I’d overdone it this week. Practice should have been enough. I should have come home, had a hot shower, and crawled into bed to get rest for our next few games. Instead, each night I’d taken out my frustrations afterward.
I tiptoed down the hall into the living room. The apartment was dim except for the soft glow of the lamp Bianca always forgot to turn off. I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and went into the living room, collapsing onto the couch, fixing pillows behind my back, then adjusting the ice pack, trying to find a position that didn’t make me want to put my fist through a wall.
I calmed my breathing, lying there in the quiet, begging for the pain to dissipate, when I heard the click of a door openand light spill out into the hallway. The last thing I wanted was company; besides, the light had been off under her door when I’d come out here, so I knew she’d been sleeping.
I held my breath, praying she went into the bathroom and did her business, but then she appeared in the hallway, her hair messy from sleep. She looked comfortable in the oversized Boston University sweatshirt she was wearing. She slowly stepped into the living room and stopped, surprised to see me.
“Oh. You’re up.”
Perhaps she hadn’t been sleeping. Maybe she’d heard me flopping side to side in bed, groaning in pain. Perhaps she was contemplating the events that had happened this week, trying to determine if she should report me or not. Maybe she’d been researching rehabilitation protocols on that tablet she carried everywhere, or building her case to have me benched like the good little athletic trainer she was.
It was then I noticed her eyes went from me to the ice pack that rested against my shoulder. Her expression turned soft, something that resembled understanding.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I muttered.
Bianca took a hesitant step into the room, the hem of the shirt brushing against her thighs. Immediately, I averted my eyes as heat began crawling up my neck.
“Neither could I,” she answered softly.
She took a seat at the end of the couch, far from me, but yet close enough I could feel her warmth on my foot. Then the silence became tense as she stared at the ice pack.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she said, finally looking at me.
“It’s fine,” I muttered, closing my eyes as pain shot up into my jaw. “We hockey players ice things all the time.”
“You say that…and while that may be true, your shoulder is killing you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t really have to know someone to recognize pain. I know what it’s like to pretend everything is okay and that you have everything under control, even when you don’t. To be so afraid to show the vulnerable side of yourself, you forget what it feels like…to be human.”
She pulled her knees to her chest, covering her legs with her shirt, and sat there. I hated seeing the expression she wore, mainly because it made my chest tighten. I saw a concern and a softness that I didn’t deserve from her.
I met her eyes and frowned. Was she talking about me or about herself, about the front she put on at every meeting, every practice, and every single interaction she’d had with me aside from our perfect Sunday. The performance she’d perfected of someone who was always in control until it replaced the real her.
She got up and moved over to the ottoman beside me—the one she placed her laptop on every night as she worked–and sat down.
“Just know that you don’t have to be perfect. Not with me.”
She got up and left the room, turning the light on in the kitchen. I could hear her opening and closing drawers, then the microwave started, and soon after she appeared in the living room holding one of my heating bags. She walked over, sat back down beside me, and ever so gently placed her hand on mine as she looked into my eyes. She carefully pried the ice pack from my hands but left the towel on my shoulder, where she placed the heating pad on my shoulder and looked at me.
“Better?” she asked softly.
“I’m not pretending to be perfect, Bianca,” I said, clearing my throat.
“You are,” she said, softly smiling. “All the time. It’s okay, I understand. I just want you to know that I am here to help you, even if you don’t want or think you need it.”
I swallowed hard, trying to swallow the truth that had been sitting in my throat, burning.
“If I admit it’s bad, if I ask for help…I know where this is going to lead. I watched my father need people. It destroyed his marriage, his relationship with me, and the man and the player he was.”
She placed her small hand on the center of my chest. “You’re afraid of needing someone.”
She shifted closer, just an inch, but it felt like she’d closed the gap between us. Her eyes were warm, showing me she really cared.
“Needing someone isn’t the same as being a weak person. Sometimes, allowing yourself to need someone is the bravest thing you can do,” she whispered.
I studied her. Her eyes were warm, her lips parted, her breath shallow. She offered me something I’d never received before. She was showing me someone who looked at someone broken and moved closer instead of moving away. This was more terrifying than any attraction I’d ever felt. I slowly brought my hand up, cupping her cheek, and felt myself leaning in.
