4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The gift box is heavy in my hands.

I feel a curl of shame, embarrassment, and a lick of anger in the bottom of my stomach. This always happens now. I should learn to be okay with the kind of attention I get, but this was particularly painful.

I thought seeing Emily, someone who had seen me before I became that version of myself, would give me some grace. A smile, maybe, but no. Of course not.

I take a deep breath, then two, before making my way to the car. At least mom will be happy with what she chose. How Emily knew that mystery was Mom's recent favorite is beyond me.

With the gift secure in the passenger's seat, I turn on the car but don't drive. My mind goes back to Emily. I didn't think it was her at first. She looks different. Obviously, Jack, I think to myself.

She's clearly grown into herself. Her eyes are somehow even more green than I last saw them, and I can't even remember when that was. Her red hair, tied up in a clip, is much longer than my memory of a curly bob.

I hate that the interaction couldn't have gone smoother. We weren't friends, but I also didn't want to be mean to her. It just came out.

Hockey isn't the most prestigious sport in the world. Hell, even I can admit that it's not the most dangerous either, but it means a lot to me. I found purpose in it and there's always been those comments.

Typical athletes.

Blockheads.

Jocks and playboys.

So, when she comments on it— typical , as she said—I'm reminded of the boxed stereotype that I'm in. I won't say that I don't fit the description, seeing that not long ago I was exactly who she thinks I am, but I also won't say that it doesn't sting.

I think of Nathan.

How even through the worst parts of my life, he still had the heart to give me grace. He was my greatest friend, one who condemned my actions but held me up when I couldn't hold myself. To begin with, he saw Jack when he wasn't completely present.

Maybe I thought that his sister would be the same. She always liked to do what her brother did. I forgot for a solid moment that they're different people; she's her own person.

I exhale, thumping my head onto the headrest before driving away. What an unfortunate interaction.

"Oh, honey. This is amazing! I can't believe it!"

I chuckle awkwardly, curling my hands together as Mom peers into the box. She looks in awe, running a hand through the cover and flipping it open to quickly read through the pages. It's the one Emily picked out, and I send a silent thank you to her in my head.

Clearing my throat, I ask. "Have you heard of it?"

"Yes. I didn't think to buy it yet, but it's been on my list." She pauses, turning the book around to read the blub, her eyes glimmering with excitement. "This is so exciting. How did you know I wanted it?"

I lower my head, feigning embarrassment as if I knew the answer. I shrug, fiddling with my fingers. "Call it a hunch."

"Where'd you even find it?"

"Do you remember Emily? Emily Thompson? She has a bookstore. I got it from her."

She coos, practically melting into the floor at the mention of her name. "What a sweetheart. I haven't seen her in so long! You know, she used to help me make cookies all the time when you and Nathan were out playing. Is she doing well?"

"She's good," I replied blandly. It's not like I'm going to tell my mom that we spent the majority of our time together with frowns on our faces. I don't even remember that much of our childhood together. I change the topic. "And the dessert book?"

"You hit the jackpot! There're so many recipes I've been dying to try here." She pauses, looking more emotional than I thought possible over some books. I smile reassuringly at her anyway, just pleased to see her happy. Her eyes are damp. "Thank you, son."

"They're just books, Mom," I grumble but wrap my arms around her shoulder in a half-hug. "It's not that big of a deal."

"It is because you listened. That's all everyone wants; don't forget that." Mom reminds me, patting my cheek like she used to when I was a kid. She stands, pointing toward the kitchen, a lightness in her step. "Come on. Dinner's getting cold."

I laugh softly and get on my feet to follow her, but my mind is elsewhere. It is what everyone wants, and I always knew that. There's a swirl of guilt that dares to rise up my throat, but I push it down. I never used to listen. I never truly listen.

There are many things that you're aware of but never really understand until it's too late. This was one of them. Now, I'm left to wallow in the consequences. Hell, someone who's practically a stranger chose something I would've never chosen and got it right .

My hands run through my hair, flattening it out after. I exhale away my fears for the night, not wanting to give my mom a somber day. It's not about you, Jack. Be a good son for once .

I shake myself, rolling back my shoulder before I walk into the kitchen with a smile plastered on my face.

It's not that I don't like what I do, but I won't say I crave this specific feeling.

The kind of feeling that you explain to curious reporters and starstruck fans. The pressure, tension, and responsibility are all on your shoulders. I don't need to look at the time to realize how little time there is left to change the game.

Three people are blocking me, one whose name I can't recall, but maybe today will be the day to change that. This whole game, he's been on my tail, roughing me up just enough to not be called out of the game.

It's not uncommon for people like us to use aggression, but this guy is something else. I've been his one victim, and he doesn't seem to be stopping until now. I hate how reminiscent it is—like looking into a mirror of your past self.

