“Thanks.”
We hang up and I apologize to Deanna for being on the phone while we’re at the table.
“Oh, don’t worry. Sometimes, you just have to answer; I understand. Collin said something about how we might visit your parents. Are you planning to do that?”
Ugh. “They don’t know I’m here, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.” It may be February, but it’s way warmer here in south Florida than it was in North Carolina. This hoodie has to go; I’ve been sweating for the past five minutes as it is and I can’t take it anymore. I motion to my face and arms. “I don’t really want to have to explain this to them.”
“Oh, Julie,” she whispers, her eyes on my arms. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. No wonder Collin didn’t want you to be alone.”
Can I just say that I love she didn’t ask what happened or who did this? I relax in my seat, knowing that this trip will go just fine where she is concerned. I might even have a friend by the time I return to North Carolina. If only I can hurry and get back so I can stop looking over my shoulder every five seconds.
I breathe a sigh of relief when my skates hit the ice for my first shift of the night. Hockey has always been an outlet. It’s a way to escape from my reality with anxiety and to work off the nerves. That probably doesn’t make sense, but it does to me. Playing the game calms me down. It sends those nerves straight to hell so I can relax. It hasn’t been like that lately, but tonight, it’s like old times.
The panic from the past few days drains from my body with each stride down the ice. Passes to my brother are what reporters like to call magical and uncanny. But I love that when I make the pass, the puck actually goes to him and not the New York opponent. It’s the simple things in life. Even the air in the arena seems to cleanse my lungs with every breath.
Everything seems to work for me in this game. My passes are complete. My energy level stays high. I even score a goal and get myself an assist. But something seems to change as the night winds down. It’s like I’m at war with myself. I’m full of anxiety, yet I’m not. I’m on edge, yet I’m calm.
Cal throws an arm over my shoulder. “Want to check out the scenery? Grab something to eat?” he asks. We’re not leaving until tomorrow, so we can go out and explore a little if we want.
I have no urge to open my mouth and respond to him verbally. Instead, I shake my head.
“You had a good game tonight.” He continues walking toward the elevators with me.
I don’t respond. I wish he wouldn’t give me pats on the back like that. It makes me feel weak and pathetic that he feels as if he has to build me up and reassure me. It hasn’t always been like that, but ever since my anxiety has trickled into my hockey life, he does things like this.
When I make it to my hotel room, I think about texting Julie to check in on her, but decide against it. If she spent the day packing, she’s probably tired. I don’t want to talk even through text either.
This weird restlessness stays with me as we travel. I dodge Julie’s calls, but she texts me instead and those I answer, if only so she doesn’t worry. She and Deanna drove home from Florida yesterday and she’s working on unpacking today. If she isn’t texting me about that, I’m getting pictures of the damn cat. Julie is having too much fun with Marmalade. Maybe if she moves out, she’ll take the cat with her.
“What’s going on with you?” Brayden asks as we stretch during warm-ups on the ice.
It’s hard to stay as silent as I wish when people keep talking to me and ask questions that require more than a simple nod or shake of the head. I take a deep breath to gather the energy and will to answer him.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Feeling okay?”
I nod, but he frowns. He leaves me alone and that’s good enough for me. When we’re on the bench after the first puck drop, I’m asked again if I feel okay. This time by Cal. He pointedly looks down at my legs, which are bouncing up and down. Leave it to my brother to notice a physical display of my anxiety. I nod that I’m fine and he frowns just like Brayden did.
Being on the ice doesn’t calm me in the least today. My name should be Turnover Kessy. Or maybe Fucked Up Kessy. I certainly can’t do anything right. My passes are sloppy. My legs move slower than they should. I’m lagging behind everyone like in a nightmare where you want to run as fast as you can, but for some reason, you’re moving slower than a sloth. And do I have a bullseye on my back? Why the fuck do I keep getting hit? I can expect a few here and there, but this is getting out of hand.
Cal speaks to me between shifts, but his words bounce right off me. Whatever he’s saying isn’t important. Focusing on this game is important. Playing better than the shit I’m currently playing is important. Nothing else matters.
And then, it almost happens. It’s late in the third and we’re tied at one. People stand in all different places around Savage and his blue paint. I’m to his left when the puck comes this way. It hits my skate and with horror, I watch it move in slow motion between the post and his skate, inching closer and closer to the red line.
No, this cannot happen to me again.
Savage realizes what’s happening just as I reach out with my stick to attempt to bring it back toward me. He brings his arm back and covers the puck with his glove to get the whistle. The relief I expect to feel doesn’t exist. I’m pissed the fuck off. Why does this shit keep happening to me? Why do I keep fucking up on the ice? I slam my stick against the boards and shove my brother away when he gets too close to me. All he will do is say shit I don’t want to hear.
When I get back on the bench, Coach Mike grabs my shoulder and leans down. Before he can ask, I bark, “I’m fucking fine!” and yank my shoulder out of his hold. He probably doesn’t believe me because I don’t make it back on the ice, even when the game goes into overtime. That actually gives me relief. I can’t mess up things for my team if I’m not on the ice.
Cal gives me some space afterward, thankfully, but I don’t know what to feel when for our last road game, I discover I’m a healthy scratch. Should I be relieved? Or worried that my anxiety is about to get me kicked off the team? How did I get here? To where I’m watching Cal play without me? My entire team is down on the ice while I’m watching and it’s because my coach doesn’t have faith that I can play witho
ut screwing my team over.
This is the beginning of the end. First, I’m a healthy scratch. Then, they’ll want me to take a maintenance day. After that, they’ll have it all figured out on how they can legally kick me off the team.
I should enjoy what time I have left, I guess.