“So you found a tribe of other Spoonies. That’s awesome.”
Her gaze sharpens like a blade. She’s shocked, and she has every right to be. Back when we were together, I’d never even heard the word “spoonie,” and I certainly didn’t understand the spoon theory about measuring energy with chronic illness. Devin tried to explain it once, holding actual spoons from our kitchen drawer, but I was young and stupid and probablythinking about game footage instead of listening. I was such a dumbass.
Shit. I need to apologize to her. Really, truly apologize. “Dev?—”
“How is coaching going?”
“Oh, it’s?—”
“Sorry—” Pink stains her cheeks as we talk over each other, and then she bursts into laughter.
I chuckle too. “No, I’m sorry. Coaching is good. Really good.”
“Is it what you imagined it would be?”
I blow out a long breath. “Yeah. And no. It’s rewarding in ways I didn’t expect. Challenging enough to keep me engaged but not stressful like playing was. When the kids win, I feel proud. When they lose, we talk about what to learn from it. There’s no spiral, no dark place. I actually like it.”
“Do you ever miss being on the ice yourself? I mean, I know you’re out there with the players, but do you miss playing games yourself?” She runs her finger along the rim of her coffee cup. There’s an eyelash on her cheek, and I have to clench my hands in my lap to stop myself from reaching over to brush it away.
“No, I don’t really miss playing. Which surprises the hell out of me. It’s fun to get out there and skate with the kids, show them techniques, but I don’t miss the competition.” I snort. “And I was never good at team camaraderie. You know that better than anyone.”
She grins, slightly wicked. “No, you weren’t. Sometimes I got the impression you saw your own teammates as competition.”
“I did.” I stare into my coffee. “Every practice, every game—I treated them all like life or death. Someone else’s success meant my failure. I ignored injuries until they became catastrophes. Let my career determine whether I was happy or not.”
“Hmm.” Her lips twist. “Yeah, that’s pretty exhausting. For everyone involved.”
“By the time I crashed and burned?—”
“You mean your wrist injury.” She says it carefully. “I read about it. Some of your fans think it might not have been a fluke.”
“Yeah. Possibly.” How much has she heard? “By the time that happened, I wondered if it wasn’t a blessing, you know? I was starting to hate something I once loved more than breathing. Hockey just wasn’t fun anymore. Even if it was one of my teammates that loosened my skate blade and made me fall and shatter my wrist, I’m still glad I’m not playing anymore.”
The admission hangs between us. I’ve told Niall the same things, but he never had a front-row seat to my hockey career like Devin did. She saw the ugly parts, the three a.m. wake-ups to watch game footage, the meals skipped because I lost.
“Before games...” She speaks slowly, her gaze fixed on the wood grain of the table. “I would get so worried about you. If you lost, you would... It was like you went into this unreachable, dark place. You’d disappear even when you were sitting right next to me. Nothing I did or said could help you. I could be talking, crying, begging you to eat something, and you’d just stare through me like I wasn’t there.”
“I’m sorry.” The words rip from my chest. “I had no idea it affected you so much.”
She nods once. “It was hard for me to sleep before big games, knowing that could happen. The anxiety would build for days. And then that would make me flare, and...” She shakes her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now.”
“No, it does matter.” I reach across the table to take her hand.
Our gazes drop to where we’re touching. Her hand is smaller than I remember, more delicate, but the warmth is the same. The jolt of connection rockets up my arm. I want more of this,to touch her everywhere, to rediscover the body I once knew better than my own.
“Sorry.” I withdraw my hand, though every cell protests.
“No, it’s okay.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“It’s... not just that.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry for the way I acted when we were together. I was a real asshat with the way I handled your condition. The way I’d suggest you just needed to exercise more, or sleep better, or try harder. Christ, I actually said those things to you. It took me a long time to—for my eyes to really open. Not until I was in the hospital, recovering from my accident.”
Her face is soft, but I know her better than that. Deep in her eyes, I can see the wall. “And why did things change at the hospital?”
“I was sharing physical therapy time with someone with CFS, and I was reminded just how hard it is. Watching them struggle through basic exercises, seeing them have to rest after walking down the hall...”
“Reminded? Or saw for the first time?”
The words land like a slap, deserved and necessary.
