and the tail end of my scar.

“I’m sorry!” she quickly says, tugging her hands away. “Did I hurt you?”

The plane jostles again, and she sucks in a breath.

I felt a tiny twinge of pain when she squeezed my arm, but it was barely significant. I’d live through it a thousand more times if it meant making her feel better. “I’m fine,” I say. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I know I’m overreacting.” She holds up her hands, watching them tremble. “It’s so stupid. I know I’m fine. Why can’t my body seem to figure it out?”

I reach forward, sandwiching her trembling hands between mine. “Sometimes bodies are weird. But you’re okay. It’s just a moment. It’ll pass.”

She nods and takes several breaths in and out while the plane continues to wobble and dip. After a jolt just big enough to make several passengers let out a gasp, Becca closes her eyes. “This is bad, right? Worse than usual?”

“As far as turbulence goes, it’s a little worse than usual,” I say. “But there’s still nothing to worry about.”

She nods. “Okay. I believe you. But don’t let go of my hands until it’s over.”

I don’t know if she’s talking about the turbulence or the entire flight. Either way, I’m here for it.

“I’ve got you,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Becca’s eyes pop open, and suddenly we’re sixteen again, and I’m saying those same words to her right after her mom was diagnosed with MS.