“Uh.” The attempt at a word is definitely more sound than syllable when the first tear tracks down my cheek. My hands flex, curling in and out of fists as though I can keep anything in now that it’s broken free. “I’m her dad,” I finally gasp out, dragging in a ragged breath before saying what I need to. “I’m supposed to protect her, and I couldn’t—It wasmewho hurt her. I can’t do that again.”
I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with the heaving sobs that course through me. Seconds that feel like hours pass until I can manage a breath without feeling another fissure in my soul crack open. Through it all, Adam hasn’t spoken. Now, his arm is extended, the box of tissues clutched in his hand. I take a couple, wiping my face and blowing my nose. I don’t know what to do with them, so I tuck them into my lap.I’ll need to throw these in the trash,I think, a strange thing to consider.
“It was her fatherbeing hurtthat hurt her,” Adam says after a long pause. “That makes it easy to know she loves you a lot.” He sets the tissue box on the side table before leaning forward on his elbows. “The guilt you feel—that beast that’s eating you up inside right now—that’s a natural extension of being a parent.It’s primal to want to protect your kid, even when you know you’re never going to be able to shield her from everything. Harder when you’re involved in it. She wasn’t alone during your hospital recovery, right?”
“No,” I begin, the intensity of my guilt melting into a familiar warmth. “Bea was with her. She, uh, took a leave of absence from work and has been with us. She stayed with Nat, took her to school, and helped keep her in the routine until I woke up. Bea helped her through every bad dream, answered every question, brought her to the hospital…”
“An impressive woman,” Adam comments. We sit in companionable silence for a moment as I think of howimpressivedoesn’t even begin to describe just how amazing Beatrice Farrow is. “Nicky.” Adam pulls my attention to him. He’s back to leaning in his chair, feet propped up and crossed at the ankles. “Can you tell me about playing hockey?”
“Uh, sure.” I stumble over the question even if it’s one I’ve answered a hundred times. My confusion must be clear, because Adam offers a guiding explanation.
“I’d just like to know more about how you feel about the game.”
I talk about how the ice shaped my childhood; the hours spent in the local arena with a mismatched group of other kids in my second-hand gear. Every time I tied my skates, I felt like I was a superhero. Only I wasn’t imbued with powers or fighting a villain. I just felt larger than life. Better than the cozy but old apartment I lived in. Stronger than the taunts I’d get for my duct-tape blocker. The game was magic.
I breeze through my high-school years, when I believed, if I worked hard enough, I’d manage to show a scout for a college—anycollege—that I was worth a scholarship. I fought every day to prove myself, keeping up my grades and my save percentage. I was going to make something of myself, and hockey would bethe way I’d do it. The sting of rejection when no scouts came to my lowly division four games tried to dull the shine. But I refused to give up.
Instead, I took a job at the nearby AHL arena as a Zamboni driver, and talked my way into getting ice time—and eventually practice sessions with the team. Adam smiles when I recall the game that changed everything: the night I stepped into the goal for the team as an emergency backup goalie. I felt like I belonged. That I had finally made it.
“That’s how I eventually ended up with The Midnight,” I finish. “I know I have skills, but there was a shit ton of dumb luck, too.”
“It’s an amazing story. Especially before the age of twenty-five and with a small child,” Adam marvels, and I consider how impressive it sounds when boiled down to such simplistic terms. But I know how hard I worked. The sacrifices I made. “And now?”
“Now what?” I ask.
“Does hockey still make you feel that way? Like magic? Like the place you belong?” He steeples his fingers in front of his face, elbows on the arms of the chair. Maybe he can sense that his nonchalant question has rocked me, or maybe it’s just his style, but he pushes on. “You said you were supposed to protect Natalia, but you couldn’t protect her from yourself. I take that to mean you couldn’t keep your injury from happening.” His eyebrow lifts for confirmation, and I nod. “You also said you couldn’t do it again.”
