Chapter Twenty-Three
I pulled my new license out of my wallet to obsess about the photo again.
“Was it the lighting?” I asked quietly. “The camera? Because this might be the best picture ever taken of me.”
Ben dared to take his eyes off the icy road ahead of us for a second to glance over at me. “What are you talking about? You
look gorgeous in every photo, and the fact that you can make a mugshot look like it belongs in a modeling portfolio proves
it.”
Despite the turmoil of the past few hours and the stress ahead of me, I actually looked pretty darn happy in the photo. Maybe
it was because Ben had stood behind the glum guy taking it and made faces at me? How could I not laugh?
I slid it back in my wallet. “Thank you for making me go get it today. They’re definitely going to be closed tomorrow if this
keeps up.”
The snow had started like someone upstairs flicked a switch. There was no slow lead-up to the heart of the squall; from the
moment the flakes started coming down it was an intense, serious storm.
Which Ben was now expertly navigating despite the occasional black ice on the road.
I was wrung out after the interview with my parents but Ben had insisted we get my license before the DMV closed for the day,
and we wound up making it minutes before they closed at five thirty. It was a scramble to get everything packed up and drop
Hailey and Neil at the inn, but I appreciated that our rushing prevented me from having to go through a prolonged goodbye
with my mom. The next time I’d see her would be in Italy.
“So can we talk about it now?” Ben asked me. “The interview?”
The rhythmic thwack of the windshield wipers filled the silence while I considered it.
“High level, sure. But I’m not in the mood for a therapy session.”
Even though I knew how good Ben was at it.
“Did you know about the Rockettes stuff?”
“Nope.” I shook my head and fought off queasy feelings. “That was a bombshell that I’m sure she loved dropping on me.”
“Does it bother you?”
I hadn’t had the time to process it yet and I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to. “Not that she had to quit, because it wasn’t my
fault. But if I’d known about it before it might’ve helped contextualize our relationship.”
“It sure does explain a ton. Can I make an armchair diagnosis?”
I glanced over at him. “Are you qualified?”
He smiled. “I mean, I got my PhD from Reddit University, so not exactly. But based on my research I’d say your mom is a textbook
narcissist.”
“Yeah, thanks to my therapist I came to that conclusion as well. It helps to have a framework for her behavior, but it doesn’t
make living with it any easier.”
Ben glanced at me again, his eyes soft in the fading light. “I’m sorry.”
He watched me for so long that I worried we might drift into a snowbank and get stuck together forever.
Which wouldn’t be the worst thing.
“Consider yourself lucky that you had normal parents,” I said, trying to make light of my trauma. “Wait, you did have normal parents, right? That wasn’t all for show?”
A single nod as he finally refocused on the road. “My parents were great. Are great. Zero complaints.”
I wasn’t going to let him sidestep my attempt to get him to open up.
“That must’ve been a huge help as you transitioned to regular civilian life,” I said. “Having them in your corner.”
I studied his profile and caught the frowning jaw flex.
“What?” I asked.
He answered with a long sigh. “It’s complicated. There’s just a lot you don’t know about that period of my life. Talking about
it makes me look . . .”
I held my breath as he searched for the right word.
“Weak.”
“Ben, no,” I began, but I stopped myself just as quickly, because I didn’t want to sound like I didn’t believe his pain. “I
mean, I get it. You’re an incredibly strong person who was facing down an unimaginable challenge. Of course you faltered a
little.”
“Faltered,” he repeated as he coughed out a laugh. “Oh, it was so much more than that. You probably think I just had a little too much fun, right? The gold medal playboy and his drinking
problem.” He opened his mouth to keep going then shut it abruptly.
“What?”
Ben looked over again and the pain in his expression made him almost unrecognizable to me. “Quinn, I couldn’t get out of bed. For months.”
It was my turn to flap my mouth open and closed like a fish on dry land.
“Disgusting, right?” Ben asked with another harsh laugh.
“No,” I replied immediately. My hand snaked over to his shoulder reflexively and squeezed it. “Understandable.”