I knew that this wouldn't be a regular exhibition match, but this is more aggression than even championships bring. I'm almost certain that if I reach behind me, there'd be a paper target stuck to my jersey.

My breathing is heavy as the game resumes, a bead of sweat uncomfortably dripping down the back of my neck as I move forward, watching my teammates move accordingly. The formation and strategy come to life, and I quickly get into place.

The rookie—Crawford, my mind thankfully supplies—meets my eyes and slides the puck to me. I quickly take control of it, swiftly moving toward my only sight: the goal.

It's muscle memory again. Left, right, one foot after the other. I swish the hockey stick back and forth, blocking my opponents from even getting remotely near the puck. There's yelling from behind me; I can't pinpoint if they're coming from my team or not, but I move.

Everything feels like slow motion.

The gap is getting shorter, the goal comes closer, and the focused gaze of the goalie becomes clearer. It's so close that I can taste it. I bite down hard on my mouthguard. There's a mental image in my head—the singular line in the corner that would be the perfect place, the perfect shot.

The shot is clear, so I take the chance. I swipe the stick, hit the puck, and watch it release from my possession, the object becoming one with me as it takes the path I intended it to go.

A little further, and victory could be ours.

I don't get to watch it. I don't get to see if the goalie stopped it in time. I don't get to see where it lands. Because all I hear is a loud grunt, bordering on a scream, before my entire body is tackled into the ice.

I feel all the air leave my body as I smack into the floor. There's a throb in my knee, an aching, hot, white feeling shooting up my leg and spreading throughout my body. I gasp for air, trying my best to do so much at once: trying to breathe, realize what happened, and process the startling pain.

I look around as much as I can, my head ringing with the smallest movement. I feel the sweat soaking through my back. There's a wretched noise, a horrible screech, that reaches my ears, and I realize only a moment later that it's coming from me .

Fuck. I wish I wasn't aware of it. I wish I had passed out. I wish I wasn't aware of the pain—constant, unending pain. I can't even find the energy to reach down and touch my knee, fearing that any small movements might just make it hurt more.

Something has to be broken. Something has to have torn. I drift in and out in pain, no concept of time. I can't tell if I've been on the ground for five seconds or five minutes.

It's hot and cold. It's a weird feeling to be so aware of your consciousness slowly leaving your body. There are people moving around me, swimming in and out of my vision. I can hear people shouting, people talking, a ruckus in the crowd. It's almost comical, an out-of-body experience when I finally feel all the energy leave me in one final swoop of pain and heat.

Someone takes off my helmet before I fade into black.

The beeping of the monitor is the only thing I try to focus on.

I absently rub the back of my neck to the best that I can as I lay down on cool sheets. I feel sticky, my sweat cooled down by the air conditioning. The overhead lights are off, and the only source of brightness is the lamp by my head, and the television on mute.

A shaky sigh leaves my lungs, painful.

It doesn't take a genius to piece things together, even with all the painkillers they used on me to ease the sting. In the past twenty-four hours I've been here, with the doctors explaining everything to me with barely concealed sympathy in their tone, I've understood the gravity of it all.

From the window of the room, I can see the silhouette of my mother and Coach Williams standing in front of my doctors. I shut my eyes hard, covering my mouth with my hands, even if there's no one watching. There's shame, disappointment, anger, and a sinking sadness.

They said a lot of words. Surgery. Rehabilitation. Retirement. All hypotheticals, all too early to say. Empty words and promises that don't do me any good right now. I just need a direct answer, but even then, I dread the possibilities. If they come in and tell me the news that I couldn't think to bear, I don't know what I'd do.

All I've known is hockey. That's all I've chosen for myself. The one thing on my mind for God knows how long. I look down at my left leg, my knee wrapped up and sore. My eyes pierce through it like my vision can heal or destroy it completely. I hate the waiting game more than the injury right now, but more importantly, I hate myself.

The television in the corner of the room taunts me, showing me the game that ultimately ruined my life. It's still playing the first half, not remotely close to when I got bulldozed down, but I reach over for the remote anyway.

Why didn't I see it coming? Years of training my peripheral vision, and I zone it out completely in the moment I needed it the most. No amount of practice seemed to come alive in those seconds. What was it all for then? It's too late now, I think angrily.

I thumb the controls, blankly looking at the small screen. A shot of me comes into view, looking determined and focused. I feel nothing of the sort from where I am right now. Even seeing myself on the screen makes bile rise to my throat.

It's almost like I can feel myself slam onto the ground once more, the phantom feeling of the debilitating pain.

I shut off the screen, shrouding the already dim room into darkness.