“Hey, don’t worry about me.” My breezy tone covers my sarcasm. “My heart’s broken, but I’ll survive. I always do. He was just another person who didn’t see me.” My throat squeezes but I smile, though it feels like a grimace. “I know I never mattered to you. So I’m used to it.”
His face tightens.
“I’m sorry I acted out. When I was a teenager. It was hard losing Mom, and all I wanted was to know I was loved and that I belonged somewhere. I thought I could get your attention that way. It worked but in the wrong way.” I laugh lightly. “I just pissed you off even more. But I got my shit together and figured out what was important. I had to make sure Cat didn’t feel the same way I did.”
He stares at me. “I wasn’t angry at you.”
“Oh, come on.” My smile wobbles. “Sure, you were.”
“I was heartbroken, too,” he says quietly.
I go motionless and shut up.
His jaw tightens.
“What?” I stare at him.
“Losing Kim,” he says in a low voice. “I loved her. Of course I was heartbroken.”
I blink slowly, once, twice. Now I’m confused. He was heartbroken? He might as well have told me he’s flying to the moon tomorrow.
He has a heart?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Of course.”
“Did you break up with Cooke because of what he did to Brent Schneider?”
My forehead puckers. “No! Of course not.”
“That was ugly.”
I stare at him. “He didn’t intend to hurt that man. He would never do that. In a split second, going eleventy billion miles per hour, he made a wrong decision.”
He listens, eyes sharp.
“He feels terrible about it,” I add, although that’s an understatement. “He feels terrible that people would think he would do that. I can’t believe you do.”
“I never said I think that.”
“His whole life is hockey. Everything he does is to make him a better player. You should be grateful to have him on your team.”
Vince sighs. “I know.”
31
Owen
I return to the press box just in time for the national anthems.
I don’t hear the music. I just hear Emerie say in her fake cheery voice, Just another person who didn’t see me.
I shouldn’t have stopped to listen outside the door of Mr. D’s box. But I heard her voice, and…I eavesdropped. And had my heart fucking sliced up.
I saw her.
I saw her.
I saw her.
I saw a beautiful, big-hearted woman who cares about her sister and gave up so much so she wouldn’t feel the same sense of invisibility. So she would feel seen. I saw a talented musician who sacrificed a music career for her sister. I saw a woman who loved me. Whose heart I broke.
I know I never mattered to you. So I’m used to it.
She’s used to not mattering.
She should never be fucking used to that. She does matter. She matters so goddamn much. And I’m an asshole for not telling her that.
I’ve been a miserable prick since she left. And not just because of what happened on the ice that night. Or the fucking abuse I’ve taken and that my parents have taken.
It’s because I miss her.
She didn’t stay at my place that long. I kept telling myself she was a distraction. I kept telling myself I needed to ignore her so I could focus on hockey. That was the worst thing I could have done to someone who feels invisible. Who feels like she doesn’t matter.
I did it to protect myself. And I fucking hurt her.
Christ.
That’s what asshole Vince D’Agostino did to her, and now I’ve done the same.
I sit only because everyone else is. I’m staring at the ice but don’t even see the players or the faceoff.
I’m a shithead.
Beave shoots me a glance. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You made a noise…I thought maybe you have diarrhea or something.”
I choke. “Um. No.”
“Okay,” he says doubtfully, returning his gaze to the ice.
“I’m gonna get a coffee.” I stand.
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“I do now.”
I hate coffee. I stumble over to the buffet area where the team puts out food for the press and staff. I fill a cardboard cup from the coffee urn and slurp some down. Ugh.
Everyone’s focused on the game, the crowd cheering for something. I should be focused on the game. Right now, I don’t give a shit. I have to get my head on straight.
He feels terrible that people would think he would do that. I can’t believe you do.
I hear her words to Vince again.
You should be grateful to have him on your team.
She defended me to Vince.
Even though I broke her heart, she defended me. Christ.
I love her.
But I don’t deserve her.
Do you ever choose which will be the last bite you eat, so your mouth will remember it?
I smile twists up my mouth.
There should be a rule that if they shoot the puck over the glass, they have to go get it.
I huff out a laugh and rub my mouth.
I remember how hard we laughed when she thought the end of the belt of her life jacket was a snake in the water. She laughed at herself. I love that.
I remember her standing up to Vince. I remember her playing her guitar and singing to me.
I love her. Even though I think she should do more with her musical talent. Even though I think she was consumed with her need to take care of Cat at her own expense. Even though she got me involved in that crazy scheme that may have cost me the All Star Game. That could still cost me my job here. After this suspension, nobody would question why Mr. D would trade me away.
For some reason, that doesn’t strike fear into my heart like it once did. Because after the last week, losing my job here doesn’t seem nearly as bad as losing Emerie.
I’m surviving without hockey. I’ve found something that gives me a purpose other than hockey. And I lost something that gives me a purpose other than hockey. Mr. Julian’s words have replayed over and over in my head: Hockey will end. Family and love are all we really have.
He is so fucking right.
I look down at the empty cup in my hand. I drank the whole cup of gross brown water. I crumple it and drop it in a waste bin, then return to my seat.
Is it possible…that hockey has become an addiction for you?
I hear Hellsy’s voice in my head, asking that question.
Ridiculous.
I think about more of the shit they said. About people who are workaholics using work as a way to distract themselves from what’s really going on in their lives. About how Millsy talked to his dead brother. But I never talked to Eric. Because I was pissed at him.
Pissed at him for giving up. For hurting Mom and Dad. For hurting…me.
Jesus. The pressure behind my eyes grows, my throat constricting. “I need more coffee,” I choke out to Beave, before rushing out of the press box.
I arrive in Sarnia around four in the afternoon.
The team’s on a road trip to Detroit and Pittsburgh, and I’m not with them. So I made a quick trip, flying to Toronto then renting a car and driving here.