Supernova

by Anne Leigh

  Copyright © 2018 Anne Leigh

  This is an e-book property of Anne Leigh. All rights reserved, unless permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. This cannot be reproduced, stored, transmitted, or copied in any way, shape, or form, without the permission of the author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, pigments, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author is NOT affiliated with real life sports organizations, government organizations and entities.

  The author respectfully acknowledges all registered trademarks and owners of trademarked products that may have been included in this work of fiction.

  Cover: Pink Ink Designs

  Formatting: Allusion Graphics, LLC

  Editing: KMS Freelance Editing

  The Past

  The Meet

  First Half

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Second Half

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Overtime

  Epilogue

  Notes from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Anne Leigh

  What's Next from Anne Leigh

  To my J, you are super.

  To my daughter, you’re my nova.

  Together, you are (the title of this book).

  I love you.

  Bridgette

  Age: 5

  “Harder, Bishop!”

  I could hear the bellows of my father down at the ice rink from our living room.

  The windows were cracked open, letting the fresh air inside our house, but the gloom of winter lingered everywhere else.

  Snow had melted, the leaves of the ash trees started to turn bright yellow, and birds that left during the winter time were starting to show up again in our backyard.

  Today was another good day to go outside and paint.

  “Munchkin, where do you want to set up your table today?” I heard Nanny Tilda’s voice from a few feet away, and I pointed towards the balcony.

  She nodded her head and I watched as she picked up the small table in the corner of the nook, along with my board and brushes.

  I stood up holding the tubes of paint that Bishop had left by the side of my bed last night.

  I don’t know how my brother knew that I wanted more colors; I found the ten new paint colors in my room and I couldn’t wait to mix them today and see what other colors I could create.

  “Do it again. Dammit!” My father’s loud voice permeated through the air, and I breathed in through my nose.

  I sat on the small chair that Nanny Tilda brought out, and I set up my paints and paper on the small table, placing the dolphin paperweight on top of the paper so that they wouldn’t get blown away by the wind.

  “Is there anything else you need, sweetie?” Nanny Tilda’s kind eyes asked and I shook my head no as I smiled at her.

  She touched the top of my head before placing the small glass of water on the left side of the table.

  “Lovely view today,” she said, eyeing the blue skies and clouds that formed hundreds of different shapes in the sky above us.

  I didn’t say anything.

  She was right; Montreal’s skyline was beautiful today.

  The fluffy clouds interspersed with different shades of whites and blues was magnificent.

  “Haven’t you learned anything? You’re getting older not dumber!” Dad was shouting now, and I looked down towards the east side of my parents’ property. I saw my brother skating in perfect circles and figure eights. Bishop was going fast, really fast, but the shapes he formed with his ice skates never changed.

  Nanny Tilda’s arm felt heavy on my right shoulder, “He loves you. In his own way, he loves you.”

  She was talking about my father, but it was hard to believe her. I saw the annoyance and frustration in Dad’s eyes when he was in the room with me. Every time he said, “Why can’t you talk? Are you mute or just spineless?”

  My brother shielded me from him by saying, “Leave her alone, Dad. Let’s go practice. Didn’t you say I needed to work on my passing?”

  Bishop always defended me.

  He sheltered me from the pain and the insults that my father hurled my way whenever I was in his line of sight.

  I heard him tell his friends many times that he wished he had another son, instead of a girl like me.

  My mother wasn’t around when he said those things.

  She was never around anyways. She was always traveling for business.

  I used to go with her. She used to put me in front of the camera to smile and make googly eyes, but after a while, she’d stopped.

  I couldn’t ask Bishop why.

  I couldn’t ask my mother why she stopped giving me attention.

  I couldn’t ask anyone why.

  Because I didn’t have a voice.

  Three tutors had come in to help me out, help me find my voice, but they all left after informing my parents that something was wrong with me and they didn’t know what or why.

  I talked.

  I talked a lot in my head.

  But no one ever heard me.

  Only my brother did.

  Bishop gave me hugs and he always whispered, “I’ll make it better, Bridge. I’ll convince them to send you to a school where they have kids who love to paint, and then one day you’ll talk again.”

  My brother was three and a half years older than me, but you’d think that he was ten years older.

  The burden he carried in his eyes was painful for me to watch.

  Every day when he came inside the house after a long day of practice with our father, he’d have a hard time getting on his bed because his legs were sore and bruised. I’d learned to soak bandages in warm water to help him out. It was hard for me to reach the faucet in his bathroom because I wasn’t tall enough yet, but I tried not to make a mess of everything by taking my time in filling the small blue basin with water. I mixed the water with the solution that Nanny Tilda placed under the sink. She said it helped wounds heal better, faster.

