Chapter 17 She’s Light
SHE’S LIGHT
You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan · Count On Me by Bruno Mars
Holden
“I’ll be right out there,” I shout to Liam as I do one last sweep of the lounge outside the locker room to make sure everything is in order. Even if the league is paying us to do this, we’re still guests.
I’m about to turn off the lights when I catch a glimpse of something in the back. No, not something—someone sitting on the bench.
“Izzy?” I ask in a hushed tone, in case something’s wrong.
She doesn’t look up, her head hanging between her knees. “Are you okay?” I ask again, taking slow steps toward her but waiting for her reply before I approach fully.
She lifts her head, her blue eyes filled with tears. Oh, man, okay.
“Can I give you some tissues?” I ask, suddenly aware of how terrifying this is. I mean, here I am, a grown man, and this fourteen-year-old girl—who’s not even supposed to be here right now—is crying, and it terrifies the hell out of me.
Liz was fourteen when she died, and it’s uncanny how similar these two are in personality. I know I’m not supposed to have a favorite player, but I can’t help it. She reminds me of my little sister too much, and seeing her cry breaks my heart.
She knuckles away the tears gathered on her cheeks and shakes her head. “No, I’m fine.”
“Okay…” I hesitate. Do I push for more? Or do I let it be?
“You don’t look fine,” I say, stepping closer. “Can I get your mom?”
She shakes her head, sadness filling her eyes. “My mom’s not here.”
I pause. “Oh, your dad, then?”
Her expression shifts from sadness to disappointment, then anger. Her tears start falling faster. “Well, that’s impossible. Since he’s dead.”
Well, shit. What is it about me attracting people who have dealt with loss?
Is it life’s way of showing me I’m not alone?
Of showing me that in the vastness of the world, we all share experiences, even if they’re crappy?
Love, grief, joy, passion, lust, anger, disappointment—all compounded in the experience of life’s package.
I sit across from her on the bench, my hand rubbing down my face before landing in my lap. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I mutter softly.
She shrugs. “It’s not your fault.”
I nod, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “I can still feel sorry, though.”
Her eyes widen. “Thanks.”
I let her words sink in. She’s not the only one who’s been through the kind of grief she’s feeling.
I’ve been there. The difference is, when I was a teenager, I didn’t want to hear people talk about their own losses.
I wanted my grief to be acknowledged, not compared.
But something I’ve learned, especially from my therapist, is that sometimes, it helps to hear someone say, “I’ve been there too. ” So, I do.
She looks at me, still unsure but a little more open. “Oh, I’m sorry, Coach Clay,” she says. “I didn’t know.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” I echo her words from before.
That earns a quiet laugh from her. “You know what you’re doing.”
“Maybe I’m guessing.” Truth is, there was a fifty-fifty chance that it would backfire. I’m glad it didn’t. “You missing him extra hard today?”
She looks up, searching the air for answers, then locks eyes with me.
Finally, in a soft, broken voice, she says, “I always miss him. He was my favorite person. Him and my mom, truly. But he was definitely the one I could talk to about…things, especially with sports. My mom…well, she tries, but she doesn’t really get it.
She’s not athletic, happily so. But my dad played football.
He understood what it was like to work hard for something, even when the outcome wasn’t what you expected. ”
I nod, feeling the weight of her words and knowing them oh too well.
“I don’t like talking to my mom about what I’m struggling with either,” she continues. “She lost him too, you know?”
I know exactly what she means. It’s not the loss itself—it’s the pressure to be strong, to be ‘okay’ for the other person.
I tell her, “I get it. I’m not your dad, and I’m not your friend, but I can listen.
I know what it’s like to struggle with a sport.
I know what it’s like to want something badly and not get it for reasons you can’t control.
And I also know what it’s like to grieve, to miss someone so much that all you can do is cry. ”
She looks at me for a long moment, her tears slowing but still there. “I think…I think that’s why I cry,” she admits. “Like, I’ve been holding all this stuff in, and then—” She wipes her eyes again but leaves the tears there.
I give her a small smile. “Maybe tears are your heart’s way of releasing everything that’s been building up.
Kind of like when we exhale after holding our breath for too long.
Our hearts can race or slow down, and we can’t help but feel those emotions, even when we try to suppress them.
When it can’t hold them anymore, it releases them as tears. ”
She nods then lets out a shaky laugh. “I just…I don’t know. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough at sports. I mean, I work hard, but I don’t feel like I’m as good as the other girls.”
