Chapter 10
Grant
It’s been two days since I lost the game. Two days of watching and re-watching footage to find places where I could have turned things around.
And it wasn’t just those last few seconds.
I played sloppy hockey that night. We all did.
Now I’m in my basement gym, pushing through my third set of deadlifts with more weight than I should probably be handling alone.
I add another plate anyway.
I need to feel this burn, need it to drown out all my other thoughts until there’s nothing left but me and the weights. The exercise. The routine.
Gripping the bar again, I take a deep breath and pull. My form is perfect because it has to be. Everything I do has to be perfect, because anything less feels like sliding backward into the kind of helplessness I swore I’d never let myself experience again.
My hands are starting to shake as I lower the bar, but I’m not sure if it’s from the exertion or that familiar feeling of panic whenever I think about how I let that puck slip past me.
Every loss feels personal. Every point the opposing team scores is a reminder that I’m not invincible, that everything I’ve worked for could disappear in an instant if I’m not at the top of my game every minute that I’m out there on the ice.
It isn’t just about hockey, like everyone thinks. Hockey is my life, my love, my passion, but it isn’t what drives me to be the best. I have to prove—to myself more than my teammates—that I’m not a sick kid anymore. That I’m not weak.
I won’t let anyone down the way my body let me down when I was too young to fight back.
Loading more weight onto the bar is reckless without a spotter, but I do it anyway. I need to feel the strain and the burn in each one of my muscles. I have to push past the point of pain and discomfort, because quitting isn’t an option.
The next rep does its job, making me focus past my spasming muscles and trembling arms, past the searing pain that seems to travel up and down my veins until I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
I hold it for an extra beat at the top, just to prove to myself that I can.
And when I drop the bar with a crash that echoes through the basement, I remind that scared little kid that still lives somewhere inside my head that my sacrifices, my parents’ sacrifices, and all the hours I still put into my sport haven’t been for nothing.
This life I’ve built for myself isn’t going to come crashing down because of one missed point. Not this week.
I take a few seconds to catch my breath, then towel off the sweat and strip out of my shirt on my way upstairs to the sauna.
This is all part of the routine, so I don’t even notice the sense of anticipation that’s building in my gut until I reach for the sauna door.
No, not just anticipation.
Hope.
Hope that I’ll open this door and see Heather sitting there again, like she was on her first night here.
I push the door open and there she is, almost exactly the way I was just picturing her in my mind’s eye. She’s sitting on the bench in her bikini with her head tilted back and her eyes closed, looking way too beautiful for me to focus on anything else.
Suddenly I’m thankful for my intense workout, thankful that the pain in my muscles and joints is still distracting enough to keep me from embarrassing myself in front of her.
“Do you mind if I join you?” I ask, hating that I have to disturb her when she’s obviously so relaxed.
She opens her eyes and smiles with a genuine warmth that makes me wonder whether she was hoping I might show up here tonight as well.
“Of course.” She moves over a couple of inches to let me pass by in the narrow space, then watches as I gingerly sit down on the bench across from her. “How was your workout?”
“Intense.” I inhale the steam-filled air, then slowly exhale. “But good.”
“It seems like you were down there a little longer than usual.”
My jaw clenches instinctively, and I have to remind myself not to get defensive. She isn’t wrong, of course. And it’s not like she’s accusing me of anything.
“Was I?” I shrug and close my eyes as I lean back a little. “I guess I lost track of time.”
That was the wrong thing to say, and I regret the lie as soon as it’s out of my mouth. Not that I have to justify how long I spend working out or anything else, but I don’t want to lie. Not to her.
I open my eyes just enough to see the expression on her face, the one that tells me in no uncertain terms that she thinks I’m full of shit.
And she’s right, but I’m not sure how to come clean without opening a whole can of worms. If she knew about all the baggage I carry around in my head on a daily, twenty-four-seven basis, she would probably run away screaming.
Because yeah, it’s a lot.