  I looked around my surroundings.

  I’d heard from a few girls who attended the holiday party that Mom hosted last year that they’d love to live inside our house.

  They said that it was huge, like a palace.

  I remembered their names, Kate and Cherry. They were both blonde and adorable. I thought they wanted to play with me, but after a few minutes of them asking me questions and me not answering them, they left me and they played together in my toy room.

  Everyone at the party complimented Mom and Dad on how great our house looked. The tall ceiling height of a Christmas tree, the intricate holiday decorations that the interior designer had put in the foyer, and the massive feast that my parents had the caterers prepare, made our guests ooh and aah in appreciation.

  But what our guests didn’t know was that our house may have looked like a palace, but the life we lived was far from a fairy tale.

  My father pushed my brother past the br
ink of tears and pain every time Bishop stepped on the ice rink that my father had built for him.

  As Beau Cordello, he wanted my brother to grow up as a legendary hockey player. Just like him.

  My mother was rarely home. She had assistants everywhere, following her around. There were cameras that trailed her, even when we were at home. If I turned on the internet, mom’s face was everywhere. At the age of 3, I was able to read without any effort. It was one of the good things that my tutor taught me, even when I never said a word back to her.

  I read English books.

  I read Spanish books.

  I read French literature.

  I was starting to learn Chinese characters and was fascinated by them.

  My brother thought it was the coolest thing, but my parents thought it was freaky, especially since no words came out of my mouth except for grunts, growls, and sighs.

  “Shit! Shit! This is all shit, Bishop! You’re not getting it in your head. You’re not going to go anywhere as a hockey player if you keep holding the stick like that. You have to control it.” My father’s curse words rang through the quiet spring air.

  Nanny Tilda shifted on my side; she was standing and watching the scene below us, “Paint the beautiful sky today, sweetie.”

  Every day, I asked Nanny Tilda to bring me out here. With her, I didn’t have to use my vocal cords. Points, nods, and smiles from me were more than enough.

  When the skies rained down with snow and sleet, the automated glass roof and cover that came down over the balcony protected me from the cold, but I stayed there.

  Right in that spot.

  Where I watched my brother be punished by our father.

  I painted the skies, from when the sun shone to when the sun set in the horizon.

  I didn’t know how much time passed.

  Sometimes I read books. Other times I listened to music.

  But every day I watched him, them. My brother and my father. Sometimes my father’s friends came to visit and give pointers to Bishop.

  I watched as my brother ran, skated, and performed drills that would be unbearable for regular kids his age.

  I watched my father try to break my brother’s spirit every time he screamed and shouted at him.

  But Bishop didn’t give up even though I wished he did, just so his body could get some rest, and his knees would get a chance to heal.

  I stayed in my spot because while my brother battered his body to pieces; I wanted to share in his pain.

  I dipped my brush in water and on a blank piece of paper started painting again.

  Red.

  Orange.

  Gray.

  Blue.

  Black.

  Lots of black.

  I might not speak, but I could still express anger, pain, and fear in the blank sheets that rustled in the air, beside my elbow.

  So I painted.

  And painted…

  Bridgette

  Age: 14

  BREAKING NEWS: BEAU CORDELLO, FORMER NHL PLAYER AND HALL OF FAMER, DIES IN A PLANE CRASH OVER THE COLORADO ROCKIES

  I didn’t feel sadness.

  I didn’t feel my heart breaking.

  In fact I didn’t feel anything.

  He was my father but he wasn’t a dad in the truest sense of the word.

  My brother was still on the phone, waiting for me to say something.

  He was at hockey camp but he’d called me as soon as he’d heard the news.

  “Bridge, sis. He’s gone. They’re still trying to find out how it happened but apparently his plane caught fire and it exploded over the mountains.” Bishop said, his voice empty of emotion.

  My throat was parched. Not from grief over a man who did nothing but hurt me and my brother. My throat felt dry because I was at a loss for words and I’ve learned that there were times when words were the only way to convey my feelings.

  But there were no words to capture exactly how I felt.

  “Say something Bridge.” Bishop was still talking, he wanted to know how I was doing, how I felt.

  So, I said the first thought that came to mind when I saw the news alert on my phone.

  “Libertas.”

  I chose Latin because it was the oldest language I knew.

  And as far back as I could remember, my heart has felt ancient, old, and battered from all the emotional and mental trauma we’d suffered from our father.

  Over the phone, my brother whispered his assent, “Yes Bridge. We’re free.”

  Two Years Ago, Chi Epsilon Tau Frat House

  Bridgette

  Age: 19

  I’d seen a lot of good-looking men in my life.

