Chapter 21
NICKY
The office of Adam Knowles isn’t anything like I expect.
There’s a small desk pushed under the window.
It looks out onto the parking lot of the office complex.
A closed laptop sits next to a telephone.
The walls are blank, except for one large panoramic photograph of a lighthouse being lashed by a massive wave, the vast ocean behind.
In the center of the room, a plush area rug outlines the meeting of a worn tan wingback chair, with a matching ottoman and a squishy, burgundy three-seat sofa.
A minimalist end table is positioned next to the chair, a legal pad and pen resting on top, a lone tissue box toward the edge.
It’s sparse. But there’s an honesty in it, and as I settle into the surprisingly supportive and comfortable couch, I appreciate that it isn’t designed to give a fabricated sense of enlightenment or hope. It’s real. Relaxed. A lot like the man who sits opposite me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Nikita.” Adam—as he insisted on the phone—is in fitted dark-wash jeans and a deep green wool sweater.
He’s probably twenty years my senior, but his chestnut hair shows no signs of gray, and there’s only the faintest creasing at the corners of his equally brown eyes.
He’s nearly as tall as I am, with broad shoulders and powerful legs.
“Nicky is fine,” I reply. Adam nods and folds his hands in his lap.
He props a foot on the ottoman, comfortable and patient.
I, however, feel like my skin is too tight.
I’ve never been to therapy, but it didn’t take me long to realize it was something I needed to do.
Natalia has slept better since the first night I came home, but she still hugs me for longer than she used to.
She leaves the game she’s playing in another room to find me and check in.
But this isn’t just about my daughter. It’s about me, too.
Her nightmares have faded, but mine seem to just be starting.
Flashbacks and echoes crop up unbidden when I’m awake and asleep.
Doubt and fear slithering into places I’ve only ever felt joy.
I don’t want them to control my life, so I’ve come to the place I hope can help me banish them.
“So, what happens now?” I ask, forcing myself to sound at ease.
“It’s up to you. I’ll listen if you want to talk,” Adam offers, but he gives a soft smile when my shoulders tense. “But sometimes my clients find that overwhelming, so I can ask questions.”
“Until this season, I’ve always hated interviews,” I admit, still uncomfortable with something formal.
“But then I was selected for this documentary, and every couple of weeks the film crew sets me up somewhere to do a ‘confessional.’ They ask all kinds of things—it was really hard at first. Until Bea told me to talk to her, which helped.”
“Bea? Who is that?” Adam pushes the ottoman away with his foot and crosses his legs at the ankle. He rests his elbows on the arms of the chair. His tone is light and conversational.
“When I met her, she was just the best friend of my teammate’s girlfriend.
This force with a British accent wrapped in my jersey.
” I can’t help the way my lips curl up at the memory.
“Then she moved here and started working for the team. We moved in the same social circles. She’s whip smart and confident.
Flawless at her job. The front office assigned her as liaison between me and the film crew.
She works in public relations, so she was given the task of making sure my interests were looked after. ”
“I can tell there’s more. You have a dreamy look on your face. Like a kid who just met his celebrity crush in person.” Adam gives a soft laugh. I can’t feel my face doing what he describes, but it doesn’t surprise me if I have a dopey look in my eyes.
“Somewhere along the way, Bea became my friend. Became my daughter’s friend. She slipped in, slowly becoming part of my life, and I didn’t want her to stop,” I say. “And I’m not blind. Bea’s stunning. The next thing I knew, I was in love with her and—”
And I died.
“She sounds like a really important part of your life,” Adam says, pivoting from my abrupt silence.
“I think—no, I know—she and Natalia, my daughter, are my entire life.”
“And how have things been for them lately?” Adam shifts the topic expertly.
Even if mere seconds ago, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about what brought me here, now it feels easier.
I know he’s aware of my accident, not just from my intake paperwork, but it was reported in the national news.
I know from the emails and text messages I’ve ignored that the team has been inundated with requests for comment. Updates.
“Natalia had nightmares when I was in the hospital.” The guilt punches me in the gut.
It’s a feeling that’s become an unwelcome companion.
Adam doesn’t say anything, just recrosses his legs and waits.
