My hands are starting to shake as I lower the bar, but I’m not sure if it’s from the exertion or that familiar feeling of panic whenever I think about how I let that puck slip past me.
Every loss feels personal. Every point the opposing team scores is a reminder that I’m not invincible, that everything I’ve worked for could disappear in an instant if I’m not at the top of my game every minute that I’m out there on the ice.
It isn’t just about hockey, like everyone thinks. Hockey is my life, my love, my passion, but it isn’t what drives me to be the best. I have to prove—to myself more than my teammates—that I’m not a sick kid anymore. That I’m not weak.
I won’t let anyone down the way my body let me down when I was too young to fight back.
Loading more weight onto the bar is reckless without a spotter, but I do it anyway. I need to feel the strain and the burn in each one of my muscles. I have to push past the point of pain and discomfort, because quitting isn’t an option.
The next rep does its job, making me focus past my spasming muscles and trembling arms, past the searing pain that seems to travel up and down my veins until I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
I hold it for an extra beat at the top, just to prove to myself that I can. And when I drop the bar with a crash that echoes through the basement, I remind that scared little kid that still lives somewhere inside my head that my sacrifices, my parents’ sacrifices, and all the hours I still put into my sport haven’t been for nothing.
This life I’ve built for myself isn’t going to come crashing down because of one missed point. Not this week.
I take a few seconds to catch my breath, then towel off the sweat and strip out of my shirt on my way upstairs to the sauna.
This is all part of the routine, so I don’t even notice the sense of anticipation that’s building in my gut until I reach for the sauna door.
No, not just anticipation.
Hope.
Hope that I’ll open this door and see Heather sitting there again, like she was on her first night here.
I push the door open and there she is, almost exactly the way I was just picturing her in my mind’s eye. She’s sitting on the bench in her bikini with her head tilted back and her eyes closed, looking way too beautiful for me to focus on anything else.
Suddenly I’m thankful for my intense workout, thankful that the pain in my muscles and joints is still distracting enough to keep me from embarrassing myself in front of her.
“Do you mind if I join you?” I ask, hating that I have to disturb her when she’s obviously so relaxed.
She opens her eyes and smiles with a genuine warmth that makes me wonder whether she was hoping I might show up here tonight as well.
“Of course.” She moves over a couple of inches to let me pass by in the narrow space, then watches as I gingerly sit down on the bench across from her. “How was your workout?”
“Intense.” I inhale the steam-filled air, then slowly exhale. “But good.”
“It seems like you were down there a little longer than usual.”
My jaw clenches instinctively, and I have to remind myself not to get defensive. She isn’t wrong, of course. And it’s not like she’s accusing me of anything.
“Was I?” I shrug and close my eyes as I lean back a little. “I guess I lost track of time.”
That was the wrong thing to say, and I regret the lie as soon as it’s out of my mouth. Not that I have to justify how long I spend working out or anything else, but I don’t want to lie. Not to her.
I open my eyes just enough to see the expression on her face, the one that tells me in no uncertain terms that she thinks I’m full of shit.
And she’s right, but I’m not sure how to come clean without opening a whole can of worms. If she knew about all the baggage I carry around in my head on a daily, twenty-four-seven basis, she would probably run away screaming.
Because yeah, it’s a lot.
“I thought maybe you were down there punishing yourself for not winning the game the other night.”
Damn.
I’m caught off guard for a moment, but I shake my head anyway. “No.”
Too quick. Too defensive.
