“Wylde,” Erik exclaims, and I watch as the other men congregate around Aaron. Like I said, everyone calls him that but me. While he was always the big partier and ladies’ man on the Mustangs, he was always just my best friend who often enjoyed a quiet evening playing board games with MJ and me.
“Let’s quit wasting time,” Bishop barks, then proclaims. “Three on three. Let’s go.”
I can’t help but smile. When the season started, I was stunned Coach Perron had named me as captain of the team. While I had years of solid play under my belt, I’d never been much of an actual leader. Coming off a prior bad year due to the crash, it was even more shocking he’d hand that role over to me.
That’s all gone now. With my first suspension at the end of November, the title of captain was removed from me and given to Bishop, who had been co-captain along with Legend. I never begrudged that since the guy deserved it.
Still does for that matter.
Bishop runs us through drills, and the sweat starts to pour. There’s a lot of bumping and joking going on, but there’s a lot of work as well. The guys take it easy on me, since I’m still playing with a fractured left wrist. As such, my stick handling is tentative and slow, so they don’t defend me too strictly.
We skate for an hour, which is probably half an hour longer than the guys should since there’s a game tonight. I know they’re pushing forward because they like seeing me back on the ice. More importantly, they can see I like it, too.
Finally, Bishop calls an end to the work—fun—and we move over to the bench we’d put our gear under. We grab water bottles and chug. Erik rips into a power bar as the dude is always eating.
“How’d that feel?” Bishop asks as he wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.
“Fucking amazing,” I answer truthfully. Because he’s the one who specifically called me out a few days ago about what an ass I’ve been and how I need to give back to my teammates, I decide I need to give him something. “Thanks for this. Means a lot.”
He’s not expecting it. Bishop actually flushes, his eyes darting to the side a moment before he recovers. “Yeah… not a problem. We’re all anxious for that fracture to fully heal so you can get back in the lineup.”
“I’m anxious to get there, too,” I say. After this past hour on the ice, I’m ready to go there now. Fuck the broken wrist and cast.
“You coming to the game tonight?” Dax asks.
Until this moment, I hadn’t thought about it. In the back of my mind, I’d just assumed I’d watch it from a bar or restaurant, since I don’t even own a TV. But I’ve got season tickets, which is something each player gets, so there’s no reason I shouldn’t go. I mean… sure, I’m still suffering under the crushing weight of guilt and self-recrimination, which doesn’t make me an overly social guy, but these are my fucking guys.
I’m back on the team, and I need to support them. “Yeah… I’ll be there.”
“Want Regan to pick you up?” Dax asks. “She’s going, and she wouldn’t mind swinging by to get you.”
Whoa, shit. I wasn’t wanting to socialize or anything. I start proverbially backpedaling in my brain, trying to come up with a valid excuse to decline. The thought of potentially having to make small talk with someone for several hours is intolerable.
Except… Regan’s not hard to talk to. Granted, I only met her a week ago at Billy’s birthday party, but, within a matter of moments, she actually had me blabbing a bit. She did this merely by sharing a huge secret with me—that she and Dax had secretly married because she had a life-threatening illness and needed health insurance. To be told the information out of the blue by a complete stranger had caught me off guard.
But there was something in her tone—perhaps a bit of uncertainty tinged with a little fear—that formed an almost instant connection between us.
Much the same as I believe happened between Nora and me yesterday when she told me about what happened to her family. Christ, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard about that happened to someone I know. It instantly made me realize she’s not full of shit when it comes to her beliefs, and that perhaps there’s more outside of this little bubble of my world than I had anticipated.
And if I’m being honest, it humbled me. Made me realize that despite how bad I have it and how painful my loss is, that I’m not unique in any way. That “world is against me” feeling I’ve been carrying heavy on my back lightened a bit because the pain is now shared. The world is out to fuck over a lot of people. Perhaps the epiphany I need to be searching for isn’t in the why of it happening, but maybe in the where of the journey I’m on.
If I’m being beyond honest, I’m not all that anxious about meeting Nora this afternoon where she’s going to expect me to talk about the crash and MJ dying.
I nod at Dax, giving him a short but hopefully gracious smile. “Yeah… if Regan doesn’t mind, I’ll take that ride to the game.”
CHAPTER 9
Tacker
There’s a note on the door to Nora’s office that simply says, “In the barn”. I trot down the steps, hang a right, and head toward the gray stable. It’s gotten warm this afternoon, nearing eighty, which is exactly one of the reasons I love living in a place like Arizona in February. Come July, though, I’ll be hating it.
The double barn doors are open on both sides, providing a view of the large pasture on the other end. There are a few people riding horses out there.
I don’t see Nora, so I start walking the length, glancing into the stalls as I move along. A horse sticks its head out, causing me to sidestep more toward the middle of the aisle.
Finally, I find her in the last one on the left, along with the older man who jumped my ass the other day. The door is open, and the horse is tied to a lead latched into a hook in the wall. I step inside the stall, but I keep my distance.
Nora’s on one knee at the horse’s front leg, lifting it to inspect the underside of the hoof. She tilts her head left and then right, peering closely at it.
