“No, Hazel—” She cuts herself off, pausing. I can practically see her pained, uncomfortable expression on the other end. “I didn’t realize it had that effect on you. I forget, you know, that just because you aren’t little anymore doesn’t mean you don’t absorb what I say like a sponge.” She sighs. “I never want you to feel bad about yourself or think you’re anything less than beautiful.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I really don’t feel that way.”
“Good.”
There’s a beat of silence between us, and for the first time, I feel like I haven’t failed her. I left space for her to feel what she’s feeling and I’m not making her feel like shit about it.
“If someone wanted to feel differently about themselves,” she starts, a note of reluctance in her voice. “What, um, or where would they start?”
Emotion rises in me and I blink it away. “Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “an easy way to start would be to only say positive things about myself. When I think I look good, I say it out loud.” I laugh to myself. “Even if I’m alone in my apartment.”
My mom chuckles.
“And maybe I’d keep a journal, and every time a negative feeling about myself or my body comes up, I’d tell my journal about it. I’d write down what triggered that feeling—what I was watching on TV, what I was reading or thinking about that made me feel like I wasn’t enough, so I can find a pattern.”
She listens in silence.
“And maybe after a month or two of that, I’d make a list of all the things I secretly want to do but feel like I can’t, and why. Clothes I want to wear, places I want to visit, activities I want to try.”
I picture my mom dancing. Not at twenty, but now, in her fifties. Strong and tall and happy and beautiful.
“And when I felt strong enough, I’d list the reasons I can’t do those things and ask myself if they’re really true.”
I hit the brakes because I don’t want to overwhelm her.
“And I would remind that person,” I add, “they can go at whatever pace they want, and they’re not expected to be perfect, because no one is.”
“Well, I’ll let her know what you said,” my mom says lightly, and we both chuckle. “I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too.”
CHAPTER 72
RORY
“This game is for the fans,” Ward says in the dressing room that evening, moments before the game, “but it’s also for us.” His eyes land on me. “Remind yourselves of what matters and have fun out there tonight.”
He crooks a smile at me, and I grin back. The players head to the ice, and I’m the last one out of the dressing room when McKinnon calls my name from behind.
“Miller.”
He’s in street clothes. Players sent wary glances at him the entire time Ward spoke. By now, even the guys who weren’t at the bar that night know what he did.
“Your fucking girlfriend got me benched,” he snaps, stalking toward me. “Thanks a lot.”
“You got yourself benched.” I bring myself to my full height, staring him down.
He shakes his head, seething. “You know what my fucking problem is?” He shoves a finger in my face. “You. You’ve always been my fucking problem, Miller.”
He wants to fight. I take in the way he looks at me with hate in his eyes. Last year, or even two months ago, I’d take this opportunity to scrap.
What matters, Ward said.
Hazel matters. Streicher and Pippa and the team and hockey matter, but McKinnon? He’s nothing. He’s angry and selfish and bitter. I feel bad for him.
McKinnon doesn’t matter, and I don’t want to be anything like him.
Hazel would want me to walk away, and more than anything, I want to be the right guy for Hazel, and I want to be the captain the team needs.
“I hope you figure things out,” I tell McKinnon as I walk away. “Good luck.”
This is the captain and the guy I want to be.
The other team scores another goal in the third period, tying the game, and Ward calls for a time out.
We skate toward the bench. Above the outdoor rink, stars twinkle in the dark sky. It’s below zero in the mountain ski town, and the fans are bundled up in hats and gloves and thick winter coats. The pickup league is here, watching the game from the front-row seats I snagged for them. Under a plaid blanket, Hazel and Pippa huddle together, sipping hot cider.
And now the strategy I’ve been using on the ice with assists isn’t working anymore. Calgary’s ahead by two points. A weight settles in my gut.
“Calgary sees what we’re doing,” Ward says, eyes lingering on me. “They watched enough games this season to know you’re the decoy.”
I give him a terse nod. This game doesn’t count toward our season, but we’re still competitive, and we still want to win. I need to step into my old role and be the star.
Stars score goals. My dad’s watching, I’m sure.
“What’s the plan, Captain?” Ward asks.
I glance over my shoulder to Hazel, and she gives me a small smile.
You’re unhinged, she said, laughing, when she saw my tattoo that night after the pickup game.
The pickup game. You’ve got a hell of a wrist-shot, I remember saying to Owens that night.
Something clicks in my head, and I look to him.
“I think you should play offense again,” I tell him, and his face goes blank. “Center forward.”
He gestures at Volkov. “We always play together.”
“I know.”
Maybe it won’t work, but Ward watches with a curious spark in his eyes, and that night Owens played offense against the pickup league? He was so fucking happy, and good at it, too. I think about how his face lit up when he scored and how he might be in the wrong position. He’s probably been trained as a defenseman since he was a kid, just like I’ve been a forward since I was a kid.
“Let’s just try it this once and see how it goes,” I urge. “I’ll play defense.”
Volkov nods. “Worth a shot.”
“I’ve always played defense.” Owens looks reluctant. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“If it doesn’t work, we move on. But this is our shot to try something new. What matters?” I ask him before looking around at the rest of the team. Everyone is quiet. “This isn’t just a job, and we aren’t machines. It needs to be more than that.”
Owens looks uneasy, but he nods. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
Ward runs through the play again, and as the guys skate off to take formation, Ward grips my shoulder.
“I knew you’d figure it out, Miller.”
I smile, feeling that weight in my gut dissolve into something light before skating to my position.
“Here we go, boys,” I call as the puck drops.
Owens steals it, and we run the play so fast the other team doesn’t know what’s happening. He passes between the other forwards and sinks it in the net, all within twenty seconds.
The fans are on their feet, cheering and screaming. The look of relief and pride on Owens’s face makes my heart soar, and this time, it’s me putting him in a headlock while he laughs and pushes me off.
“Knew you could do it,” I tell him, and he grins wider.