“I thought maybe you were down there punishing yourself for not winning the game the other night.”
Damn.
I’m caught off guard for a moment, but I shake my head anyway. “No.”
Too quick. Too defensive.
“Grant, you don’t have to—”
“I haven’t been punishing myself,” I interrupt, which only makes me sound more guilty and insecure. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to say anything that isn’t true.” She holds my gaze for several seconds. “You don’t have to say anything at all. I’m right here if you want to talk, but I’m okay with sitting here quietly and enjoying the sauna if that’s what you’d rather do.”
And that’s exactly what we do for at least another two full minutes. I pretend to relax while Heather keeps watching me. She isn’t pressuring me or accusing me of doing anything, and that somehow makes her gentle patience even more unnerving.
“When I was a kid,” I begin, then stop. I’m still not sure what to say. I never talk about this stuff. Never. “I was sick. Really sick.”
She nods slightly without saying anything.
“It was aplastic anemia.” I grimace, hating to give the words power by saying them out loud after all these years. “My bone marrow basically stopped working when I was a kid. Nobody knew what it was at first, and I spent more time in the hospital than I did at home.”
I shake my head, hating the memories that are resurfacing. What I’ve told her so far is only part of the story, and if she really wants to understand where I’m coming from, I have to tell her the rest.
But I also have to tamp down on the emotions that are rising up in my chest. I just want to give her the facts. Nothing more.
“My parents were constantly driving me to appointments and sitting with me in cold, uncomfortable waiting rooms. The rest of the time, they were working themselves into the ground to keep their heads above water, doing their best to keep paying all the bills while they also had to find the money to pay for my treatments.”
“I’m so sorry.” She reaches out toward me, but stops herself. “I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.”
“You didn’t. I don’t want you to feel like you need to apologize, and I don’t want you to feel bad for me. Everyone goes through hard shit, right?”
She nods. “That’s true. You never know someone’s struggle just by looking at them. But I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it sounds like you’ve been through more shit than most people—especially at such a young age.”
“The doctors said I’d probably never be able to run around or play sports. They said my immune system would always be compromised, and that I’d have to be careful for the rest of my life.”
“But you didn’t accept that.”
“I couldn’t. Not after everything my parents sacrificed for me.” My voice hitches, and I have to stop so I can get myself together. “They never got to see me go pro. My mom died of a heart attack the year before I was drafted. My dad passed away six months after her.”
“Wow. That’s terrible.”
“Exactly. And that’s why I don’t feel like I’m entitled to waste a single minute of my life.
” I make a gesture to encompass everything around us.
“I’ve been given the opportunity of a lifetime, and I’m fortunate enough to do the kind of stuff most people only dream about.
That’s why I can’t let myself be anything less than the best. Number one. ”
There’s a look of understanding in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “Because if you don’t live up to your own standards, you won’t be honoring their memory the way you want to.”
It isn’t a question. She gets it. She can finally see why I push myself the way I do. Why my life runs like a well-oiled machine. Why I blame myself when avoidable shit happens.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” she says, echoing my own thoughts. “But can I say something?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“This is just my outsider’s perspective, okay?
You’re an incredible hockey player. The best goalie I’ve ever seen.
But what’s more impressive is that you’re alive and healthy, in better shape than probably ninety-nine percent of the population.
” She glances down at my chest, as if she’s confirming what she just said.
And she does it without blushing this time.
“You made it through something that could have killed you, and instead of listening to everyone who told you not to push too far or try too hard, you’ve gone on to break records and play hockey at the highest level in the world.
That’s not wasting anything. That’s honoring everything your parents gave and every sacrifice they made.
It’s the purest form of respect and gratitude, as far as I’m concerned. ”
It’s been a long time since someone has rendered me speechless, but I realize as I open my mouth to respond that I don’t have the words to properly express my gratitude for what she’s just said.
Not because I need the flattery or the validation. I get more than my fair share of kudos from fans, sportscasters, and complete strangers on the street.