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Everyone’s journey moves at a different pace, my mentor said during our first meeting.
“I’m really sorry about what I said,” I tell my mom, my throat feeling tight. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard, and you’re right. You can feel however you want about yourself.”
“No, Hazel—” She cuts herself off, pausing. I can practically see her pained, uncomfortable expression on the other end. “I didn’t realize it had that effect on you. I forget, you know, that just because you aren’t little anymore doesn’t mean you don’t absorb what I say like a sponge.” She sighs. “I never want you to feel bad about yourself or think you’re anything less than beautiful.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I really don’t feel that way.”
“Good.”
There’s a beat of silence between us, and for the first time, I feel like I haven’t failed her. I left space for her to feel what she’s feeling and I’m not making her feel like shit about it.
“If someone wanted to feel differently about themselves,” she starts, a note of reluctance in her voice. “What, um, or where would they start?”
Emotion rises in me and I blink it away. “Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “an easy way to start would be to only say positive things about myself. When I think I look good, I say it out loud.” I laugh to myself. “Even if I’m alone in my apartment.”
My mom chuckles.
“And maybe I’d keep a journal, and every time a negative feeling about myself or my body comes up, I’d tell my journal about it. I’d write down what triggered that feeling—what I was watching on TV, what I was reading or thinking about that made me feel like I wasn’t enough, so I can find a pattern.”
She listens in silence.
“And maybe after a month or two of that, I’d make a list of all the things I secretly want to do but feel like I can’t, and why. Clothes I want to wear, places I want to visit, activities I want to try.”
I picture my mom dancing. Not at twenty, but now, in her fifties. Strong and tall and happy and beautiful.
“And when I felt strong enough, I’d list the reasons I can’t do those things and ask myself if they’re really true.”
I hit the brakes because I don’t want to overwhelm her.
“And I would remind that person,” I add, “they can go at whatever pace they want, and they’re not expected to be perfect, because no one is.”
“Well, I’ll let her know what you said,” my mom says lightly, and we both chuckle. “I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too.”
CHAPTER72
RORY
“This game is for the fans,”Ward says in the dressing room that evening, moments before the game, “but it’s also for us.” His eyes land on me. “Remind yourselves of what matters and have fun out there tonight.”
He crooks a smile at me, and I grin back. The players head to the ice, and I’m the last one out of the dressing room when McKinnon calls my name from behind.
“Miller.”
He’s in street clothes. Players sent wary glances at him the entire time Ward spoke. By now, even the guys who weren’t at the bar that night know what he did.
“Your fuckinggirlfriendgot me benched,” he snaps, stalking toward me. “Thanks a lot.”
“You got yourself benched.” I bring myself to my full height, staring him down.
He shakes his head, seething. “You know what my fucking problem is?” He shoves a finger in my face. “You. You’ve always been my fucking problem, Miller.”
He wants to fight. I take in the way he looks at me with hate in his eyes. Last year, or even two months ago, I’d take this opportunity to scrap.
What matters, Ward said.
Hazel matters. Streicher and Pippa and the team and hockey matter, but McKinnon? He’s nothing. He’s angry and selfish and bitter. I feel bad for him.
