“You don’t need me, you need a shrink, Eli,” she tells me firmly but with a gentle tone and softness in her eyes. “Traumatic events and near-death experiences like having your neck ripped open leave scars, and not just physical ones. I know you know this. Deep down. What I don’t know is why you aren’t doing something about it.”
“It’s not the fucking accident,” I growl, and the sound is so foreign even to me it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “I am not some basket case who can’t take a goddamn hit. I’ve had a ton of accidents on the ice. I’ve had a concussion, I’ve had my lip split, my wrist broken, my—”
“You almost bled to death!” she says so loud it’s almost a scream, and it startles both of us. My eyes fly to the door. If anyone heard that outside we’re fucked. She must realize that too, because she takes a shuddering breath and lowers her voice. “Goddamn it, Elijah, you’re still a man if you stop acting like everything is a joke and admit that it was fucking terrifying. In fact, it would make you more of a man.”
“Well, at least I don’t want to kiss you anymore,” I snap. I can see the hurt splash across her face, but I storm for the door anyway.
“You do agree with me. You just won’t admit it, because you have some ridiculous sense of pride that is going to tank your career before it even begins,” she says tersely. “This is because of your parents.”
That freezes me in my tracks like someone poured quick-setting cement into my veins. “Excuse me?”
Slowly I turn to face her again, rage and indignation flushing my skin.
“They’re uptight. They’re cold,” she explains quietly, clearly hoping it softens the blow of reality. “They frown on emotions, and seeing a shrink would be like admitting you’re defective, but guess what? We’re all defective. No one is perfect. We’re all fucked up, and we all need help! Perfect is creepy. Do you want to be creepy, or do you want to be an amazing goalie again?”
“Fuck. Do you even know the meaning of the word ‘subtle’?” I bark and reach for the door handle. “It’s a good thing your sister is the nurse, because your bedside manner would fucking kill people.”
I storm out into the hall, but she’s right behind me, nowhere near ready to let this go. She comes around beside me and veers me toward the wall. I stop and glare at her. She looks hurt and maybe even a little intimidated and a lot tired. She glances around the hall, making sure no one is in earshot. “I’m sorry, Eli. I’m not trying to be cruel, but I’ve learned that sugarcoating things or ignoring problems doesn’t make them go away.”
“You’re not really a girl with a lot of problems,” I say flatly. “You just have to stop screwing me and your life is fine.”
Her face twists into pure disbelief and the hurt on her features slips into anger. “My father is slowly dying in front of me, little by little, every damn day, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do but watch. That’s a problem-free life to you?”
I am, officially, without a doubt, the biggest asshole on the planet. Such a big asshole I am at a complete loss for words, so I just stare at her with a stricken look.
“Yeah. I know you know about my dad’s ALS. You just forgot for a second. It’s fine. We haven’t talked about it. Because we don’t seem to talk about anything that matters,” she whispers, her eyes glancing down the hall again before landing on mine. “And that’s even more reason why this needs to stop. I shouldn’t get serious about someone who doesn’t take anything seriously. My career is serious. My life, the things I’m going to have to eventually face with my dad, are all serious. I can’t let myself fall any further.”
She takes a step back, straightens her shoulders and focuses those gorgeous blue eyes on something behind me.
“Okay! Let me take you in.” She steps away from me and I watch her walk toward the group of reporters making their way down the hall toward us. “Eli is out tonight, folks, but Jude and Levi are available for questions and you know Jude loves to talk about any game he wins—incessantly—so I’m sure he’ll give you an earful.”
I watch her walk away. As the press enters the locker room she glances back at me. She looks wounded, but I’m the one who feels like there’s a gaping hole in my chest suddenly.
22
Elijah
I’d say she broke up with me, but we weren’t together to begin with—technically—so that’s not what this is. It just feels like that. We’ve been avoiding each other. It’s amazing how easy it’s been to not run into her even though we spend a huge amount of time in the same building. I reacted badly—to everything—six days ago at the arena. I know that now that the anger has subsided. I just hate being ignored. My parents used this tactic on us growing up. If we had an opinion they didn’t like, they didn’t talk it out with us, they ignored us. If we did something they didn’t like, they didn’t ground us, but they gave us the silent treatment. That set me off, and then the way she ripped into me—accurate or not—about my injury and then my parents was too much. It was like she walked up and tore a Band-Aid off the gaping hole inside of me where I store all the bullshit I don’t want to deal with. I wasn’t ready for that, but I needed it. I know that now, as my second appointment with my sports psychologist comes to a close.
I have to admit to myself, it’s not at all as painful as I thought it would be. The guy is relaxed and friendly. He doesn’t make me lie on the couch—in fact, there isn’t even a couch in his office. We sit in armchairs across from each other, and we’ve started both sessions just shooting the shit about hockey—how the team is doing, who played who the night before. Somehow, without me even realizing it, we talk about me—my feelings on everything from hockey to life and how everything has changed since the injury. It’s the second session in five days and I’m already feeling a little more grounded than I have in two years. I’m sharing shit with him I’ve never said out loud to anyone. And it’s not weird or humiliating. It actually just feels good to get it off my chest.
“Listen,” he says as he glances at the clock. “I watched some of the footage from a game a couple weeks ago. I saw you kind of panic when that neck guard came off, but you didn’t let that fear take you under like it seems to have in the past. When you came back out you had a great game. What did you do differently?”
I know exactly what grounded me. What gave me confidence. I just can’t say it here. He apparently sees that on my face, because he smiles encouragingly. “I don’t tell your coaches a word of what we say in here. Not one.”
“Levi told me to give up everything else and make hockey my only focus,” I tell him, rubbing my palms nervously on my jeans.
He looks skeptical. “And that worked?”
“No. I did the opposite,” I say vaguely.
He waits patiently for more.
“There’s a woman who means a lot to me. But our relationship is complicated, and we’ve been pushing each other away. I saw her while I was waiting for my neck guard to be fixed and…I didn’t push her away. She makes me feel like the person I was before this bullshit accident took over my brain. And then I’m able to be that person again.”
He nods. Just nods, like I don’t sound at all codependent or insane. “It’s not the woman. It’s your instincts. You give in to them when she’s around. You don’t second-guess yourself or get caught up in the past. Don’t rely on her for that. You need to start doing that when she’s not there to remind you.”
Huh. The little timer on his desk dings, signifying the end of our session. We stand and he shakes my hand. “I have you scheduled for next Tuesday.”
