Only to be devastated.
Between my parents and hockey, I was taught the values of loyalty, discipline, and love. I thought there was no greater love than the one I had for my parents. Then, I met Amy and I realized I didn’t know a damn thing about love.
I remember nights when Amy would speak about her future with absolute certainty. She was so passionate, so determined to reach kids with less, I was already planning for ways to use my future salary to help support her dream.
Although they’d met many times over video, I was working up the nerve to ask her to jump on a plane to meet my family in Ireland. I’d even priced out tickets.
That’s when the photo surfaced, poisoning everything between us.
There isn’t a single day since, regardless of who I’ve been with, when Amy hasn’t infiltrated my thoughts. I never figured out the reason she could throw us away.
Eight years ago, the photo detonated in my heart like a bomb. Back then, I’d told myself I didn’t need answers. The image was damning.
But if Amy really chose that—if she willingly stepped into that kind of spotlight, that kind of degradation—why do I feel like the town looked at me like the plague and her as something to protect?
My stomach twists.
I drag a hand through my hair, pulse picking up for no reason I want to examine. As Amy used to tell me, the equation isn’t balanced. If she’s guilty, wouldn’t this town be wary around her? Instead, they obviously care about her. Respect her.
Then, suddenly, I recall Mark the last time I brought her name up—too casual, too quick to change the subject. I remember how hard he dodged the topic of Amy back then. How easily I let him.
A dull ache starts behind my eyes as I recall the expressions that flitted across her face and for the first time in eight years, a seed of doubt filters in.
An uncomfortable thought twists my gut.What if she was telling you the truth?The realization that I could have had years with the woman I was in love with—a woman I’ve never allowed my heart to forget, whose betrayal I never could completely make sense of—sits uncomfortably.
It doesn’t make me wonder what I knew about Amy. It makes me wonder about the kind of man I am.
I shove the thought aside. Mark is my best friend. He wouldn’t lie to me. He has been by my side since college. Then a voice inside me claws to the surface.He’s also the one who told you standing beside her meant risking everything.
Hurt and fear did the rest on its own.
I recall the devastation I felt when Mark showed me the photo. His reluctant, but ashamed, “I’m sorry man.”
My hoarse reply, “It’s not your fault.”
I dredge up the fallout. My accusations. Her denial. The way I believed everything everyone else told me, refusing to let her speak. Watching her break in front of me. How her words appeared to be lies and half-truths because I knew her body. I’d kissed that constellation on her shoulder too many times to count.
Taking a swig from my water bottle, I let the cool liquid wash away the acid burning the back of my throat. I didn’t give her a chance to defend her actions. All I did was spew words of disgust and hate in her direction because I was young and convinced the people who were looking out for my best interests were people I could trust.
But what if they weren’t? After all, Amy loved me. Didn’t I owe her the chance to speak her truth?
I give a hard negative shake of my head.It can’t be.Besides, pain is an easier burden than regret. Pain allows me to move forward. I’ve learned that especially well since being told I can no longer play.
But tonight, sitting alone with the weight of her living in Willow Creek, I’m being pulled into a vortex of what ifs?
What if I’d done things differently?
What if I’d asked instead of accused?
I roll the cool bottle across my forehead as I recall the small things that wrecked my soul after Amy and I split back at OPU. I’d spiral remembering the way she used to sit cross-legged on my apartment bed explaining something she understood effortlessly while I pretended I wasn’t watching the way her eyes lit up when she talked. The way she’d steal my hoodies when she slept over.
I swallow the lump in my throat when I recall the way she believed in my future so completely it never crossed her mindthat I might be incapable of not achieving my dream of making the pros.
And for all of that, I shoved a phone in her face like I was her judge and jury.
She deserved a chance to tell her side. And maybe I’m questioning everything because I’ve always believed I’m not the kind of guy to give up on my team. But Amy was a member of my team back then. She led it.
Still, I didn’t fight for her.