“But it’s not,” he insisted. “I had everything. A great team and coach, amazing parents, financial security, and more gold medals than
any human needs. Instead of celebrating it, I curled up in my apartment and tried to sleep and drink my days away.” He shook
his head. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was? But I was powerless against the black dog.”
“I’m sorry? The what?”
“The black dog. Depression. I think the phrase started with Churchill. It’s easier to call it that rather than what it actually
was. No one wants to say, “I have depression.”
I was coming to understand that the post-Olympic dip was bigger and deeper than I realized.
“But you got help,” I said quietly.
“I did. But not before my little breakdown put my entire career in jeopardy. I lost a couple of brand deals, my sports agent
quit.” Ben snorted. “Pretty shocking that more of it didn’t end up in the press. The world just got the topline story of ‘out-of-control
athlete,’ which is a hell of a lot more palatable than ‘athlete undergoing a mental health crisis.’ It’s like a shameful secret
that these superhuman machines have real feelings. We grieve, we bleed, but no one seems to give a shit about our feelings
unless we win. Go figure.”
I fought through my jumble of selfish emotions to find a response, because I totally understood what he meant, but I didn’t want to make the conversation about me now that he was finally opening up.
“I had no idea. I’m so sorry,” I said.
Ben’s revelation had me rethinking everything I thought I understood about what happened, or didn’t happen, after Switzerland. All I’d focused on was the way he was letting me down in my time of need without even pausing
to think about what he was going through.
“Gross, right?” Ben said, like he was trying to play off the reveal.
“Ben, no. I wish I’d known.”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “You were dealing with your own demons. But now we’re older and wiser. Some of us are much older.”
“And we have the tools to process everything now? Yes?”
“I fucking hope so,” Ben replied. “I never want to feel like that again.”
He leaned closer to the windshield because the ice around the edges was encroaching despite the furious windshield wiping.
We drove in silence for the remainder of the trip, partly because I didn’t want to be a distraction but mainly because I was
trying to process what Ben had revealed to me. The light was fading and the bleak horizon made it seem like the snow was coming
down even harder.
“Are you holding up okay?” I asked as we reached the final leg of the drive.
“I will be once we get there, which at twenty miles per hour, might wind up being tomorrow.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Tomorrow. Ugh, I can’t believe we might get stuck here. I did not plan for this.”
Anxiety swirled up in my chest. I’d tried to ignore the possibility of an extra day in Connecticut, because interruptions to my routine felt like nails in my coffin.
The countdown to Italy was now measured in weeks, not months, and each training day was meticulously planned to the minute.
I’d been okay with an overnight, but the thought of being stuck longer meant I probably wouldn’t be sleeping thanks to my training anxiety.
Which also stressed me out, because overnight recovery was critical.
“Fuck,” I said under my breath as I pictured all the ways my progress would now be derailed.
“What?”
“Two full days off . . .”
“No, hold on, recalculate that. You didn’t train today, but if we wind up getting stuck there’s plenty you can do tomorrow.
You’ve got your sneakers, and there’s a conference room at the inn where you can work out. Sure, it’s off-ice, but it still
counts.”
“Every day that I’m not on the ice is a setback that I clearly can’t afford.”
Ben adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “If you keep telling yourself that you’ll be correct. But if you reframe this
little adventure as a chance to recharge and switch things up, then you’ll be fine. Consistency is important, but so is a
little novelty. Muscle confusion can benefit you.”
The car skidded into the other lane but Ben righted it without missing a beat.
“I lost a full week of training time two months before Switzerland. Hip strain so painful that it made me want to cry. I was forced to focus on PT and mental training, which, if you listen to sports psychologists, is almost as important as the physical stuff. The absolute worst thing to do in this scenario is freak out.” He paused to swerve around an abandoned car parked haphazardly on the side of
the road. “You know I’m right.”
I chuckled. There was the Ben I knew.
We finally pulled up to the inn. Ben let out a long sigh and shook his hands. “That was really fucking stressful. I think
every muscle is in knots.”
“Well, now you can go to your room and relax,” I answered as my brain conjured up images of Ben spread out in bed in his boxers.
Ben spread out in bed out of his boxers.
Yeah, I probably wasn’t going to be sleeping much tonight.