  My mother, Bettina Cordello, America’s beauty mogul, had a storm of male models that paraded around her office in Manhattan.

  My brother, Bishop, Mr. Rugby Star, had a lot of male friends, most of whom were athletes and were your typical hot, super fit Men’s Fitness magazine model types.

  There was no shortage of eye candy in my life and that’s what they were to me.

  Pleasing to the eye, but then a minute passed and they were completely forgotten.

  Just like candy.

  You put it in your mouth, the flavor hits your tongue, and after a few seconds, it’s gone.

  It was sad, but that was my perception of what the weight of physical beauty had been distorted to from the minute I could rationalize what was important to me.

  Just like right now when this cute guy, clearly of mixed ancestry, was talking and all I could think of was how to get out of this conversation without being rude.

  “…Bishop’s sister, huh?” He’d introduced himself as Takei, one of Bishop’s frat brothers, and his smile was probably meant to charm women out of their underwear, but mine stayed comfortably snug and dry.

  I nodded my head and smiled, “Yes,” shifting the conversation to neutral territory, I followed it with a, “What time is his game going to be over?”

  Kara, Bishop’s girlfriend, had asked me to be here as part of her surprise for my brother’s birthday.

  Bishop was playing his last college game today, and since his birthday was a week ago, she wanted to throw a party to celebrate both.

  If there was one person in the world I would suffer through the attention and presence of frat guys and athletes for, it would be my brother.

  The collegiate sports world knew him as Bishop Cordello, high school star hockey player who famously quit the sport and shunned it for rugby. To this day, top coaches of the National Hockey League still have him on speed dial, hoping to convince him to return to the sport that he was born into.

  But my brother would never play professional hockey.

  We owed his hatred for the sport to our father, Hall of Famer, Beau Cordello.

  “His game should be done by now,” Takei said and another frat brother, Silas, joined him.

  It was the first time I had met the thirteen guys in the room, but I knew their names like I’d been saying them my whole life.

  My photographic memory made sure of that.

  Takei was the one with the almond-shaped brown eyes and the crooked smile.

  Silas was the Math major who opened the door for me when I rang the doorbell thirty minutes ago. I would have been here an hour ago, if not for the infamous L.A. traffic. I’d texted Kara letting her know I’d arrived. I was actually worried that I’d get there after my brother, and I didn’t want it to ruin the surprise.

  I hadn’t seen Bishop in ten days because we’d both been busy. We stayed in contact via texts and we were supposed to have brunch three days ago, but I had a last-minute study group and he had to practice early.

  “You want anything?” Silas asked with his eyes on me. He’d been asking if I was comfortable since I’d arrived and sat on the couch in their living room.

  “I’m fine. Thank you,” I replied, hoping that I’d conveyed enough feeling so that he didn’t feel obligated to ask me every few minutes if I was okay.

  I didn’t li
ke being catered to.

  It made me uncomfortable.

  It took five years of speech pathology and a decades’ worth of visits to Johns Hopkins neuropsychiatry department before Dr. Fortez concluded that I was ready to be on my own.

  I started to get anxious when all eyes were on me.

  Maybe that’s why I refused to speak at the age of two when my mother put my face in the front of every children’s product she could dip her hands into, and I didn’t say another word until I was eight.

  My memory may be exceptional, but even I had no power of tracing my history from way back when.

  Silas seemed appeased by my answer and gave a slight shake of his head.

  Takei was now texting on his phone and I looked down to mine, swiping through the news reports.

  I didn’t spend much time on the news articles. My brain selected the highlights and I could pretty much regurgitate the information back to anyone who asked as if I read the whole thing.

  I turned my head to the side and saw Trev, the bubbly redhead who reminded me of Ed Sheeran, give me a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgement. He was talking to another guy, Stan, who was casually munching on the chips in a bowl with the letters SDU all across it.

  I watched Bishop’s game on my phone and I had to recharge my phone with the Uber driver’s battery charger attached to his car.

  Bishop didn’t like it when I paid for a lift, but he couldn’t do anything about it until I got a car of my own and that would be in less than two weeks. I’d recently gotten my California driver’s license, and as much as I hated being stuck on the roads, I had to start driving on my own especially now that my brother’s future was unknown. He was going to try out for US Rugby after graduation and his agent had scheduled him for international rugby tryouts, so everything was up in the air.

  An entertainment article about my favorite singer grabbed my attention, and I was just about to click on the headline when I heard the front door open.

  A dark haired guy in a fitted shirt with blue eyes just like his sister’s said in a loud voice, “Beauty! You’re here!”

  Beauty.

  I couldn’t help but smile at that.

  I’d been called beautiful, but not like that.