Shaking her head, she runs her hand over the lower part of the leg, her teeth dug down into her lower lip and consternation on her face. Finally, she releases the horse and pushes up as she says to the man, “Your guess is as good as mine. Go ahead and call Dr. Jones. Let’s have her come take a look.”
The man nods, then lifts his chin toward me. Nora wheels around with a smile. “Hey, Tacker… glad you made it.”
“Something wrong?” I ask, nodding at the horse.
“Yeah,” she replies, worry in her tone. “He’s limping, but we’re not seeing anything obvious. So Raul will get the vet out to take a look.”
My gaze goes to the man, who stares stonily back.
“Oh, that’s right,” Nora exclaims, looking between us. “You two haven’t been formally introduced even though you’ve seemingly declared yourselves as enemies.”
My face flushes slightly at the accusation, particularly because Nora’s tone is completely teasing. The man staring back doesn’t give an inch.
“Raul… this is Tacker Hall,” Nora continues brightly. “And Tacker… this is my ranch manager and dear friend, Raul Vargas.”
Neither of us moves.
“I demand you two shake hands,” Nora says sweetly.
I don’t really have to do what she says, although I’d shake the dude’s hand. Really, I don’t have anything against him. He was looking out for Nora, and I get the concept.
He, on the other hand, is employed by her and owes her loyalty. He has to do what she says, so I wait.
Finally, he sighs and sticks a hand out, to which I grab and give a hearty shake.
Laughing, Nora motions for me to leave the stall, which I do, and she follows. “How are you feeling today?” she asks.
I turn to face her. “Pretty good. Actually skated with some teammates today, and it was good to be back on the ice.”
“Awesome,” she replies with a grin. “You feel up to a ride today while we talk, or would you like to maybe just h
elp with some grooming?”
“Got to be honest, Nora,” I say with a sheepish smile. “I’m not a big fan of horses.”
Her head tilts, understanding smile in place. “What’s your fear?”
“Falling and breaking my neck? Getting bit? Kicked? Take your pick.”
Her head tilts back as she laughs, her dark ponytail extending almost down to her butt. When her gaze returns to mine, she nods. “That’s fine. Horses aren’t required, but they are available if they’ll help to enhance therapy. While I’d love to get you over that fear, let’s concentrate on why you’re really here, shall we?”
I nod, grateful I’m not going to have to deal with the big beasts on this visit. If I’m going to be forced to relive the worst moment of my life, I want to do so from a position of safety and security.
“Do you like tea?” she asks.
“Um… yeah, sure,” I reply with a half shrug.
“Let’s head up to the main house to sit in the living room,” she says, pivoting to head out of the barn. “It’s more comfortable there.”
I have to say, this was a good call. While her spartan office was just as good a place to talk as any, something about seeing Nora kicking her boots off and curling her legs under her as she sits in a big leather chair with tea in hand is reassuring.
I chose the leather couch that’s extra wide and long, joking before I lower myself onto it, “Do I have to lie down on this?”
“Only if you want to,” she quips. I choose one end, sit my ass down, and lean on the armrest, feet planted solidly on the braided rug below.
Nora smiles pleasantly, blowing across her tea. Mine sits on the coffee table, untouched for now as it’s hot as hell.
I’m at a loss as to where to begin, and she must sense it, because she comes to my rescue. “Tell me a little about MJ.”
That’s both easy and painful, but a lot more preferable than describing the crash. I smile, an immediate warmth rushing through me, and lower my eyes down to my hands as I talk. “MJ was great. Her full name was Melody Jane, but everyone called her MJ. She was beautiful, and sweet, and really smart. She worked for a pretty big firm in Dallas as a CPA, but she was moving on up the ladder.”
“How did you meet?” Nora asks, her eyes bright with interest.
“It’s cliché, but at a bar after a hockey game. She caught my eye because she was about the only female in the place not fawning all over the hockey players. She was always just a really confident woman, you know? And for whatever reason, that got my attention.”
Nora smiles and nods, blowing on her tea once more before taking a tentative sip.
“At any rate, we dated for almost two years before we got engaged and well, I’m sure you know if you read the news articles… we were just a couple weeks away from getting married when…”
My words die in mid-formation, hanging heavy in the air.
She doesn’t push or pressure. Instead, she redirects me. “Tell me what you’ve been feeling these last few months. Paint a picture of your emotions for me.”
That’s easy enough. Really fucking simple, too. “A lot of anger.”
“At who?”
“Me,” I answer without hesitation. It’s my fault she died.
“Who else?”
“God.”
She nods, perhaps in true understanding. Maybe she was angry at God, too.
“Who else?”
“People in general,” I say tentatively.
“Why?”
“For being alive. Happy.” I actually jolt when the words are out of my mouth, but yeah… that’s true. I just hadn’t yet realized that I’m pissed at other people for being whole.
“Who else?” she presses.
My mind whirs, going through the mental list of things that offend me, but I feel like I’ve exhausted everything.
I shake my head. “I can’t think of anything else.”
