I can hear the seconds ticking by in my ears, my heart racing to double the pace. They were supposed to saythank youand move on. I didn’t prepare for a follow-up offer to join.
My stomach drops through the floor, and my palms heat up, perspiration forming on my skin against the phone. I know they want me to attend a game, but I just can’t.
At first, I put it off because I wanted to heal, but here I am, two years later, still avoiding the arena like a plague. I’ve gone this long, so why stop now? If anything, the anxiety to return has only grown with time.
Now, it seems like an impossible task, one I’m not sure I’m even capable of doing anymore.
Another text comes through.
Dammit, I took too long, thinking about my response, and they got impatient.
Embarrassment snakes around my throat like a noose.
Hallie: No stress, babe! Next time! Or maybe we can all grab lunch soon. Group date.
Britt: Ooh, yes, please! At your place so we can cuddle with Kyle.
Hallie: Don’t be rude and needy.
Britt: You know I’m a needy girl.
Hallie: Trust me, as your friend, I know!
Yeah maybe. Good luck guys! <3
My heart swells, warming me to the core. God, I love these girls so much.
They’re truly my best friends in the entire world, and I’ve been the absoluteworstfriend to them. They deserve better because I don’t even know who I am right now. I’ve been struggling to figure that out for the last two years.
Who the hell is Shay Rooney without hockey?
A great goddamn question.
I swipe out of the texts altogether, intent on avoiding the group chat for the rest of the day.
My thumb hovers over the app I have no busy diving into—Instagram. It’s the one I try avoiding as much as possible.
My home page is flooded with hockey of all kinds, but worse than that are the linked articles about me, even two years after the fact, and it’s exhausting. I know what happened was a fluke, once-in-a-lifetime accident, and it’s horrible. People are fascinated learning about what happened, but I don’t need that reminder—my body is enough.
I’m less than a second from giving in to my own self-deprecating curiosity when an email notification comes through. It’s from Lorea, my therapist.
Good morning. Here is our zoom link for today’s session. See you shortly.
She’ll be proud that I didn’t follow through on an Instagram dive off the deep end this morning.
Glancing at the time in the top-right corner, I sigh, my leisurely morning time quickly running out. I meet with Lorea in thirty minutes, and I still want to shower and braid my hair so it’s out of the way.
Kyle groans in bed next to me, stretching his legs out as far as he can, and my heart skips a beat at his cuteness. His eyes flutter open, and he looks up at me, his round brown eyes immediately finding my blue ones.
“Good morning, baby,” I coo, reaching over and petting his head. “You’re such a good boy.”
His tail starts to wag under his little blanket, and my heart nearly melts out of my chest.
I can’t believe that I’ve only had Kyle for a few months. I swear he came into my life right before I needed him most.
Britt wanted to go volunteer at one of the local shelters, and I decided to tag along with her. It was great. We took dogs for walks, helped clean out cages, and did anything they needed.
You could say we went above and beyond with our care because I left with a new dog and Britt left with three staff members’ numbers.