I don’t register that I said it, but as Adam leaves his trail of breadcrumbs, I know I must have. I follow them without prompting, recognizing why my therapist has led me down this line of thought. How crafty and clever, but necessary. It’s the second thought that has me disconnecting lately, and I’m amazed this man has figured it out already.
“It would be completely reasonable for the trauma of what happened to build a fear of returning to the ice.” Adam is patient, slowly leading me through the tangled thoughts I haven’t voiced, but are sitting just under the surface. “It doesn’t need an answer because we can work through it together, but have you asked yourself the question: do you want to play again?”
I pullmyself out of Natalia’s bed, satisfied that she’s finally asleep. The tiny snores that sneak past her lips give a strong indication that she’s deep in slumberland and I can make my exit. On quiet feet, I pad out of her room, closing the door behind me and walking down the stairs toward the firelight coming from the living room.
Tucked into the corner of the sectional, under an impressively fluffy blanket, Bea’s knees are underneath her. The pile of melted chocolate curls on top of her head bobs a little as she types on her phone. Her fingers fly for a few more seconds before she tosses the device onto the coffee table. When she relaxes into the cushions, she sighs deeply, as though she is expelling demons, not unplugging for the evening.
“Everything all right,solnyshka?” I ask, crossing the space before settling at her side. I stretch my long legs onto the edge of the table and offer an arm to let Bea snuggle close if she wants. She doesn’t take the offer, and I try not to feel disappointed.
“Trinity is messagingmebecause she can’t seem to getyouto answer her. And I’m running out of things to tell her.” There’s no reproach in her tone, only irritation. My arm falls to my side,just like the good mood I had worked up to after my therapy appointment. Bea digs her fingers into the texture of the blanket and continues, “Andy and the crew are getting restless. They’ve been putting pressure on Ava and the department to start giving more access to your recovery.
“Apparently, my updates ‘lack the details essential to the narrative.’ The documentary isn’t supposed to cover just your life on the ice, but with your privacy requests for Nat, we were able to really keep the focus in the arena,” Bea explains. “Now, well, there’s a bit of a gray area. You’re not on the ice.” She reaches out to hold my forearm in gentle comfort. “They aren’t satisfied with updates—they want access.”
“Becausethisis where the story is now.” I nod, seeing things from their perspective. Bea squeezes my arm once.
“But if you’re not ready, or if you don’t think you’ll ever be ready, I can help you tell them.” An adorable crinkle furrows her brow, and I reach a hand up to smooth the skin. I try to let the motion do more than that—to soothe her unspoken concerns and silent questions. I should have known Bea had caught me, my moods. But this woman gives me space and silent support as I work through all I didn’t know I needed to.
Now, I lift my arm once more and guide Bea against me. She comes willingly, melting into my side, the place I’ll keep her tucked forever because it’s where I need her.
“There wasn’t some bright light, or people I loved standing in a warm glow,” I begin. I press my lips to her forehead and breathe in the orange and elderflower scent of her skin. “Just darkness.”
“Nicky—”
“Let me talk about it.” Bea has stiffened in my embrace. I rub my hand up and down her arm, trying to release some of her tension. The process grounds me. “I remember seeing the shot. Hearing the sound. It’s what came after I don’t have myown memories of. I see what I’ve been told. Remember what other people know.” I let my fingers curl around Bea’s shoulder. “But, for me, there really wasn’t anything that happened other than the darkness. It didn’t feel scary, just peaceful. Like if I was wrapped in it forever, I was going to be okay.”
A shuddering hiccup sounds from Bea, and I encourage her to twist to look up at me. The usual warm brown of her eyes is dull behind a tide of tears, primed to fall in a blink. I slide my hand into her hair, cradling the base of her skull, holding her as my thumb catches the first salty drop and swipes it away.
“Only I didn’t want to,” I confess. “I couldn’t fight my way out, but I didn’t need to. Telling the darkness I wasn’t ready to stay seemed to be enough. Slowly, it unraveled around me. Releasing me.”
“When you woke up?” Bea asks, her breath hitching on an inhale.
