24. Penelope
I’m worried about Tate.
For the last couple weeks, he’s been going through the motions. He’s been taking his meds, drinking his food, and resting. All things he was supposed to be doing.
But he’s fading.
He’s losing weight. He’s losing his spark, the light in his eyes is waning.
I get it. At least a little. He’s hurting. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.
He’s in his head, going through everything he did on the ice that night on repeat, wondering if there was something he could or should have done differently that would have ended in different results.
He’s in his head about the game, his capabilities, his talent, and he’s convinced himself that the team doesn’t need him.
He’s phoning it in when it comes to his school work, too. Computer science isn’t an easy subject by any means. I didn’t realize how much math was involved in what he does.
Calculus, basic algorithms, data structures and analysis, data mining... he seems to have such a flair for cryptography and computer security, it comes to him as easily as breathing.
I can’t believe I picked another math nerd to be my partner. I’m reluctant to get Dad and Tate in the same room because they’d end up speaking in a number language and leaving me in the dirt.
Even though my guy loves numbers, his school work isn’t bringing him joy either.
I’ve been around depression enough to know what the signs are. And my guy checks almost every damn box and then some.
Low mood—check.
Fatigue—check. At first I put it down to the fact his body was trying to recover, to heal from a huge traumatic injury. But it’s more than that.
Loss of interest in things you used to enjoy—double check. For the first two weeks he watched hockey every single day, but he hasn’t watched a single game this week—not NCAA, not NHL, not AHL, nothing.
Loss of sex drive—well. He has definitely lost his desire. For the first couple of days, all he wanted was to have his hands on me, or my hands on him. When I’d come over to read him stories before bed he’d feel me up and we’d fool around. His room smelled of cum for days.
I think he realized that no amount of orgasms would take away his inner pain, so he just stopped.
There’s a part of me that wishes every fucking day he’d just take his frustration and pent up anger out on my pussy. Just bend me over and fuck me like he hates me, like he did that first time, until we’re both satisfied and exhausted. Because he can’t fucking sleep either. Whether I stay over or not doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. I think if he just dicked me real good, he’d wear himself out.
But I don’t want to force him, or rush him, or make him do anything he’s not comfortable with.
He’s not opening up to me either. When I see him, we play games, board games, card games, strategy games—his favorite at the moment is a game called Quoridor. I prefer Battleship, and when some of his team are around the hockey house, the classic Monopoly really gets everyone going. Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, he’ll strum his guitar for me and for a few minutes everything feels like it might be okay.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Eloise pauses. “It’s funny because you’re Penny.” She giggles.
We’re sitting around Savannah’s living room for the monthly meeting of the Swoon Squad, the girl’s version of the UCR Raccoon’s Get Lit book club.
That’s the other thing that I can’t get Tate to go to. The hockey team’s book club. He said it’s not important. If it’s not hockey or school work, he doesn’t think it adds value to his life, so he just won’t bother.
“Penelope?” Eloise’s face turns from a casual smile to concern. “What is it?”
I shake my head. If I say things out loud I might cry, plus I don’t want to betray Tate’s trust to the group, even if they’re all on the inside.
“She’s worried about Tate.” It’s Athena de la Pe?a, the eldest, and the most terrifying of all the de la Pe?a siblings who speaks up.
Everyone around the table falls quiet. Savannah, Eloise, Edith, Tori, they all look at Athena who shrugs before taking a sip of the fruity cocktail Savannah prepared for the evening. It’s called Jambalaya, Southern Comfort, peach Schnapps, lime juice and grenadine.
It’s... potent.
I’m gonna have a headache in the morning.
When I suggested diluting it a little with some Sprite, they all laughed. I feel like a lightweight with this crowd.
“My brothers are worried about him, too. He’s drinking.” Athena’s words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
“Wh-what?”
Tate has seemed fine every time I’ve seen him for the past few weeks.
