Would I like this story to be totally unbelievable in my life? Yes. But unfortunately, it’s very, extremely believable.
My mom buys my excuse because of course she does. She’s never once questioned anything to do with my symptoms, and when doctors tried to gaslight me she was quick to mama bear the situation and tell them they weren’t to question my symptoms either.
Endometriosis and adenomyosis run in our family. It’s why, as motherly as she is in certain ways, I’m an only child. It’s also why I was diagnosed and treated at an earlier than typical age. Which I am profoundly grateful for.
My chronic illnesses are still awful, don’t get me wrong, but I’m lucky to have such a great support system. I’ve seen too many social media posts from other people in the chronic illness community who are alone, doubted, and still searching for a diagnosis to take my family for granted. There are so many parts of this journey that people can help make better just by being there. I can’t imagine how much harder it’d be in solitude.
Which is also why I’m a tremendous traitor for lying to my mom like this.
Lying to her about everything.
Concern overrides my mother’s elated gossiping as she settles back on the bench. “Tomorrow before we leave, let’s go to the shop and I’ll buy you another so you can have a spare.” My mom pats my leg and the “I’m the worst” pang in the pit of my stomach grows. “Maybe see Dr. Chinai while you’re home, too. We should have her check your iron levels. You’ve looked pale all day, and we don’t want it getting to infusion levels again.”
I’ve looked pale all day because I’ve been terrified for most of it. Unable to offer that explanation, though, I nod and stand with the rest of the crowd for the anthem, guilt torturing me and my poor nerves. I can’t keep this lie going forever.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
For the better part ofsix years, I was the perfect hockey girlfriend. Notice I didn’t say good, or great—perfect. When Dillon played in his travel leagues, I would go with him. I would pack some fruit, water with electrolytes, and protein packs for him. The night before a game, I’d stay up all night throwing glitter on posterboard to make sure he had the flashiest sign in the stands.
During the games, I kept my eyes glued to the ice, making mental notes of Dillon-coded-miraculous plays and who failed to pass my boyfriend the puck so I could be supportive in the car later during his vent-and-boast sessions.
After the games, I took care of him. Ice. Heat.Extraheat in appreciation of his talents on the ice. Being a hockey girlfriend was my entire personality.
Until it wasn’t.
Just like with my figure skating, someone or something else had stripped me of my identity before I had accepted its removal from my life, and for a while after I felt hollow.
I didn’t miss Dillon.
I missed being useful. I missed taking care of someone else for a change.
And now that I’m sitting back in the arena, microscopically healed from my last and only relationship, I can safely say it—I freaking missed hockey, too.
I thought I might feel haunted, sitting here with ghosts from my past lingering on the ice. But all I feel is complete freedom.
I’m not monitoring the calls, missed passes, or shift time in anticipation of my boyfriend’s mood after. (Though to be fair, Cole is always in a sour mood, so maybe I just can’t imagine it shifting any further negatively.) I’m just watching a game I love.
Even though Dillon left school early for the draft, Cole is, frankly, the better player. He’s faster, more agile, and more poised on the ice. I don’t get why he’s not playing professionally, too.
In the first period, Cole zips up the left side and makes a sharp cut that trips up the defensemen with his momentum. He’s barely past the blue line when he pulls back his stick and slams the puck into the net. His shot is so fast, the goalie is still looking futilely for the puck when the horn goes off and the crowd erupts into cheers.
My dad lets out a low, impressed whistle at the same time my mom shouts, “That’s our boy!” The minute the puck goes in the net, Cole’s eyes lock on to me. He points a stick in my direction and mouths, “That one was for you,” punctuating it with a wink.
Tessa leans into me. “When did Mr. Anti-Social get all flirty with you?”
“He’s not flirting. He’s just playing the part Caden was supposed to play for my parents,” I say. “Cole usually doesn’t give me the time of day.”
“Nat, the boy is coming home with you for the holidays. Get a clue. Cole doesn’t do that kind of stuff.”
“We don’t know he’s coming home for sure. He still has a day to back out.”
“Okay, soifhe comes home with you, can we talk about how you never told me he has the hots for you then?”
I snort. “It’d be the wrong conclusion, but we can certainly talk about it.”
Cole’s second goal comes in the third period during a penalty kill, a breakaway that the goalie had no shot in hell defending. After the goal, Cole drops his stick to his side, gliding along the ice like he owns it. As if easily scoring on a four-on-five isn’t that big of a deal. His eyes pick up to find me again. They’re dark and intense, and a shiver wraps down my spine.You’re next.The unspoken promise binds itself to my bones.
