8. Shay
SHAY
Physical therapy this morning pissed me off more than anything because we’re working on squeezing things like shampoo out of a bottle.
Granted, he isn’t wasting shampoo while I try to get it, but doing the motions and exercises that mimic it.
I swear physical therapists don’t get the credit they deserve sometimes because mine also listens to my complaining, caring just as much about my mentality as he does for my physical progress.
I also met with Lorea this morning via Zoom, and it was a good session. I wish she would stop trying to throw me off of a cliff in my comfort zone because every time I feel like I reach a new peak, she puts a different mountain in front of me.
Her newest challenge, since I’m getting more comfortable being near the ice, is to go to my old team’s game tonight. I know I can do it. I can sit in the box and watch it, just like I have for a couple Nighthawks games, but a Mavericks game is different, and she knows that.
Deep down, I think I’m ready, but I’m scared. It’ll be my first time watching their game since I left. But it’s something I’ll have to do eventually, right? Better now than never.
Lorea says it’s part of my healing journey—facing my fears. She’s probably right, and this will help, but right now, as I’m walking into the arena, I don’t feel an ounce of that optimism.
You’d never know by the smile on my face and lightness in my step. That’s all for show. I can’t look like I hate being here. The press would be insane. I’m excited to see the girls. I can’t ignore the thousand nagging buts lingering in my mind, ready to follow that sentence.
Security lets me through, and I make my way up to the team box, reserved for family, friends, or associates of the team, grabbing a water and popcorn so I have them to distract me from nervously fidgeting.
The attendant, Greta, who I’ve known professionally for years, smiles as I approach, recognizing me. “Ms. Rooney. Good to see you here.”
I smile back. “It’s been too long, Greta. You look great.”
She beams, the wrinkles around her eyes a beautiful display of the happy life she’s lived. “You too.”
She opens the door for me, and I stroll into the box, which has a few people I don’t know talking at a high table. But they kindly smile before resuming their conversation, and I find a spot along the wall facing the ice, setting my stuff down on the narrow table and sliding into the tall seat.
A forceful and loud exhale whistles between my lips. “Okay.”
The rink is empty, but to be fair, I’m here before warm-ups, but not by much. A minute later, the announcer welcomes the Mavericks, and I hold my breath as my friends and teammates burst onto the ice.
My hands clench, nails digging in, as sticks slap the ground and pucks bounce into the boards and glass.
I’ve been listening to these exact sounds at the Nighthawks practices and games.
It’s the same damn thing, but I’m having a much harder time sitting through this than I have for any of the Nighthawks ones.
But that’s because I know I shouldn’t be in this box, watching the game. I should be there, between the pipes, wearing the purple jersey, tearing up the ice in the crease. I should be cracking jokes with my girls, getting excited for the clock to run out and the game to begin.
Someone sits beside me, and a few others join to their left, but I pay them no attention as they mingle.
I know the goalie who replaced me. I actually played with her for a couple of years when we were younger.
She’s great. A hard worker, quick learner, witty.
The Mavericks are lucky to have her, and I wish her the best. But I also wish me the best, and knowing I’ll never get to skate out with my team, be on that ice in these moments … it guts me completely.
I don’t how I’ll ever accept that fully, and maybe I won’t. Maybe this hollow feeling in my chest will always be there, haunting me.
“Doing okay?” someone whispers beside me, and my body locks up.
Who the hell does this person think they are? Am I obviously struggling? Shit, I’d better fix my face before it ends up on the front of every hockey post tonight or tomorrow. I can practically see it now.
Shay Rooney, bitter at Mavericks game.
Shay’s rooting for old team’s opponent.
They love to twist the truth into a good story. I won’t give them another one.
“Shay?” the same deep voice whispers again.
I snap out of my stupor, turning my head to find someone I certainly didn’t expect to see here.
Matt’s sitting next to me, elbows bent and hands clasped under his chin. His profile strikes me, sharp, stoic, and beautiful. The backward baseball cap with his name embroidered along the edge. The sweatshirt pulled taut across his shoulders. It’s honestly disarming how attractive he is.
Shay, nope, we are not doing that.
A few guys are bickering on the other side of him, and I quickly recognize them, amazed that I went this long since their arrival without realizing who was sitting next to me. Matt, Cam, Alec, Reed, Brett, and Jensen fill the chairs to my left.
I can tell Matt’s trying to play it cool, like he’s not giving me his full attention. His eyes are on the ice below, his body forward, but I can feel his gaze on me completely.
Something gently bumps my knee under the table—his leg.
Say something, you idiot.
Whispering, I say, “I’m fine.”
His eyes shift to the side, his face saying everything his mouth isn’t. He doesn’t believe me one bit. “Really?”
“Yeah. Totally,” I murmur.
He shifts his fist to his left cheek, his mouth angled toward me. “You’re a terrible liar.”
A quip forms on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t manage to get a word out, other than the truth. “I’ll be fine.”
Then he says the most perfect words. “I’m right here.”
Which is sweet and thoughtful and kind. And stupid because I’m his coach and he’s my player and that’s it. Nodding gently, I watch the players leave the ice, and the Zamboni comes out to resurface it for the game.
