30. Jamie
Chapter thirty
Jamie
Grief
By the time I pull into my driveway, the coffee is still sitting untouched in the cup holder.
I can't bring myself to throw it away.
The engine falls silent.
I stay where I am.
The cabin sits exactly the way I left it this morning. The porch swing moves gently in the breeze. Someone down the lake starts a boat.
Life goes on.
Apparently, no one bothered to tell the rest of the world that mine had just stopped.
***
The cabin is quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The empty kind.
I set my untouched coffee on the kitchen island before shrugging out of my jacket.
For one ridiculous second...
I glance toward the hallway.
Half expecting to hear—
"Jamie Walker, if you're trying to sneak out of your exercises again..."
Silence.
The words never come. I let out a slow breath. "Yeah."
My voice sounds strange in the empty room.
"I know."
I pick up the coffee. It's cold.
Without thinking, I walk to the microwave.
My hand reaches for the buttons.
I stop.
What am I doing?
Annette isn't coming.
She isn't running late. She isn't finishing paperwork. She isn't parking her car. She's gone.
I stand there for a long moment before quietly pouring the untouched vanilla latte down the sink.
Watching it disappear somehow feels like another goodbye.
***
I should eat.
Instead, I wander.
My shoulder exercises are still taped to the refrigerator exactly where Annette left them.
Three pages. Color-coded.
She'd laughed when I told her only kindergarten teachers used colored markers.
"Apparently they also work on stubborn hockey captains."
I smile before I can stop myself. The smile disappears just as quickly.
My hand brushes over the papers. I don't take them down. I can't.
Instead, I keep walking.
The living room blanket is folded neatly over the arm of the couch.
The same soft gray one she'd wrapped around herself during movie night when she'd insisted she wasn't cold.
"You've been shivering for ten minutes."
"I'm perfectly comfortable."
"You've stolen my blanket."
"I've borrowed your blanket."
"That's not how stealing works."
"It is if I eventually give it back."
I sink onto the couch. The blanket still smells faintly like vanilla lotion and peppermint shampoo.
I close my eyes.
For one impossible second...it almost feels like she's still here.
The illusion lasts exactly one heartbeat.
Then the silence returns.
Louder than before.
***
A knock at the front door startles me.
I don't move.
Another knock.
Then—
"Walker."
Coach.
Of course. I rub both hands over my face before crossing the room.
When I open the door, Coach studies me for exactly three seconds.
It's enough. He doesn't ask how I am. He already knows. Without waiting for an invitation, he steps inside.
"I brought sandwiches."
I blink. "What?"
He lifts a paper bag. "I figured somebody should make sure you eat."
For reasons I can't explain...
that almost undoes me.
Coach sets the bag on the counter.
Neither of us reaches for it.
Neither of us says anything.
Finally...
He looks at me.
Very quietly, he says,
"I’m so sorry Jamie."
I nod once.
The words scrape against my throat. "She heard me."
Coach waits.
I stare at the untouched coffee.
"She heard every word."
Silence settles between us.
Then, barely above a whisper—
"And she still left."
Coach studies me for another moment before quietly pulling out one of the kitchen stools.
He sits. That's it.
No speeches. No questions.
Just...Stays.
The silence stretches between us.
Normally it would have made me uncomfortable.
Today...It's exactly what I need.
Finally, I clear my throat. "I keep thinking she'll walk through the door."
Coach doesn't answer.
"I even..." I shake my head, embarrassed. "I almost reheated my coffee for her."
His eyes soften.
I stare at the floor. "I knew she wasn't coming."
Another pause. "But for a second..."
I let out a humorless laugh. "I forgot."
Coach folds his hands together. "Grief does that."
The word catches me off guard.
Grief.
People grieve funerals, not women who choose to leave.
"I don't think this counts."
He looks at me. "Doesn't it?"
I don't have an answer.
Because somehow, it feels exactly like mourning someone who's still alive.
***
Coach finally opens the paper bag.
"Turkey."
He slides half a sandwich toward me.
I don't touch it.
"You should eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"I know."
He unwraps his own sandwich. "Tough."
I almost smile. Almost.
"You sound like Annette."
The words hit both of us. Coach quietly sets his sandwich back down.
I rub a hand over my face. "She'd probably tell me my body can't heal without calories."
"And she'd be right."
***
Silence settles again. Without looking up I finally ask the question that's been clawing at me since I walked into rehab.
"Coach..."
"Yeah?"
"What if I waited too long?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
"I don't know."
"I kept thinking..." I swallow hard. "I wanted everything to be perfect."