Athena’s face is serious, but there’s sympathy in her eyes. “Ares has lived it, Penelope. He knows the signs. Your boy is drinking. Ares doesn’t think it’s too bad. At least not yet, but it could go that way.” She swallows. “We both know it’s a slippery slope into substance abuse.”
She’s talking about Dad without saying his name. “Whatever you need, whatever Tate needs, we’re all here for him.”
Eloise holds out a Kleenex because the tears brimming in my eyes are now trickling down my face, and Tori puts her arm around me. “My experience with Raffi isn’t the same as yours with Tate, or yours with Ares, Athena. But I’ve lived through injury and recovery with him. It’s hard as fuck. She’s right, Pen. We’re all here for you.”
“I don’t know what to do. He’s closing off from me. He’s depressed, I know that much.” I look around the group, guilt creeping into my bones that I’ve upended book club with my boy drama. But everyone in this room has had their own issues and challenges with their hockey boyfriends. There’s no judgment here.
I’m one of them.
“I don’t know how to get him to come back to me.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Eloise pats my hand.
“Maybe I need to stay over in the hockey house more often.” I scan Savannah’s living room. She’s decorated the space with vibrant splashes of purple and sweeps of gold. The floor-to-ceiling drapes are heavy, and the furniture is all dark wood.
It’s luxurious without being lavish. It’s clear she and Justin have money. And their bookshelves are lined with copies of Justin’s work. She has a Tiffany lamp on one of the end tables, it’s the ugliest damn lamp I’ve ever seen, but she adores it.
Despite the differences between this room, this house, and my dorm room, Savannah and Justin’s home is warm and welcoming, and the plush carpet feels nice between my toes.
I left my shoes at the door when I got here, afraid I’d trail dirt or footprints, or... I dunno, something through her house.
“Your home is gorgeous, Savannah.” Trying to fill the silence is fruitless.
They’re all still staring at me. I’m not sure what they’re waiting for. I don’t have any answers, I thought I could help, but I can’t.
I spent my whole life wanting out from under Dad’s spotlight as an NHL star. It was stifling. It felt like I couldn’t be the real me without it somehow coming back to reflect badly on Dad, like the bar for behavior was raised just because I was the child of a famous athlete.
And when he lost everything, when everyone was suddenly interested in him for all the wrong reasons, all I wanted was out from under his shadow, his disgrace, his shame.
And I’ve managed to land myself in the same position all over again.
I was blinded by Tate’s sunshine. Now, I’m being tugged under by his darkness.
I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it all over again.
On my way home, I call my cousin. For as welcoming as the group of women I’ve found through being Tate’s girlfriend is, no one knows me better than Karlya—except maybe Oliver.
“S’up cuz?” She’s clearly driving, the connection is echo-y, and she sounds like she’s in an air tunnel.
I sigh, trying to collect my thoughts.
“Peppy?” Her voice is laden with concern. “You need me?”
“No.” I heave out another sigh. “I just don’t know how to help Tate. He’s struggling, and I guess that means we are struggling.”
A car door slams. “Okay, I know you think you need to fix him, Peppy. I saw this when you went through it with Uncle Mike, too. But.” She sucks in a breath. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”
My stomach drops because I’m not going to like what she’s about to say.
“It’s not your job to make everyone better. It’s not your responsibility to fix the world. At some point, Tate’s going to have to figure this out for himself. And I know that’s hard for you to hear, but it sounds like you’re just a passenger on this one.”
A strangled noise clogs my throat. “I’m so glad I called you.”
“You knew what you were getting as soon as you picked up the phone. It’s why you didn’t phone Oli instead. He’d have given you a list of things to help, he’d have reminded you about all the things you guys tried with Uncle Mike after his accident. But you didn’t want that. You needed the reminder that some things are out of your control. You can’t fix everything.”
She’s right, I can’t. But as I head home I can’t help the growing fear that Tate might not be able to fix everything either.