6. Ryder
Ryder
Carter’s apartment becomes my prison for the next three days. Doctor’s orders, someone has to monitor my concussion, and Carter volunteered before I could argue.
Lennox, Carter’s girlfriend, is surprisingly cool about having an injured hockey player camping on their couch. She’s a journalist, sharp and observant, and I get the feeling she’s storing away details about my situation for future reference.
“So,” she says on day two, bringing me soup I didn’t ask for. “Carter says you’re avoiding telling your coach.”
“Carter talks too much.”
“Carter cares about you. There’s a difference.” She sits in the armchair across from me. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Bullshit. Everyone’s afraid of something. What’s yours?”
I study her, this woman who apparently wrote an article that nearly destroyed Carter’s reputation but somehow ended up dating him anyway.
She doesn’t look away. I mean she did write a piece on us and not in a good way.
You can never fully trust a journalist, they are always up to something, is she writing an article about me?
“Failing,” I say finally. “Not living up to expectations. Being the Beaumont who couldn’t make it.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“That’s family legacy.”
“Family legacy is just other people’s expectations dressed up as obligation.” She stands. “For what it’s worth, I think taking care of your body so you can play for another decade is smarter than destroying yourself for one season.”
“Easy to say when it’s not your career.”
“True. But I watched Carter nearly destroy himself trying to change toxic team culture while maintaining perfect performance. Know what I learned? Sometimes the bravest thing is admitting you can’t do it alone.”
She leaves, and I’m left staring at the ceiling, thinking about brave choices and impossible expectations.
Maya shows up that evening with takeout and an attitude.
“You look terrible,” she announces, dropping bags of Chinese food on the coffee table.
“You really need to work on your bedside manner.”
“Why? It’s not like you’re dying. You’re just injured and stubborn.”
“Big difference.”
“Huge.” She sits cross-legged on the floor, starts unpacking containers. “Carter says you still haven’t called your coach.”
“Carter needs to learn about confidentiality.”
“Carter’s worried about you.”
“Everyone’s worried about me. No one trusts me to handle my own life.”
“Can you blame them? You were practicing alone at midnight with a serious injury. That’s not ‘handling your life.’ That’s self-destruction with extra steps.”
I want to be angry, but she’s right and something about the way she says it, matter-of-fact, no judgment, just truth makes it easier to hear.
“Why do you care?” I ask. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough. I know what it looks like when someone’s trying to outrun their problems through pain. I know what it sounds like when someone says they’re fine but means they’re falling apart.”
“Speaking from experience?”
Her expression closes off immediately. “We’re not talking about me.”
“Why not? I’m sharing my disasters. Fair’s fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Haven’t you learned that yet?” The way those words escape her lips, you can see whatever broke her is still there wanting f=to break her again.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Yeah, I have.”
We eat in silence for a while. Then Maya says, “I joined a photography club today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Haven’t touched a camera in over a year, but… I joined the club.”
“That’s good.”
She looks surprised, like she expected me to dismiss it. “It’s just a club.”
“It’s a start. Sometimes that’s enough.”
I have no idea what she went through, but one thing is, I can talk to her freely, I relax a little around her.