I should tell him to talk with his friends, to ignore me. But I can’t. As much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s my rock here right now. My safety net to lean on.
“Thank you,” I whisper, bumping his leg back softly.
We’re surrounded by thousands of people in a sold-out arena, yet I feel like Matt and I are in a bubble all our own. But it pops the second the starting line’s announced, anthem’s sung, and the puck is dropped, the clock clicking away as the first period begins.
My legs are bouncing uncontrollably on the footrest beneath me, my jaw clenched and locked tight. The sounds of skates on the ice, the puck hitting the boards, and players shouting are echoing in my ear like gunshots, each one jarring me.
My breaths bounce with my legs, staccato, as I inhale through my mouth and out of my nose. As hard as I’m fighting it, they keep quickening instead of slowing.
Fuck, I don’t know if I can do this.
Pathetic. Stupid.
I’m so far from the ice, the same distance I’ve watched a Nighthawks game from, and I’m losing it.
Ridiculous, Shay. I can’t believe you can’t even get through a single game.
Warmth blossoms atop my thigh, just above my knee, scorching and electric, shocking my system completely.
A sweet voice, barely audible and breathy, fills my ears, overpowering the echoing blades. “I’m right here.”
I expel my panic in a short breath, letting my eyes drift closed as I focus on his hand wrapped around the top of my thigh, anchoring me in place.
This is inappropriate and certainly unprofessional.
But if it wasn’t for him right now, I’d likely have run out of here or blacked out from hyperventilating.
“Thank you.” My voice is so shaky.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he brushes his thumb gently against my leggings, the sensation nearly bringing tears to my eyes. I focus on his touch, on the caress, for a few minutes as my breathing slows to a normal rate.
But even when it’s returned to normal, I don’t do the one thing I should and push his hand away. Instead, I lean ever so slightly closer to him and let his fingers stay encased around me.
It’s just a distraction, a way to keep my anxiety at bay during the game. That’s it. It has absolutely nothing to do with the way my body feels like it’s on fire where he’s touching me. Absolutely nothing to do with that.
Shifting to me just enough so I can hear him better, he murmurs, “Attagirl.”
Oh God.
My cheeks warm, and my lips part, my mind immediately putting that record of him saying that on repeat over and over … to distract me from the game, obviously.
If he noticed how much that affected me, he doesn’t show it or make it a big deal. Instead, we stay like that, his hand on my leg, holding my demons down until the first period rolls to an end and the sounds of the blades and sticks on the ice are a little less scary.
“Shay,” Alec Kostelecky calls out from his seat. “Looks like you have a fan here.”
Oh God, did he see Matt’s hand?
Ripping my leg from his grasp, I turn to Alec, avoiding Matt’s burning stare. “What do you mean?”
Alec nods toward the Jumbotron, and I turn to see a little girl, maybe six years old, holding a sign that reads Rooting for Rooney.
My chest breaks open, and my eyes well with tears. Shit.
A second video feed pops on the screen, shifting side by side with the little girl, and I see a live stream of myself appear. I look like I’ve just been shot, my face twisted with agony. I fix it immediately, putting on a proper smile and waving up at the screen.
The arena explodes with life, screams and cheers that send shivers down my spine. A few people shout their love for me, and the force of adoration smacking me in the face nearly knocks me out of my seat.
The PR side of me kicks in, blowing kisses and waving as the little girl smiles and cheers. One of her parents takes her sign that she thrust at them, and that’s when I see it—her jersey.
She turns, her two pigtails swooshing on the side of her head, and my last name comes into view. My face softens, unable to hold a smile any longer.
But that’s okay because this isn’t sadness streaming down my face. It’s joy and pride—something I haven’t felt in a while, especially not because of hockey.
I can’t believe how loud they’re cheering for me. It’s almost too much to bear.
Her smile can’t get any bigger, and she waves at me like I’m her hero. Something breaks inside of me … or heals—it’s hard to tell from the pain right now.
But sometimes, in order to heal and move forward, you have to break completely before you can be reset. But this little girl? She’s the cast wrapping around me and giving me strength.
The camera feed fades out to some ad, but I can’t focus on it because my vision is too blurry. I forgot that part of this job. The kids, the love from the fans.
I’ve blocked that entire side of my career out because I hated seeing the stories and comments constantly asking or talking about my injury. But I also blocked out moments like this, ones that used to mean the absolute most to me, and still do.
I play—played hockey because I loved it more than I loved to breathe.
I had skated before I could walk. The ice was my home, and it still is and forever will be.
I think that no matter the capacity, I need to be here.
In the rink, by the ice, helping and inspiring players of all ages.
Hockey is what I was born to do, and I’m quickly learning that there isn’t just one way to do it.
“I see a spark,” Matt mumbles softly, just loud enough for me to hear.
My body heats up—not just because of his words, but because the fire inside of me is roaring back to life.
“You have no idea,” I whisper back, turning to face him head-on, my gaze struggling to stay on his and not dip down to the smirk on his lips.
Pride fills his smile, and he nods. “Attagirl.”