“I’m nervous.” I let her see the feeling splash across my face from my wrinkled brow to the frown turning the corner of my mouth down. Bea’s warm brown eyes convey gentleunderstanding. She lifts a hand, holding me behind the neck to pull my lips to hers in a reassuring kiss.
“Of course you are,” Bea says as though it makes sense. But it doesn’t to me. Hockey was my first love—before Natalia, before her. I’ve missed being on the ice. I’ve missed my teammates. I’ve missed playing. I learned to skate before I learned how to ride a bike, and I have never been nervous to lace up. She presses her forehead against mine, somehow reading each unspoken thought. “You wouldn’t care about this—it wouldn’t meaneverythingto you—if you weren’t.”
I let out a sigh, then cup her face with my hands. Her skin is soft in my touch, the citrus of her shampoo floating up to blend with the cedarwood of my cologne. The blend of it, of the two of us, washes over me. I close my eyes, letting our scent and having Bea in my arms ground me.
“Thank you,” I tell her, opening my eyes so she can see how deeply I mean it. “Not just for being here right now, but for everything. For being who you are. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She kisses me again. The short, sweet press of her lips sealing in the words. “You can do this.”
We hold each other a moment longer before I nod and make to get out of the car. I meet Bea on her side, offering my hand to help her out. Her heeled boots offer a boost in height, making it easier to wrap my arm around her waist. Together, we make our way into the facility. With each step closer, I feel the weeks between my time here.
Inside the lobby, we split. Bea takes the elevator to her office, and I continue past reception into the hallway that will lead to the locker rooms. I swipe my credentials against the keypad, momentarily concerned I won’t be allowed access, and breathe a sigh of relief when the light turns green. Waiting inside are Trinity, Andy, and the film crew.
Like most things in my life currently, having them around since the injury is different. Without Bea acting as the buffer, I’ve had to advocate more for myself. Andy pushes my boundaries, but never crosses them. I don’t mind speaking up for myself, but there have been moments that have been distracting from my rehab.
“Good morning, Nicky!” Trinity’s bright smile greets me, and I flash a small one in return. She falls into step next to me, Andy and the crew flying into whatever prearranged position they have, and they begin filming.
“Do you think you can give Trin a rundown of what we should expect to see happen today?” Andy asks as they walk in a half-crab, half-backward position.
“Today is a regularly scheduled, pre-game skate. It’s a chance to get an extended warm-up before the game, review some plays, and practice things that need more attention,” I answer. “Some of the guys will have media obligations to deal with after. Everyone might eat together and then go home for a rest before reporting back tonight.”
“How much of that will you participate in?”
We follow the curve of the hall and collectively slow at the double doors of the locker room. The crew aren’t allowed inside, per Coach’s mandate.
“I’ll wear a non-contact jersey and skate some laps, get a feel for the ice again. The training staff, coaches, and I want to see how I perform,” I clarify, reaching a handle for the door. I suddenly can’t wait to get inside. The earlier ripples of doubt are churning into a tide of unease, my nerves spiking again.
Andy begins to ask another question, but Trinity casually encourages them to get their crew in place on the side of the rink. I give her a nod of thanks and pull the handle, the din of the locker room spilling into the hallway.
The team begins trekkingto the ice, the usual chatter filling my ears, but doing little to drown out the rushing sound of my pulse. I’m geared up—as much as I can be—and my skates are tied, but I haven’t moved from my spot on the bench seat in the locker room. I should be practically leaping and running to get back to the ice. Instead, my throat feels dry, and I can’t swallow enough times to make it less so.
“Nicky!” Leo calls from the doorway where he stands with Gus, and I welcome the distraction. “Think you can watch me shoot and tell me how it looks? Been working on something, but I haven’t gotten any in the net.”
“Because you’re giving it away! You’re telegraphing the whole thing with the way you twist your wrist, I’m telling you.” Gus nudges Leo in the chest with a gloved hand.
“When did you become an expert? Did I miss you gearing up and getting between the pipes?” Leo shoves him back. It’s light and fun, the kind of antics I’ve missed between my friends.
“I playdefense—it’s kind of my whole fucking job to know what to look for.” Gus sighs exasperatedly before turning toward the tunnel that will take him to the ice. “But Iwouldmake those pads look sexy as hell.”
“Yeah, Leo, I’ll let you know what I see,” I say before the ridiculous, juvenile squabbling can continue. Leo lifts his stick like a salute and follows after Gus. I watch them go, an odd numbness causing my fingers and toes to tingle. I flex the digits and ignore the tightening sensation clawing through my blood.
“You know you’ll have to actually get out of the locker room if you’re going to watch.” Charlie sits next to me, stretching his legs out and tapping the blade of his stick a couple of times on the floor.
“Working on it,” I tell him. I keep back the reality that I’m not sure I can actually move. It’s like I’m stuck in this spot; trapped in an unfounded fear without a name. I try to push through it, rubbing my hands over the tops of my thighs. It doesn’t help.
I sense more than see, Charlie turning toward me. Suddenly, my tongue feels too big for my mouth, and my nostrils too small to try and suck in a breath. The locker room begins to go fuzzy at the edges of my vision.
“Fuck,” Charlie spits. His stick clatters to the floor. Panic, bright and hot flashes through me. “Somebody get Doc! I need some help!”
There’s a blackness tunneling out everything I see, and my hands are at my throat, trying to tear open a way to get somedamn airin because there suddenly isn’t any. My heart is raging, beating so swiftly I think it might jackhammer its way through my ribcage.
“Charlie—” I gasp his name just as his strong arms grip my shoulders, directing my body to fall toward the open carpet, not the vestibules behind me. I land awkwardly on my back.
“Right here, man,” he reassures me. “I’m right here.”
There’s a flurry of movement and more hands touching me. I register that I’m not unconscious, but I can’t focus onanything.Can barely register any of the voices around me. My head is swimming with thoughts, each drowning me more than the last.
My heart isn’t healed.
