For the first time in therapy, I’m facing a challenge I am not certain I’m ready for.
Not yet.
Not because it’s hard but because I’m not certain I’m worthy.
The house is quiet when I finish. My letter to myself sits in front of me. I scrawled my name at the bottom like a signature on a contract I can’t back out of. Because that’s what it is. A contract with myself to be better.
I read it aloud. “This letter isn’t about punishing the boy you were. It’s taking responsibility for the man you want to be.”
My voice sounds strange in the empty room—rougher than it did in my head. I lean back in the chair and keep reading, letting the words exist outside of me.
“I will not be the man I was all those years ago. But I don’t get to inflict change on anyone else. My growth doesn’t erase the impact of my past hurt. It will have to answer for it.”
Ever since I started playing, I realized I relied on the high of hockey to validate me. I narrowed my world to what was immediately in front of me—the puck, the play, the next hit. Everything else became background noise.
Especially people.
I keep reading. “I have to accept that my regret may be too late. I may not be able to fix it, despite desperately wanting to. That’s why it’s so important to listen to the boundaries Amy has for me in her life.”
That one lands harder because hockey rewarded decisiveness. Action. You anticipate, react, dominate. There’s no room for ambiguity when your livelihood depends on performance. But somewhere along the way, I stopped slowing down long enough tohearthe person who was supposed to mean the most to me.
I swallow and keep going. “I don’t get to demand or barter for Amy’s forgiveness. Forgiveness isn’t the goal. My integrity is.”
I consider what my parents gave up to give me the opportunities they did and the responsibilities I applied to myself. “When the photo of Amy surfaced back in college, my first instinct wasn’t to protect the person I loved. After all, hockey gave me structure. My family gave me the opportunity to play. How could I do anything but protect both of those things first? The problem is, I chose wrong. I was supposed to be a protector. A leader. A partner. I walked out of those roles to protect my future.”
I was weak when I should have demonstrated I was strong. That’s on me. I keep reading. “I have to stop rushingoutcomes. Stop rewriting narratives. Stop mistaking proximity for progress.”
I reach the final lines. “I broke trust and it’s up to me to repair it. Regardless if Amy never allows me into her heart again, I will become someone she can rely on. Safe. Worthy of her regard. Any more than that is not up to me.”
I set the paper down and let the silence settle around me. For the first time in years, I feel steady. Folding the letter carefully, I slide it into an envelope so I can place it with the others I wrote. I scrawl my name across the front. “This is it. Your accountability for the man you want to become.”
Just the knowledge that I’m not that man causes an ache in my chest. Tomorrow, the world can see how much I’m changing. Tonight, I sit here with the knowledge I needed long before my relationship with Amy imploded.
24
CHIP AND CHASE: LIGHTLY TAPPING THE PUCK PAST DEFENDERS AND PURSUING IT
For the next few weeks, destiny decided I should run into Brennan everywhere I turn.
The first time our carts collided at Cedar Grocery.
He rounded an end cap at the exact moment I was escaping the pasta aisle, boxed linguine lining the bottom of my cart like I’m stashing it away for the apocalypse. The collision wasn’tdramatic—no spilled produce, no jars breaking—but it was enough to jolt both of us back a step.
“Sorry—” came out of our mouths in unison before we realized who, exactly, we had played Demolition Derby—Grocery Store Edition with.
Seeing me, his face transformed. He grinned the way people do when they are thrilled at the way fate intervenes before he tampered his enthusiasm down. “Amy, good to see you.” He said.
“You too. Picking up anything special?”
“Just the usual staples.” He glanced down at my cart and a smile broke across his face. “You still buy pasta like you’re feeding the southern coast of Italy.”
I peruse his before retorting, “And you still shop like a man convinced protein will magically bond with your muscles,” I eye the alarming quantity of chicken breasts and eggs.
“Now, I have an excuse. Concussion protocol.”
I leaned on my cart. “Really?”
He gives me the high level low down on how he needs to increase protein to assist with tissue healing and recovery. I roll my eyes. “You’re just making that up.”
