22. Shay
SHAY
Finally, this morning, I have my therapy appointment with Lorea. It’s not that I’ve been necessarily needing to talk to her, but at this point, we’ve developed a friendship. And as my friend, I have a lot to catch her up on from the last couple of weeks since we last spoke.
I give her the whole spiel about Matt and me giving in to each other one time, well aware it was never just once.
I fill her in on some minor details about Matt’s dad, and she gives me a therapist recommendation for him if he needs one, which I plan on telling him about.
Lastly, I fill her in on my job and how much I love it.
It was never where I imagined ending up when I dreamed of my professional hockey career, but I’m damn proud to be here.
Lately, I’ve been interacting with the fan base more than before. I’ve even spotted a few young girls in the crowd, holding up signs for me instead of one of the players. Somehow, I’ve managed to tune most social negativity out. Helping Matt with that has helped me along the way too.
Honestly, I didn’t even know I could reach a place like this again, and it seems she feels the same way too.
She claps her hands together, beaming into the camera with a big smile.
“Ahh, Shay! That’s all so amazing. You’ve really put yourself out there, and look at how it’s panning out,” she squeals.
“I could not be prouder of you.” She takes a second to sit with everything I’ve said before following up with, “How is everything going with your arm?”
I flex my hand, stretching my arm out at the mention of it. “Better. It’s slow, but it’s a work in progress.”
She’s staring at the screen with upturned eyebrows and teary eyes. “Shay.” I suspect what she’s going to say, but it’ll still be nice to hear. "You’re doing so great. The way your mindset has shifted … God, I hope you’re as proud of yourself as I am.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, and I feel like I might just float up out of my chair.
“I am. Thank you.” My gratitude holds a million different meanings, and I hope she feels every single one.
I know if I told her I wouldn’t be here without her help, she would wave her hand and yell at me.
So, instead, I end with, “You’re the best therapist in the entire world, and I hope you know that. ”
She beams from ear to ear. “I do, but it’s still nice to hear.”
I know that therapy isn’t necessarily supposed to last forever.
Therapists are there to help us with a certain trauma or navigating the next stage of our lives.
I used to see Lorea weekly, and then after a few months, we staggered them out to every other week, then every two weeks, and now we’re at monthly visits.
There’s a point coming soon where we’ll end services.
But just because I might be in a good place right now doesn’t mean I won’t go through trials and tribulations in the future and need that support again.
No one has it figured out every day of their lives.
They don’t suddenly “fix” themselves. It’s a constant ebb and flow, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
When we end our call, I have tears welling up in my eyes.
I’ll see her in a month; it’s not going to be forever.
But when I see her again, I’ll have climbed this next mountain in front of me.
It’s well after the finals game. After, hopefully, Matt and I can truly navigate this next step in our relationship.
It’ll feel like forever before we talk again, and that is sad, but how exciting is it to have so much to look forward to?
Andy’s smiling from ear to ear when I walk into his office, dreading but also excited for the conversation we’re about to have. On one hand, he’s one of my oldest friends and mentors, and on the other, he’s my boss.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in his office lately, watching tape of the Washington Wild with him, but the vibe is much different this time when I shut the door behind me.
The next game is tonight, and he wanted me to come in early so we could “go over tape.” In reality, he caught me texting Matt yesterday after practice and said he couldn’t ignore us any longer if we were going to keep shoving it in his face.
I don’t think he’s mad, and honestly, I assume he’s had suspicions since the beginning, especially when he had to drag me away, crying, when I thought Matt had gotten hurt.
But he didn’t press me or even ask me about it.
He’s not typically one to pry, not until I’m ready to talk about it. Clearly, he’s tired of waiting around.
“Shay,” he greets me as I plop down in the chair across from his desk. “Thank you for joining me.”
“Oh, shut up.” I laugh, and he smirks, doing his best not to chuckle. But he fails a second later.
“All right, Ms. Rooney, is there anything you’d like to inform me about? Regarding your relationship with an off-limits goalie?” He clasps his hands together, trying to seem serious.
Leaning back, I cross my leg over my knee. “It seems like you’ve already got the answers.”
