“Very strong,” I say, playing up my recovery a bit. She clearly needs the reassurance.
Some of the tension eases from her shoulders, but her gaze drops. “I’m really sorry I didn’t keep up with you.”
“I didn’t give you any reason to,” I say. Her head snaps up, expression filled with surprise. “You came to visit me, and I was an asshole. I didn’t talk, and it was awkward. When you left, I knew I’d probably never hear from you again, and that was my fault.”
“No,” she exclaims, straightening against the cushion. She shakes her head vehemently. “That’s not on you. You were the one seriously injured. You’re the one who saved me from certain…”
She trails off, and I don’t blame her for not being able to use words like rape and death.
“I owed it to you to be more aware of your recovery,” she murmurs, gaze once again falling away from me.
“You owed me nothing,” I assure her.
“I owe you everything,” she counters.
Sophie then puts her face into the palms of her hands and weeps.
I have no experience with this. Not sure I’ve even been around a crying woman other than my mother when she first saw me in the hospital after I came out of surgery. All my relationships—though there haven’t been many—have been too casual for tears.
It’s instinct that has me moving to the couch. I sit beside Sophie, and she doesn’t shrink away when I put my arm around her shoulders.
She doesn’t lean into me either, but rather keeps a stiff posture while she cries.
When she starts to settle, I tell her the only thing I know to be true. “You have to learn to let that stuff go, Sophie.”
She sniffles and raises her head. Her green eyes glow through her tears. “Am I allowed to feel guilty that you’re here comforting me when you were the one who was so hurt?”
“Nope,” I reply and leave it at that.
Sophie makes a choking sort of laugh and then pushes up from the couch, causing my arm to fall away. She walks over to a buffet table along one wall and reaches inside for a box of tissues. There’s no shame in the loud blowing of her nose. “You’re very kind to try to alleviate that burden from me.”
“I’m not being kind, Sophie,” I chastise. “I’m being pragmatic.”
She nods as if she understands, but I can see her struggling.
I scoot over on the couch, giving her plenty of room, and pat the cushion she vacated. “Come sit back down, and I’ll tell you all about my recovery, how badass I am in the gym, and why I decided to take this coaching position rather than try to get back on the ice.”
“You had a chance to play again?” she inquires hesitantly but doesn’t move.
“A slim shot, but there was a chance.”
“Just… wow,” she murmurs. She shakes her head in what I’m guessing is the same disbelief most people have when they take in my recovery. “Listen… I’ve got some chili simmering I made earlier and was just going to make corn bread. Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“Sure beats room service, which is what’s on the menu,” I reply. I’d wondered what that delicious smell was when I first walked in.
“Well, come on into the kitchen and tell me all about your badassery while I finish up dinner.”
It’s refreshing to see her share a little humor, but the strain around her eyes remains. I know she’s not going to give up these harsh feelings simply because I say everything’s okay.
But I’ll be glad to keep reiterating it to her. I never want her to feel an ounce of pain over what happened, as that would be as heartbreaking to me as if she’d been raped or killed.
I follow Sophie into the kitchen, taking a moment to check out her house. It’s definitely an older abode, but some updates have been done. I wonder if she did them herself or did she buy the house this way. It’s a mixture of old—faded linoleum flooring—and new cabinets with granite countertops in the kitchen. The wood floors in the living room have been recently refinished, polished to a sparkling sheen, but the walls are dated wood paneling.
I offer my help, but Sophie replies by banishing me to a chair and serving me lemonade. While she makes the corn bread and adds spices to the chili, I tell her about my lengthy recovery, leading right up to the offer to coach with the Titans.
Sophie faces me, a spoon in hand. “So you had to take a risk one way or the other… stick to rehabbing yourself to get back on the ice, or take on a new career with no experience.”
“That’s exactly what it boiled down to.”
“Not an easy choice,” she muses before turning back to stir the chili. I try very hard—really, really hard—not to notice what a great body she has, encased in a pair of faded jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of dark-gray socks. For the first time, I notice she’s wearing a Titans shirt with the recognizable logo of a flaming T in deep purple with silver outlining. It’s faded—clearly, she’s had it a long time.
Until this moment, it never even crossed my mind she’d be a fan of the very team I’ll be coaching. Then again, I should’ve assumed so. Pittsburgh is one of those cities where the fans are as plentiful and rabid as they come.
“I see you’re a fan.”
She glances over her shoulder at me. “You’d be hard-pressed to find any native Yinzer who isn’t a fan of the Titans.”
I laugh, nodding. “Well, I can get you tickets to any game you want.”
I’m expecting her to be excited by my offer, but instead, she stiffens slightly. With her back to me, she says, “That’s really sweet, but I actually don’t feel comfortable going.”
I’m stunned for a moment, not understanding what she means by that.
Before I can ask for clarification, she faces me, and I see by her expression that she’s decided to hold nothing from me. I’m glad—we share a bond, and we shouldn’t hold anything back.
“I’m, uh… having a bit of trouble getting past the fear of someone attacking me again. I don’t go out much.”
The minute the words are out of her mouth, she braces for my reply. Her body tenses, her chin sticks out a bit, and her eyes take on an icy edge. That response alone tells me exactly how people have been treating her admitted fear, and I’m guessing it’s been with zero validation.
“I hate that you’re feeling this way,” I say. “Trauma like what we experienced can hang around for a long damn time.”
Those were the right words, as gratitude shines in her eyes, and her shoulders relax slightly. Her stare never wavers. “Are you scared?”
I’m honest with her. “Not of being attacked again. But I’ve been living under a fear of not being normal again.”
Sophie lets out a humorless laugh. “I feel so silly being obsessed with this fear. Practically, I know the chances of it ever happening again are small.”
“Extremely small if you don’t go anywhere.”
A slight nod of admission is followed by a flush of embarrassment in her cheeks. “I got fired yesterday because I couldn’t get back to my normal job.”
“I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “That sucks.”