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I still don’t feel good enough.
I’m pissed about how much self-restraint it’s taken, keeping my hands and lips off of her, keeping my mouth shut so I don’t say what I’m dying to say too soon, before the time is right.
And I’m really fucking pissed that it’s been three weeks since I’ve last seen her. Between a rough stretch of away games and Ziggy’s schedule, which has taken her around the country, doing publicity with the National Team and as an ambassador for Ren’s charity, of which she is now a partner along with Oliver’s boyfriend, Gavin, and her sister-in-law, Willa, who’s also a professional soccer player, we haven’t done more than text or talk on the phone.
I miss her so damn much. Just like she said that night—too much.
Seeing her whenever I can, doing angry yoga together, grabbing breakfast, taking a quick road trip while she drives her favorite car of mine to a new bookstore, joining Bergman Sunday dinners whenever I’m home, have been the crumbs sustaining me over the past six months.
The past three weeks without her, however, the only thing holding me together has been talking and texting with her while traveling with the team, driving home, in my hotel rooms after tough games and tougher virtual sessions with my therapist, and hockey—the physical relief of pushing myself so damn hard on the ice, I have nothing left when I collapse into bed afterward. But it’s getting harder to hold back that cold fury that used to settle into my veins when I played, when unresolved anger and pain pulsed through me, screaming for release.
I breathe out again, the way my therapist taught me, and pick up my head, receiving the puck from Tyler’s win at the faceoff, then flying down the ice. Seattle’s defenseman charges toward me, and I fuck around with him because I can, leading him right as I swing my stick wide with the puck, then pulling it across me, faster than he can blink, and shooting.
Seattle’s goddamn goalie saves it, though, and I grit my teeth, skating away, frustrated as I chase after another Seattle defenseman, who powers up the ice with the puck. He passes it center ice to his forward, who works the puck past our guys, then dumps it to a Seattle forward who shoots and sends the puck right over Valnikov’s shoulders, into the net.
I growl in the back of my throat as the buzzer blares and the light flashes red, skating back to center ice, breathing heavily, shutting my eyes as I try to hold it together.
And then that prickle at the back of my neck makes me stop dead. I straighten, then turn, glancing over my shoulder, right into the stands. I don’t make eye contact with fans. I’m generally too hyper-focused on the game to even remember there are people around, watching us. But tonight, I look exactly where that sixth sense tells me to, the second row, halfway down the rink toward Seattle’s goalie, where we’ve been attacking two out of the three periods.
And then my heart does something terrifying. I swear to God it just stops, for a second, like a hiccup in my chest.
Ziggy.
She’s…here.
I blink at her, stunned. And then this…warmth spreads, right from the heart of me, out to every inch of my body, like she’s the sun and just seeing her, drinking her in, has lit me up, head to toe.
She tips her head, a little furrow in her brow. Her smile slips.
Probably because I’m staring at her like a dipshit, wide-eyed, stunned, instead of smiling at her, waving, doing a damn thing to show her how happy I am to see her, how far beyond pleasantly surprised I am that she’s here.
Slowly, finally, I lift a gloved hand. Her smile brightens as she waves back, making her black earmuffs jostle a little, her braid sway down her shoulder. That’s when I just…feel it all leave me. The anger, the cold, aching sadness, like a poison leaving my system.
Staring at her, lost in her, finally, I smile.
29
ZIGGY
Playlist: “Trampoline,” Kelaska
Sebastian stares up at me, with this…smile I’ve never seen before, wide and free and so unbelievably beautiful. I used to find him a real tough face to read. He was good at hiding what he felt behind that chilly, detached expression of his, those cool, gray eyes. But now, months of friendship under our belt, I know him better. I can tell when he’s anxious, when he’s tired, when he’s preoccupied, when he’s happy.
But this…this is new. This is something to pay attention to.
I stare into those lovely quicksilver eyes, drinking him in and mouth, Missed you.
He sighs heavily and nods, then yanks out his mouthguard. Too much, he mouths back.
My heart jumps. It aches.
But I’m used to that by now. It’s been half a year, six long months, of my heart jumping and aching around Sebastian. And it’s been worth it, because I was tired as could be when he laid me down on my bed after his birthday party, but I wasn’t unconscious. I heard him—not just what he said, but how he said it.
Please hang tight. Just hang in there for me. I promise, I’m trying.
I almost sat up, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him as I told him, of course I’d hang tight, of course I’d hang in there, I couldn’t possibly do anything else.
Because what I feel for Sebastian snuck up on me, quieter and stealthier than the best Bergman prank, and wove itself so deep into my being, I have no hope of extricating myself from it, even if I wanted to.