Nora seems to contemplate something, pausing to sit her teacup on the table beside her chair. She leans against the armrest, listing to the right and clasps her hands together as she looks at me earnestly. “Why not the manufacturer of the plane?”
“Pardon?”
“If I understand what I read, the National Transportation Safety Board investigated the crash and you were absolved of any liability. The piece of equipment you relied on to keep the plane straight to the horizon was faulty. It’s what caused you to crash.”
“Yes, but—” I stop, shaking my head. “I mean… yeah, I get that. But I could—”
“No. Stop, Tacker,” she says firmly, and my mouth snaps shut. Her words are slow and deliberate. “You were absolved of any culpability in that crash. So I want to know why you aren’t angry at the manufacturer? I want to know why you won’t cut yourself a break?”
All the air in my lungs comes out in a massive rush, leaving me feeling deflated and lost. I don’t have an answer to her question.
“Have you heard of survivor’s guilt?” she asks quietly.
“Sure,” I admit. I mean, who hasn’t? But it is the first time I’ve considered that term in conjunction with myself.
Nora smiles gently, her voice soothing. “It’s a very normal response to loss. And while you are dealing with other issues in your grief, it’s sort of where I’d like to focus our attention to start.”
“You mean I need to learn how to forgive myself,” I mutter bitterly, my gaze going down to my clasped hands.
“No,” she replies swiftly, and my head pops up. “You have nothing to forgive yourself for. You were absolved in that crash.”
“Yes, I know that,” I say with frustration, sitting up straighter. “I read the report… dozens of times. Intellectually, I know that. So why the fuck do I still feel so terrible about it?”
“There’s no real logic to it. Unfortunately, guilt isn’t an emotion that’s easy to get control of,” she replies.
“Then how do you get past it?” I ask. Actually, it almost seems like I’m begging her for the answer. Because one thing Nora has managed to do since she told me about what happened to her is give me a small sliver of hope that perhaps I can move past these wretched feelings.
“There are a few things to help you cope,” she says evenly. “But it’s work. You have to work at it every day, and it won’t be easy.”
“Like what?” I demand.
“You need time to grieve,” she replies, shifting forward a bit as if we’re sharing secret information. “When you start feeling like it’s your fault, you need to redirect your focus to who was really responsible. You need to be kind to yourself, Tacker. Take care of yourself. Remind yourself you are not alone in this because you have people who care about you and support you.”
“That seems like some of your hippie-dippie shit,” I mutter.
Luckily, Nora’s not offended. She actually chuckles. “There are a few other things. Ones you might not like.”
“Such as?”
“Sharing your feelings,” she answers with a hard look. “That means here in our counseling sessions, you need to be open and honest. Lean on friends and family… let them know how this has affected you. Even doing acts of service for others can be very healing.”
If the expression on my face is any indication of how anxious that makes me feel—sharing my feelings with people, I mean—she must be able to read them loud and clear because she adds, “You can even start out just journaling your thoughts. Spend some time each day writing your feelings down.”
A thought occurs to me. “How did you move past the guilt?”
“My process was a little different than yours,” she says with an open expression on her face. “When Helen got me back to the States, she started me in some immediate and intensive therapy. I did a lot of the things I recommended to you just now, but what I was taught to practice on a daily basis was simple gratitude for the gift of survival.”
“The gift of survival?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Yes, it’s a gift. I was given the gift of no
t being shot, of not being raped. The gift of Helen finding and rescuing me. I was taught to focus on the positives rather than the negatives.”
I just stare, wondering how that even works.
She provides it to me in amazingly simple terms. “Tacker… you survived a plane crash. Few people do. MJ didn’t. You were given the gift of life, and you should be grateful for it. If I were a betting woman, I’d say you’ve never once felt a moment of gratitude for living, have you?”
“Not once,” I admit without any hesitation.
“I want you to work on that,” she replies with a smirk. “Consider it homework. In fact, I want you to start a journal. You need to write in it at least once a day. I also want you to end each day with a gratitude.”
“Hippie-dippie shit,” I mutter.
Nora rolls her eyes, making a grab for her tea.
“Does it ever go away?” I ask, and her hand freezes just inches from her cup.
She seems thoughtful, lips turning down slightly. When she shakes her head so minutely I almost can’t see it, she confirms the worst. “No. Not completely. Even all these years later, I’ll occasionally have nightmares. Sometimes, I’ll think about what my sister went through, and I’ll get depressed. But I have techniques I practice, and I’m normally able to redirect my thoughts pretty easily.”
“Like what?”
“I focus on things that make me happy,” she says.
“Gratitude for being alive,” I guess.
“That,” she agrees with her ever-present smile. Taking her tea in hand, she manages a small sip before she continues. “But sometimes, it’s just doing something that causes me pleasure. A horse ride. A milkshake.”
Seems simple enough… but for a man who has shied away from anything that remotely resembles happiness, it seems like a foreign concept. Sometimes, when I look at pictures of MJ and me, I’ll stare at myself as much as her. The smile on my face or the way a dimple in my right cheek popped when I laughed—and that person seems like a fake to me now. I don’t even recognize him.
Tacker Page 6
