Harrison’s body is shaking against mine now, his skin clammy.
“I was so lucky someone else saw it…and screamed for help and called the police. But he st-stabbed me a bunch of times…mostly my hands and arms. I was trying to defend myself.”
“Fuck! He stabbed you?” He jerks back to stare into my eyes. His are dark and anguished.
I nod.
“The scar on your shoulder…?”
“Yes. I have a scar on my right arm too.” I hold up my arm and touch it. “The ones on my hands have healed up and you can’t see them so much.”
“Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.” He takes one of my hands in his, turns it over and inspects my palm.
“He’s in prison now,” I assure him. “But it was an awful time. And…it was hard to get over.”
“You’re not over it.”
“No,” I agree softly. “I probably never will be, entirely. After the trial, which was short, mercifully, since he pled guilty, I thought I’d feel closure. Feel safe. But I didn’t. That’s when I decided to move here. I wanted to get away from where it all happened and start over.”
He nods.
“I’m working on it,” I tell him. “I went for counselling. Practicing yoga has helped.”
“I can’t…” He stops, sounding strangled. “I can’t believe the things I said to you. And did. Showing up at your class. Christ.” He shakes his head and lifts me away from him. Bowing his head, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I rub his shoulder, his back. “I’m okay. I’m working on being stronger. I have to live. Take chances. Learn to trust people again.”
He stands abruptly. Shakes his head. “Jesus. I must have scared the shit out of you. Over and over. Fuck.”
He faces me, standing there, fingers curled into his palms, tension making the veins of his arms stand out. My mouth falls open as we stare at each other.
“I’m sorry, Arya. So, so sorry. I’m so fucking pissed at myself. I can’t…” He shakes his head again. “I better go.”
Chapter 22
Harrison
I’m the stupidest fuck in the world.
I can’t even deal with the rage that’s boiling up inside me. I need to punch something, preferably my own face.
I drive home. The house is dark. Looks like Ash is out somewhere.
In my own room, I kick off my shoes violently and fall onto the bed. Hands curled into fists, I stare at the ceiling.
I relive every stupid moment where I screwed up, things that seemed harmless and innocent. Well, they were innocent. I may be an asshole, but I’m not as much of a psycho as that Lucas fuckhead. The idea of her being threatened…afraid…attacked and hurt…Jesus. My chest feels like a blade is twisting inside it. I almost can’t breathe with the pain.
I can’t fucking bear the fact that I scared her like that too. Even though I meant her no harm, it still scared her. I also can’t stomach the fact that, all along, I was so oblivious to her distress. I just ignored it, telling myself I just had to try harder.
You don’t get what you wish for, you get what you work for.
I thought I was being determined. Working for what I wanted. In reality, I was being a fucking stalker.
Who the fuck gave me that advice? Oh yeah, Coach. Thanks a lot, man.
Unable to lie still, I roll off the bed and march into the kitchen. I open the booze cupboard and pull out a bottle of scotch. Leaning against the counter, I pour a generous amount into a glass and down half of it.
I know this is a bad idea, but I have a feeling alcohol will ease the twisted knot in my gut. I swallow another mouthful.
I pestered her, stalked her, told her we were meant to be. I remember her rushing out of that restaurant and then telling me she was triggered. I knew that meant something bad, but I just kept going, insisting on taking her back in there and seeing her again. I want to beat myself with a hockey stick for being such a nutwaffle.
I pace the house, walking from room to room, staring out the front window, then through the back-door window into the small yard. I remember sitting out there with Arya, drinking mojitos and making out. Taking her into my room.
I drop my forehead against the cool glass.
I really did believe we were meant to be together. Everything just fit. Except I’m an asshole and she deserves better.
I fill my glass again and wander into my bedroom. I sit on the bed. I’ve tried to keep the room neater since Arya first came here. I close my eyes and my shoulders slump. Nothing fucking matters.
I fall asleep with my clothes on. When I wake up at about five in the morning, my mouth feels like someone stuffed it with a dirty sock and my brain is pulsing in my skull.
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow. My neck is stiff.
Shit. This isn’t good.
I drag myself into my bathroom where I down two Advil with a big glass of water. I brush my teeth and wash my face, and then I go back to bed for a couple more hours.
Things are tense. We have to win the game tonight or we’re out of the playoffs. People are saying we should be happy we made the playoffs after a such a long drought, but there’s no way that we’re happy. We made the playoffs and we want to go all the way. We’re competitive, professional athletes. We’re not giving up.
Except I’m not feeling it. I’m dragging my ass on the ice, shooting half-heartedly and missing the net.
“What crawled up your ass?” Bellsy says tightly, skating up close enough so that only I can hear. “Get your shit together, man.”
“What?” I glare at him. “I’m good.”
“You’re not good, you’re skating like you’ve got a piano tied to your ass. Are you hurt?”
