I lift my hand. “No.”
They all gape at me before “What?” and “Why not?” are bellowed in my direction. I nod at Maya. “I’m not telling Bren regardless of what you find out.”
“Why wouldn’t you…” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Because if he wouldn’t believe me on my word alone after all these years, if he wouldn’t trust me, then he doesn’t get to know the truth when we find out the facts.” My voice is devoid of emotion.
Emery takes a deep breath, like she’s about to say something, when I go on. “He cared more about his reputation, his career, than me. That’s it. We find out the truth so it doesn’t impact my future, but I owe him nothing.”
Christin squeezes my fingers. “Then we’ll find out the truth, and we’ll help you move on. Okay?”
I nod.
Somehow, someway, I’ll do just that.
One day.
1
PLAYER DOWN: STANDARD PHRASE USED BY OFFICIALS AND BROADCASTERS
Seven Years Later
Ieducated myself on how to bury the past. It was a hard lesson, but one I excelled at.
One of the ways I know I succeeded is because I resumed watching my favorite sports team of all time—the Oklahoma Kings—despite the player drafted to their team seven years ago.
Brennan McCallister.
Just because I haven’t spoken his name aloud in years, doesn’t mean there’s not a part of me that still belongs to him. His dismissal of me when I needed him the most carved out a piece of my heart—more so than the lies that tried to bring me down. I hate how affected I am knowing about his life, his success. That after all these years, and the times I’ve tried to move on, the deadened part of my heart is still owned by him.
I hate that a part of me bleeds a little every time the camera cuts too close to his face.
It’s a stain on my happiness. Much like the way my fingers will never quite be clean as a result of using dry erase markers day after day while I pack knowledge into the already crowded minds of my students.
While I have a chance of removing leftover ink, the hole in my heart hasn’t healed in the way I hoped it would given time and distance.
I mumble, “Whoever said that has no scientific proof to back it up.” I’m all too familiar with time not healing all wounds. Neither does understanding that love and trust aren’t synonymous with one another. In the game my heart plays every day, they’re bitter rivals.
Much like the rivalry between the Kings and Connecticut’s Mystic Mariners playing out on my screen.
Commentators drone on about the playoff implications of tonight’s win if the Kings can pull it off. How, “Due to the King’s defense, there have been twenty-five percent less shots taken on goal this season.”
I lower the volume a smidge. I’m stuck inside the memory of when the man they’re discussing as a statistic used to be the king of my heart.
Before everything happened, Brennan fed my heart and soul. He was the person I never imagined living without. The man who I believed I’d spend the rest of my life with.
My hands tremble in my lap when I recount the differences in our lives.
He made every single one of his dreams come true. NHL? Right out of college. MVP? Yep. Stanley Cup? Twice already. He’s been photographed with models and superstars. I refuse to admit to anyone the first time it happened, I sobbed under the full spray of my shower until it became too cold to withstand.
Despite his success, he’s generally admired as a good guy.
Too bad he couldn’t be one when it counted,I think.
The crowd’s shrieks of excitement pull me away from my memories. The game on the television is heating up, and along with it my excitement. As an Oklahoma native, I was a Kings fan long before Brennan joined the team. It’s my everlasting wish he gets traded to Seattle or Minnesota where I can try to actively hate him.
Maybe then I can truly put the events of the past behind me and move forward because seeing him like this? Seeing him flourish? It’s a continuous reminder I was once loved by him.
