Chapter 45 Bohdan
Bohdan
Then - Seattle
You fell asleep early last night.
Yeah.
Oh. I just thought—when I came to bed—never mind, it’s stupid.
It’s not stupid, but I am.
Really fucking brutal and terrible actually.
Can’t skate.
Can’t see the sunlight without it causing me blinding pain like some sort of fucking vampire.
Can’t even hold a conversation with the person who has my heart in their palms.
Can’t do fucking anything.
My fingers tense against the porcelain rim of the sink, and I glance up at the mirror. I can’t see myself—it’s covered in steam from the shower, and usually that’d be for the best. I’m not a big fan of looking at my own reflection anymore, but I wipe the steam off and force myself to look today.
Hair matted to my forehead, but the angry red scar peeks out from underneath. Grey circles under my eyes because my sleep is all over the place. Hollow cheeks covered in unkempt stubble because I forget to shave most days.
I try to forget most things. That I should be playing.
That I had a dream and it got stolen by a stupid accident.
That I was the best. That I’m supposed to be closing in on records.
That I should have almost a decade left of playing in me.
That at the end of the day, it’s unfair because guys get hit all the time and this doesn’t happen to them.
But it happened to me.
I’m not sure if that’s whatever’s left of my scrambled-up brain trying to protect me—my psychiatrist says forgetting can be a powerful thing, but it’s not always the best.
Forgetting was working, sort of.
Until I started to forget things about Sloan.
A muscle in my jaw ticks, and I clench the sink before making a fist and knocking it against the countertop, right beside my little pharmacy of pain meds and too many antidepressants to count.
I don’t think they’re really working, either. They make me foggy and sluggish and slower than the stupid accident made me on the ice.
I feel a bit like swiping them all off the counter. I don’t—I open them up one by one and swallow them with water from the tap instead.
I tried skipping them, but the nausea and the brain zaps were almost worse than what it feels like to be on them.
My eyes find the mirror again, but it’s not my reflection I see.
It’s Sloan.
Standing in the kitchen this morning, sunlight streaming in and doing things to her eyes that I would usually notice but my brain just skipped right over. Hands gripping a mug and I can see now that her finger was tapping against the handle in quick counts of three.
Cheeks red, her usual soft smile strained.
You fell asleep early last night.
She needed me, and I was supposed to tell her three things I loved about her. Three facts to help her, and I couldn’t.
Truthfully, I probably couldn’t have strung three facts about anything together even if I tried.
I blink, and it’s just me in the mirror again.
Some pathetic shell of a man.
“Fucking useless.” I smack my hand against the side of my head. “You don’t deserve her.”
Maybe a different me did.
But this stranger? Whoever he is?
He doesn’t deserve shit.