I snort. Hurt? All I can think of is some psycho attacking Arya with a knife, cutting her. I want to puke over the side of the boards.
Bellsy stares. “What?”
I roll my eyes. “Later. Come on, let’s go.”
We join the drill.
Yeah, this isn’t a good time to be having a breakdown. Bellsy’s right. I need to get my shit together.
I try to focus when we’re talking about our penalty kill. And what we need to do to beat Vancouver.
“Okay,” Coach says, pointing at the whiteboard. “The attacking defenseman on this side is gonna try to pinch in, but if the puck gets chipped out, the defending forward in the hash marks is now up higher, and suddenly he’s racing the defenseman who has to retreat, which could lead to a shorthanded breakaway.”
I usually have a lot to say in meetings. Today, not so much. I don’t care.
Then I see Dad sitting in the stands, watching.
I have to care. I can’t be like this. What happened to my determination to achieve my goal, never mind the team’s goals? I don’t have time to waste—we might have one game left. Dad is dying and losing his memory. I need to make him proud of me right now.
I’m terrified that I can’t do that. I screwed up everything with Arya and I’m going to screw up this too. I’ve never measured up to my father and I never will. The thought that I’m letting him down when he’s at his most vulnerable makes me burn with frustration. My chest tightens and my throat closes up. Pressure squeezes me from all sides, and I almost can’t breathe. I don’t even want to play tonight.
* * *
—
“It looked like you didn’t even want to be there.”
I feel like shit. I’m sitting in Dad’s office, and Mom is here too, like she is so often now.
We won the game last night, but it sure as hell wasn’t because of me.
I don’t reply to Mom’s comment. It’s true, but I don’t want to admit that.
She knows, though. She’s been a hockey mom long enough that she knows when her kids aren’t playing
well and don’t even want to be on the ice.
I hitch one shoulder and attempt a smile. “I made some mistakes. I’ll work on them.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice gentle but strong.
I lift my head and meet her eyes, my jaw slackening. “What’s wrong?”
Her shoulders slump and she tips her head back briefly. “Okay, yes, I know things aren’t great, but you can’t let this impact your play.” She lowers her chin and again holds my stare. “Is there something else going on?”
Again, I don’t answer. I rub the back of my neck and shift my focus to Dad who’s listening, frowning.
“What’s her name?” he barks, out of the blue.
“Who?”
“The young woman you’re seeing.” He pauses. “I can’t remember her name.”
A burn hits my chest. It takes a few seconds to squeeze the word out. “Arya.”
“Yes. Her. What did you do?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What did I do?”
I catch Mom trying not to smile. “Did something happen, Harrison?” she asks more tactfully.
It’s my turn to slump. I slide down in the office chair, legs stretched out in front of me. “Sort of.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“It might help. Obviously, something’s getting to you. And yes, I know you’re concerned about Dad—I understand that.”
“Do you?” My chin rests on my chest. “Do you really know what it’s like trying to live up to the King of Hockey?”
For a moment the room is dead silent. Then she makes a soft noise. “Oh, Harrison. Is that what this is?”
I blow out a breath. “Partly.” I stare at my track shoes.
“Tell me.”
My dad was always the one I went to for advice. Hockey advice. Woman advice. Money advice. Not that Mom and I aren’t close; it’s just different. But Dad’s…different now. And Mom’s looking at me with a soft expression of love and concern and compassion.
I remember Arya saying parents love being asked for advice. I don’t know how much Dad understands but I’m going to ask anyway.
I tell them about what Coach said to me last month when I got called up, about how I’ve coasted through my career. How much I want to be a regular in the NHL, to live up to the Wynn reputation. To make Dad proud of me.
My mom listens, nodding. At one point she shifts her chair closer to me so she can set her hand on my shoulder and squeeze gently.
Dad’s still sitting behind his desk, but he stands and comes around it. “Look, son. There’s a lot of pressure in this league.”
“Yeah.”
“And…I guess even more so if you’re a Wynn.”
I meet his eyes. I nod slowly.
“Pressure is hard to handle,” he continues. “Nobody can teach you how to deal with it. You have to learn yourself.”
That’s probably the most real advice I’ve gotten. I thought I’d done pretty good with the pressure, but yeah, it got to me. “Sorry, Dad.”
He frowns. “Sorry? For what?”
“I don’t want to let you down. I don’t want to let the team down.”
“You only let us down if you aren’t trying.”
“Harrison.” Mom speaks up. “What Dave said about coasting…”
I frown at her. “Yeah?”
“He may have a point.”
I scowl. “I work hard!”
“I know you do,” she says quickly. “But…there have been times where I think you haven’t really given your all.”
Shit. That’s just what Coach said. I stare at her. “People expect me to be like Dad. But I’m not.”
She smiles. “That’s exactly my point, you’re not. You’re your own person, with different strengths and different flaws. I think…if you feel you can’t be like your dad, sometimes you don’t try to be your best. Your best.”
