“What did running give you?” she asks.
The question hits harder than anything else so far.
“Nothing,” I say immediately.
She tilts her head slightly. “Then why do it?”
My throat tightens.
“Because if I stayed,” I say slowly, “I’d have to see myself clearly. And I didn’t know how to be that person.”
She nods, like that makes sense. We talk about fear. About identity. About what happens when your sense of self is built on control and image and being untouchable, and how panic sets in the moment that illusion cracks.
“You can’t repair what you won’t fully face,” she says gently. “And repair doesn’t start with forgiveness. It starts with consistency.”
I leave the session drained and strangely steadied, like something raw has finally been exposed to air.
At the rink, the season end loom closer with every shift. The tension is palpable with tight smiles, clipped conversations, and the way everyone moves like they’re holding their breath. This is usually where I thrive. Where pressure sharpens me. Now, it forces restraint. Coach notices during video review.
“You’re playing quieter,” he says.
“More controlled,” I correct.
He watches the screen for a moment longer before nodding. “Good. Heroics lose games.”
We talk afterward. Not about stats or minutes or matchups, but about the future and about who you are when the jersey comes off.
“You won’t play forever,” he says. “You need to know who you are without it.”
That night’s game is tight and physical. I keep my head down, make smart decisions, don’t chase glory. When I score, it’s because I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, not because I forced the moment. The crowd roars anyway.
That night, I sit at my kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper and a pen. I don’t rush. I don’t start withDear Rose. And I just breathe.
When I do write, it’s slower than I expect. Deliberate. I don’t explain the accident again. She’s read it. Lived it. I don’t justify the fear or the silence.
I don’t saybut I loved you.
Instead, I write:
I am sorry I let you build trust on incomplete truth.
I am sorry I took away your choice.
I am sorry that my fear became your pain.
My hand shakes, but I keep going.
You don’t owe me forgiveness.
You don’t owe me access to you.
If we never speak again, I will still carry responsibility for what I did.
I fold the letter carefully, seal it, and sit with it for a long moment like it’s something alive. Then I take it to Lukas. He doesn’t open it. Just looks at me like he’s seeing me without the armour for the first time.
“When she’s ready,” I say.
He nods. “She will be.”