My shoulder. The season. Her internship ending. The timing.
"I thought if I waited until she didn't have to worry about being my therapist anymore..."
I shake my head.
"...I'd finally get it right."
Coach nods slowly.
"And now?"
I stare at the cold coffee. "I think I waited until there wasn't anything left to save."
The words hang in the room. Neither of us moves.
Outside, a breeze stirs the wind chimes hanging from the porch.
Inside...
I've never felt her absence more.
***
Coach stands. For a second I think he's leaving. Instead, he walks to the refrigerator.
He studies the brightly colored rehab sheets Annette taped there weeks ago.
His fingers lightly trace one corner.
"She put a lot of work into these."
"Yeah."
"You still doing them?"
I let out a short laugh. "She'd haunt me if I stopped."
Coach smiles. "So, keep doing them."
I frown.
"What?"
"The exercises."
He turns back toward me. "Not because she's coming back."
A pause. "Because she'd be furious if you quit now."
I reach for the sandwich. Not because I'm hungry, but because Annette would have expected me to.
Coach notices. He doesn't say a word, simply nods once.
***
Three days later...
The cabin still feels like she's only stepped out for a few minutes.
Long enough to buy groceries.
Long enough to grab coffee.
Long enough to come walking back through the front door saying she forgot something.
Every time headlights sweep across the front windows after dark...
Part of me looks up.
Every single time.
The driveway is always empty.
***
Rehab has become strangely quiet.
No teasing.
No arguments.
No one reminding me to slow down.
I work through every exercise exactly the way Annette wrote them.
Stretch.
Pause.
Ice.
Repeat.
Without realizing when it happened, somewhere between the stretches and the ice packs, following her instructions became the closest thing I had to hearing her voice.
***
Coach calls every evening.
Not to talk.
Just to ask one question.
"You eat?"
Every night I give him the same answer.
"Yeah."
Sometimes it's even true.
The guys have started dropping by.
Liam pretends he forgot his truck keys. Twice.
Toby arrives carrying takeout that could feed six people. He doesn't mention Annette.
Neither do I.
We watch a baseball game. Neither of us can tell you who won.
When he leaves, he quietly carries my overflowing garbage bag out to the curb without asking.
I notice. I don't thank him.
Somehow...
I think he knows I mean to.
One week later...
Sleeping still isn't easy.
But at least I can manage more than an hour or two at a time.
The physical pain has long ago loosened its grip.
The other kind...
Hasn't moved an inch.
Every morning I wake up for one impossible second believing she's still here.
Every morning reality catches up before I make it to the kitchen.
The cabin isn't getting quieter.
I'm simply getting used to the silence.
***
Two weeks later...
I automatically kneel beside one of the younger players, helping tape a sore ankle before the trainer can get there.
Halfway through, my hands pause. Annette would've done exactly the same thing. She never walked past someone who needed help.
For a long moment, I simply stare at the fresh tape wrapped neatly around the rookie's ankle. Then, without saying a word, I finish the job.
As the rookie thanks me and hurries away, I realize something that catches me completely off guard.
Without even noticing...
I've started seeing people the way Annette does.
***
Four weeks later...
I’m continuing on my own with post-intense rehab, so I’m basically using the gym to keep up exercises on days that I’m not with one of my trainers. Rehab finally feels routine.
Mrs. Alvarez is talking with one of the cardiac patients struggling to finish the last few steps around the therapy gym.
His shoulders sag. "I don't think I've got another lap in me."
Before I can think about it, I'm beside him. "You've already done the hard part."
He looks over.
"What part's that?"
"You showed up."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Now let's finish together."
We walk the final stretch side by side.
Slowly.
Patiently.
When we reach his chair, he lowers himself into it with an exhausted grin.
"I didn't think I could do it."
"You could."
"You just needed someone to remind you."
As I turn back toward my own therapy station, I catch Mrs. Alvarez watching us.
Her eyes glisten. She doesn't say anything. She simply smiles.
For just a moment...
I could swear she's looking at me the same way she used to look at Annette.
Only later do I realize why.
Without meaning to...
I'd become the encouragement Annette had been for everyone around her.
***
Six weeks later...
At the arena, my trainer Mark clears me to begin light skating.
The first lap feels awkward. Not because of my shoulder. Because she's not standing at the boards pretending she isn't timing every stride.
I circle the rink once. Twice. By the third lap, habit takes over.
I glance toward the glass.
For one ridiculous second...
I expect to find Annette leaning against the boards with her clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
Instead, there's only empty glass reflecting the ice back at me.
I finish the session anyway.