Our gazes hold for a moment, then I look down at my feet again, processing. “I don’t know who I even am,” I say quietly. “I just know what I’m supposed to be.”
“You’re supposed to be you. Nobody else. We’ve never expected that of you.” She grips my hand. “Believe in yourself. Take the risk of giving it your all. Win or lose, then you know you’ve done that.”
“It’s not winning or losing, it’s how you play the game.” I shoot her a wry smile. “You know who says that? Losers. Losers and their coaches.”
She chuckles. “I know winning is important. Especially if you’re a Wynn.” She glances at Dad with amused affection. “Do you remember what I told you about losing, when you were younger?”
I screw up my face. “Uh…”
“It was a quote from Nelson Mandela. He said, ‘I never lose. I either win or learn.’ ”
I nod. “Yeah, I remember that.”
“I tried to teach you that so you would learn from your losses. And grow and be better and stronger. But if you don’t learn anything…then you have lost.”
Oh man. Mom knows how to get a knife straight to the heart of the matter.
“And I’m not just talking about hockey games,” she adds. “I’m talking about life.”
I blink at her.
“Here’s another saying. If you try, you risk failure. If you don’t, you ensure it. Take a risk. Give it your all.”
I slowly sit up straighter. That rips a hole in my gut. “You really think I’ve done that? That I’m lazy?”
“No! Not lazy. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying maybe it’s fear that’s holding you back.”
I gape at her.
“And I’m sure you’ve never even realized it.”
I stand abruptly. I’ve had enough of this conversation. I feel shitty enough without Mom pointing out my failings. Fear? Jesus!
“I have to go. Good talk, Mom.” I start toward the door.
“Harrison.” Dad speaks up.
I turn and look at him.
“I am proud of you. Don’t ever doubt it. I love you. You’re a good man. That’s what matters. That’s success.”
Pressure builds behind my cheekbones and my eyes burn. Jesus.
I walk back to Dad. He wraps his arms around me and we hug it out. “I love you too, Dad,” I choke out, squeezing my eyes shut at the stinging. I slap his back, then step away to leave before I burst into blubbering tears.
I nearly make it out of the building, but I run into Everly. She gives me a sharp look. “What’s wrong?”
I sigh and rub my face. “Nothing.”
“Riiiight. Come in here.” She grabs my arm and drags me into her office. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” I pause. “Mom just told me I’m a coward.”
I expect her to assure me I’m not a coward. Instead, she asks, “Why?”
I tell her about the conversation. “She thinks I’m afraid to try my best because I’m afraid I’ll never be as good as Dad.”
“Ah. Is she right?”
“Who can ever be as good as Dad?”
“So true.” She sighs.
I drop into a chair. “Also, I screwed things up with Arya.” My voice chokes up.
“Oh no.” She takes the chair next to me, studying me. “You really like her, don’t you?”
“I love her.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I know it’s fast, but I felt it the first time I met her.”
When I crack an eye open to look at her, she’s smiling gently, not looking judgmental or incredulous. “What happened?”
“I’ve been a total idiot. I chased after her and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I didn’t know…” I trail off. I can’t tell Everly about Arya’s history; that’s hers to share.
“You didn’t know what happened to her?”
I meet her eyes. “You know?”
“Yes.”
I blow out a breath. “I kept going after her. I kept thinking what Coach told me—I had to work harder for my dreams. And that’s what I was trying to do.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t treat a woman the same as you treat hockey. You can’t make someone care about you. She does or she doesn’t.”
I nod glumly. “Yeah. That’s what I was doing. I was treating her like I’ve been treating my hockey career—something I could just power through, work hard, never give up. Like Coach told me to do. But I had no idea what she’d been through. I was like a fucking stalker,” I choke out. “I went to her class so I could see her. Pushed her to go out for a drink with me. I didn’t take no for an answer. Then she told me what happened…how she was attacked, and I hate myself. I feel like shit.”
Everly frowns and tilts her head. “You feel like shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Uh…Harrison.” She pauses.
I wait.
“How you feel right now doesn’t really matter.”
My head jerks back. “What?”
“Jesus! She spilled her guts and told you the most horrendous thing that ever happened to her and how it affected her and you feel like shit?” She smacks my shoulder.
My mouth drops open and I flinch at the blow, although it’s not hard.
“This isn’t about you! Come on! You’re making this about you when she’s the one who’s been through hell.”
I gape at her.
She’s right. I left Arya because I couldn’t deal with how I felt, how I’d treated her.
“I fucked up even worse than I knew,” I whisper, closing my eyes and slumping back into the chair.
“Yeah, you did. Oh my God. You need to do something.”
“I need to see her. But we’re leaving for Vancouver in…” I check my phone. “Half an hour. Shit.”
“Call her. Text her. Do something. You need to at least apologize.” She shakes her head, and I can feel her disgust with me.
For the Win Page 21