His act snaps, and he throws his hands in the air. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, just tell me already.”
I giggle, watching him rest his chin on his hands, elbows propped up on the table, as I fill him in from the beginning, only skimping on the dirty details of our away-game hookup. By the time I finish, his jaw might as well be on the floor, and he has wetness building in his eyes.
He sighs, his eyebrows pinched at the center. “Shay. Oh my gosh. It’s serious then—like, really serious?”
Tipping my head side to side, I nod. “Yeah, it’s serious.”
Sun shines through his smile as he looks at me with pure glee. “I’m happy for you, Shay. Matt’s a great guy. You’re the best girl. I can totally see you guys working so well together. You deserve to be happy.”
My heart swells in my chest. “I love you, Ave. Thank you.”
He pushes his chair back and rounds the desk. I meet his efforts, standing and opening my arms just in time for him to throw his around me.
When my accident happened, he was right there, holding my hand.
There isn’t anyone else who understands what I went through as much as he does, maybe along with some of my teammates.
But my old team and I haven’t spoken much lately, and that’s okay.
Not every friendship is going to last forever, but that also doesn’t mean it’s over. It’s just in a different stage.
They all still mean so much to me, as do the coaches and the entire Mavericks staff, but I’m not an active player in the PWHL anymore, and unfortunately, there are only twenty-four hours in the day to talk and visit each other.
While the girls are so busy kicking ass in their league right now, I’m trying to find my footing over here.
We may only be miles apart, but we’re worlds away in comparison of our schedules.
However, I do need to try to make it to their game this weekend because they’re also in the finals right now, going up against the Vegas Cobras, and I want to be there for them.
As I pull away, I dab beneath my eyes in hopes that my makeup doesn’t get completely wrecked before the game even begins.
Although no pictures from tonight can be worse than the recent ones going viral of me freaking out behind the bench.
God. I wince at the memory of posts and articles.
Even the NHL broadcasters discussed it during intermission this past game, showing clips of Andy carrying me away while I kicked and flailed like a toddler.
I try not to be embarrassed by it, but, God, it’s hard some days, especially when I struggle to avoid the comment sections. Somehow, planting stay off social media sticky notes in every room of my house isn’t doing the job.
C’est la vie. I can’t control who posts and talks about me. I can only control how I handle it. And I’m done beating myself up about it. If it’s not one thing, it’ll be another. So, screw it. I’m going to just live life however I want, and if they want to make a story out of it, have at it.
Andy and I switch discussing my love life to game prep, and that familiar, challenging adrenaline bursts in my veins when the guys line up for game six, the game that could make us champions. This could be it.
The nonstarters take the ice, skating a short lap in their zone before lining up on the bench. With each passing player, I wait for Matt to come into view in the line. My heart rate kicks up at the sight of his mask. His eyes are already somehow on me when he becomes fully visible.
The blues glisten, looking darker than usual in the dimmed lighting, but not dark enough that I don’t notice the smirk tipping up his lips, stretching into a full smile. He stops walking once he gets in front of me, turning his head.
Slowly, he lifts his fist between us, and I reach up, bumping it with mine as I shout over the roaring arena, “You’ve got this.”
He nods sharply. “Thanks, baby.”
My heart skips a beat as he walks forward to the back of the line. He barely takes a full step, and I can already feel Andy’s eyes burning into the side of my face. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he bumps his hip into mine gently, and I’m sure if it wasn’t for the music, I’d hear him squeal again.
Alec Kostelecky is announced first for our team, the Nighthawks beloved captain, who would give the jersey off of his back for someone in need. An athlete who is fair and kind, deserving of all of the success.
Cam Costello, one of the strongest forwards in the league, is a survivor. Not many have been through the hell he and Morgan have. But they’ve come out the other side, stronger than ever.
Reed Larinski, a monster defenseman on the ice and a golden retriever off of it. He cherishes his wife and time with his family more than anything in the world.
Brett Burns, a playful puppy dog off the ice, is one of the fastest skaters and highest scorers in the NHL. He’s dating Coach Hartwell’s daughter, and last I heard, they’re engaged.