“They seem to have stopped, especially since I go to bed with her every night. I think having me next to her helps. She was never a clingy baby or toddler, but she’s been a little like Velcro. ”
“She’s five, right?” Adam asks. I nod. “Even if she doesn’t understand everything that’s happened, she’s old enough to feel the emotions and the energy surrounding it. That can be a lot for a system as small and inexperienced as hers.”
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed gravel.
Jagged and raw, I try to clear it. My nose stings in a way that makes me suck my teeth and hiss.
A tide is swelling inside me, turbulent and powerful; it rises against the carefully constructed control I’ve held onto for days, lapsing in small, quiet moments when no one can see.
“Uh.” The attempt at a word is definitely more sound than syllable when the first tear tracks down my cheek.
My hands flex, curling in and out of fists as though I can keep anything in now that it’s broken free.
“I’m her dad,” I finally gasp out, dragging in a ragged breath before saying what I need to.
“I’m supposed to protect her, and I couldn’t—It was me who hurt her. I can’t do that again.”
I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with the heaving sobs that course through me.
Seconds that feel like hours pass until I can manage a breath without feeling another fissure in my soul crack open.
Through it all, Adam hasn’t spoken. Now, his arm is extended, the box of tissues clutched in his hand.
I take a couple, wiping my face and blowing my nose.
I don’t know what to do with them, so I tuck them into my lap.
I’ll need to throw these in the trash, I think, a strange thing to consider.
“It was her father being hurt that hurt her,” Adam says after a long pause.
“That makes it easy to know she loves you a lot.” He sets the tissue box on the side table before leaning forward on his elbows.
“The guilt you feel—that beast that’s eating you up inside right now—that’s a natural extension of being a parent.
It’s primal to want to protect your kid, even when you know you’re never going to be able to shield her from everything.
Harder when you’re involved in it. She wasn’t alone during your hospital recovery, right? ”
“No,” I begin, the intensity of my guilt melting into a familiar warmth.
“Bea was with her. She, uh, took a leave of absence from work and has been with us. She stayed with Nat, took her to school, and helped keep her in the routine until I woke up. Bea helped her through every bad dream, answered every question, brought her to the hospital…”
“An impressive woman,” Adam comments. We sit in companionable silence for a moment as I think of how impressive doesn’t even begin to describe just how amazing Beatrice Farrow is.
“Nicky.” Adam pulls my attention to him.
He’s back to leaning in his chair, feet propped up and crossed at the ankles. “Can you tell me about playing hockey?”
“Uh, sure.” I stumble over the question even if it’s one I’ve answered a hundred times. My confusion must be clear, because Adam offers a guiding explanation.
“I’d just like to know more about how you feel about the game.”
I talk about how the ice shaped my childhood; the hours spent in the local arena with a mismatched group of other kids in my second-hand gear.
Every time I tied my skates, I felt like I was a superhero.
Only I wasn’t imbued with powers or fighting a villain.
I just felt larger than life. Better than the cozy but old apartment I lived in.
Stronger than the taunts I’d get for my duct-tape blocker. The game was magic.
I breeze through my high-school years, when I believed, if I worked hard enough, I’d manage to show a scout for a college—any college—that I was worth a scholarship.
I fought every day to prove myself, keeping up my grades and my save percentage.
I was going to make something of myself, and hockey would be the way I’d do it.
The sting of rejection when no scouts came to my lowly division four games tried to dull the shine. But I refused to give up.
Instead, I took a job at the nearby AHL arena as a Zamboni driver, and talked my way into getting ice time—and eventually practice sessions with the team.
Adam smiles when I recall the game that changed everything: the night I stepped into the goal for the team as an emergency backup goalie.
I felt like I belonged. That I had finally made it.
“That’s how I eventually ended up with The Midnight,” I finish. “I know I have skills, but there was a shit ton of dumb luck, too.”
“It’s an amazing story. Especially before the age of twenty-five and with a small child,” Adam marvels, and I consider how impressive it sounds when boiled down to such simplistic terms. But I know how hard I worked. The sacrifices I made. “And now?”
“Now what?” I ask.