“Why do you do it? Why do you play?”
She shrugs.
“Some kids do it because their parents want them to. Some do it because their friends are doing it. But why do you, Isabella, want to play hockey?”
“I think it’s cool. I would love to say I wanted to be a figure skater or a ballet dancer, but that’s just…not me. I like running, speed, sweat. I’m not all graceful and pretty like the other girls.”
She sighs. “I know that dancers and gymnasts and figure skaters sweat, and run, and have speed. I know that, trust me. But they pull all that strength into grace, and I don’t think I can do that.
” She continues as if run by a motor. “I don’t know.
I like contact sports, like flag football, hockey, soccer.
I like the team aspect—working with others but also competing against them.
But I’m not that agile. I feel like I’m letting my team down. It’s hard.”
I nod again. “It is hard, especially working so hard for something, to want it so badly, and not get the results you expect. But you don’t strike me as a quitter.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t quit. My dad didn’t, so why should I?”
“I like that,” I say, a small smile forming on my face. “He sounds like he was a good man.”
She smiles softly, a tear slipping down her cheek that she undaringly lets rest there. It’s almost like she wants to let it exist, to let the emotion show. What a beautiful thing it is to love someone that much.
“I really miss him,” she says quietly. “He was the best. And I feel so…useless without him.”
I lean forward, my voice soft but firm. “It’s okay to miss him. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay not to know what to do when you wish you could talk to him again.”
For a moment, we sit there in silence. I don’t know what else to do.
Once, I thought this was what I wanted, to help kids process their emotions as my therapist once helped me and my little sister, but I have too much grief of my own not to project, too much grief not to fuck it up, so I’m doing the next best thing.
“Do you think I can still do this?” she asks, her voice so small. “Play hockey?”
I smile at her. “Kiddo, you’ve been playing hockey.”
“I’ve been falling during hockey.”
“You’ve fallen? Really? I wouldn’t know,” I joke.
She chuckles. “A lot.”
“Huh? You must probably do something really fast every time. I wonder what that would be?”
“I get back up again.”
I nod. “That’s all you can do,” I say with a wink.
Just then, the shout comes through. “There you are!”
We both turn to see her mom standing there. She looks so young. There’s no way she’s old enough to have a teenage daughter, but after my conversation with Natalie this week, I need to stop assuming. Even if she is young, so what? Clearly, she’s doing a great job.
Unlike Izzy, her mom’s got blonde hair, and although they have the same striking blue eyes, that’s where the resemblance stops.
Her mom is covered in tattoos, with long blonde hair and a lean body.
Izzy’s got dark, almost black, hair, fuller cheeks, and she’s built of solid muscle.
Maybe she takes after her dad after all.
“Are you okay?” her mom asks, brow furrowed as Izzy approaches her with her duffel bag in tow.
“Yeah, I think I will be,” Izzy says, her voice steadier now. “Coach Clay helped me out.”
Her mom looks back at me. I don’t know her name, but she smiles in affirmation—grateful. No need for thanks, as clear as day. I don’t need gratefulness; this meant more to me than her for sure.
“Alright, well,” she says, trying to lighten the mood, “whatever it is, I bet ice cream and French fries can fix it.”
Izzy’s face lights up immediately. “Don’t tell Mom.”
Oh, I guess she’s not her mom. “I don’t actually care if we tell her. She didn’t say anything about not feeding you copious amounts of ice cream. Let’s go.”
They walk out, arm in arm. What a beautiful relationship they have.
Maybe she’s her aunt. I can see her being like a little sister, giving her older sister hell and doing whatever she wants with her niece.
Sometimes, I wish I had aunts and uncles, but other times, like this, when I remember how complicated life is, I’m okay living as a hermit.
But then there’s Natalie. I don’t remember the last time I felt I wanted more from life than right now. I want more games, more coffee time, more laughs. I want more of whatever I feel like when I’m around her.
I turn off the lights and head outside. We carpooled here, so Liam and I hop in the car and drive back to Oliver’s place. There’s something going on with his kid, so we’re all meeting up to chat.
“Did you know Izzy’s dad passed?” I ask, trying to break the silence.
“Yeah, it’s in her file,” Liam replies. “You should probably read those.”
“Not really my thing. I don’t want to get attached to them.”