“Oh, Jesus. What happened?”
“It was a freak accident. It was the third period of a game against New Hampshire. We were on the penalty kill and just took a faceoff in the O zone. I slipped and fell. It happens all the time, right?”
“Right.”
“I saw another player’s skate come up and I felt the impact of it but I didn’t realize how bad it was. Like an idiot, I decided I wouldn’t go to the bench because we were already down a man.”
“Marek.”
“I know, it was crazy. But I couldn’t even make it a few steps. I collapsed. Meanwhile, the other team had won the faceoff and had rushed to the other end. Their goalie saw me down and bleeding like crazy and he started yelling and waving his arms. The team trainers ran out on the ice and took care of me. If it weren’t for them, I might not have made it.”
She lets out a long shaky breath.
“They rushed me to the hospital. The cut was half an inch from my jugular. I had surgery and got fifty stitches. When I was lying on the table getting ready to get stitched the doc told me how lucky I was, because if it had been a quarter of an inch deeper it would have probably been fatal.”
“I always hated it when anyone got hurt playing. I’d get a sick feeling in my stomach.” She presses a hand to her belly as if she feels that way now. “I always worry about Grayson.”
I nod. “After, I figured I’d just let the stitches heal and I’d be better and back on the ice in no time. But when I got home from the hospital, I was as weak as a baby chick. I got dizzy when I tried to move around. I ended up in bed a lot. I did all the things I was supposed to do—drank lots of fluids, took an iron supplement, ate healthy—but it took a while for my body to recover from the trauma. I slept a lot. They told me it was good to sleep because that’s when your body can repair and heal.”
“You told me that.”
“Yeah.” I exhale slowly. “I went through a lot. At first I was sure it was gonna be okay. But when it started to sink in that it wasn’t going to be that easy, I was pissed. I started to wonder if I was going to play hockey again. And I’d just been drafted. That was my goal my whole life.” I shake my head, my throat burning even all these years later. “I had a hard time dealing with it all. I was angry and bitter. And… well, I guess I was sad and grieving. One day, I burst into tears in front of some of the guys when they came to see me. Then I was even more pissed, because I was humiliated. I fucking hated that. So, my mom made me go for therapy.”
“Ahhhh.”
I pause because I can almost hear wheels turning in Nikki’s head. “They told me it’s not healthy to hold back your feelings. The anger was what I really struggled with. I was pissed at Gifford, the guy whose skate cut me.”
“Ohhh.”
“It wasn’t his fault. It was fluke timing, me falling, and his leg coming up. But I didn’t care about that. I was just furious at him for doing this to me. It was pretty intense and when I started thinking about getting revenge on him, I knew I had to talk to someone about it. So it was good that I had a therapist. He told me that anger is a natural part of the recovery process. Also the revenge feelings, the sad feelings, the crying.” I grimace. “Feelings aren’t right or wrong, they’re just feelings and we have to have safe and healthy ways to express them. Ignoring feelings like that can even cause physical problems.”
She nods against me.
“And, like you, one of the feelings I had was guilt. I wanted to understand why it happened to me. Now I know I was trying to feel a sense of control over my life again. I kept thinking, what if I hadn’t fallen, what if I’d been more careful or a stronger skater. That’s all normal, too. My therapist told me I had to find a way to forgive myself for what happened if I wanted to get over it.”
I think Nikki’s crying again. She’s shaking and a hiccup escapes her. I wrap her tighter in my arms. Christ, I would take away this pain from her if I could. Pressure builds behind my eyes and cheekbones and my throat feels like a hockey puck is lodged there. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold her through her tears.
Shit. This is bad. I know she doesn’t want any kind of long-term relationship with me; she made that clear. But here I am in bed with her, hurting for her, and I am fucked. I fell in love with her a year ago and despite not seeing her during that year, I’m still in love with her. In fact, I’m even more in love with her because I’m seeing a different side of her. The glamorous pop singer I had a crush on exists, but she’s also a soft, vulnerable, empathetic woman with quirks and a little drama and a sense of humor that remains despite her pain.
But I can’t love her. I know her career isn’t over. She’s going to leave again. I never wanted long term because life is short, right? Nikki changed that, though. Now I want it so fucking bad. I think I want it more than anything I ever have.
But I have to live in this moment. Enjoy what I have. And accept it when it’s gone.
When she calms, she draws away and reaches for the Kleenex I brought. She presses them to her eyes and blows her nose. “I’m sorry you went through that,” she chokes out. “That was really, really awful.”
“It was a hard time in my life. The hardest. But I made it. And it made me determined to live life to the fullest. Cliché, I know. But life is short, right? Do your best, live your best, love your best, because there might not be a tomorrow.”
She gives a couple of jerky nods. “This is… a lot.”
“I know.” I set my hand on her back again. “Lots of feelings. But it’s okay. We just have to have ways to express them.” I pause. “Talk to me.”
She doesn’t speak for a few minutes, then says, “Couldn’t we just bang again?”
I know she’s joking. “You’re safe with me, Nikki.” I stroke her arm. “You know you are.”
She pulls in a long breath. And starts talking. She tells me about the chaos after the roof collapsed. The people screaming. Those who weren’t trapped were running. Jumping over seats, pushing other people out of the way. She tells me how stunned she was, how she didn’t even know what was going on. “I couldn’t make sense of it. My first instinct was to run to where people were buried. I heard them screaming and crying for help. But someone grabbed me, I don’t even know who it was, and wouldn’t let me go. They dragged me offstage. I was fighting them because I didn’t know who it was, I thought I was being kidnapped or something. There was more chaos. Nobody knew what to do, but security was trying to take control, shouting at people.” She pauses for breath, then tells me how her team hustled her through corridors and a tunnel, and outside to a car. “And I kept yelling at them that we couldn’t leave, people were hurt.” Her voice breaks. “I didn’t want to leave.”
I don’t say anything. This time is for me to listen. And she keeps talking.
