Chapter 1
PLAYER DOWN: STANDARD PHRASE USED BY OFFICIALS AND brOADCASTERS
Seven Years Later
Ieducated myself on how to bury the past. It was a hard lesson, but one I excelled at.
One of the ways I know I succeeded is because I resumed watching my favorite sports team of all time—the Oklahoma Kings—despite the player drafted to their team seven years ago.
Brennan McCallister.
Just because I haven’t spoken his name aloud in years, doesn’t mean there’s not a part of me that still belongs to him.
His dismissal of me when I needed him the most carved out a piece of my heart—more so than the lies that tried to bring me down.
I hate how affected I am knowing about his life, his success.
That after all these years, and the times I’ve tried to move on, the deadened part of my heart is still owned by him.
I hate that a part of me bleeds a little every time the camera cuts too close to his face.
It’s a stain on my happiness. Much like the way my fingers will never quite be clean as a result of using dry erase markers day after day while I pack knowledge into the already crowded minds of my students.
While I have a chance of removing leftover ink, the hole in my heart hasn’t healed in the way I hoped it would given time and distance.
I mumble, “Whoever said that has no scientific proof to back it up.” I’m all too familiar with time not healing all wounds. Neither does understanding that love and trust aren’t synonymous with one another. In the game my heart plays every day, they’re bitter rivals.
Much like the rivalry between the Kings and Connecticut’s Mystic Mariners playing out on my screen.
Commentators drone on about the playoff implications of tonight’s win if the Kings can pull it off. How, “Due to the King’s defense, there have been twenty-five percent less shots taken on goal this season.”
I lower the volume a smidge. I’m stuck inside the memory of when the man they’re discussing as a statistic used to be the king of my heart.
Before everything happened, Brennan fed my heart and soul. He was the person I never imagined living without. The man who I believed I’d spend the rest of my life with.
My hands tremble in my lap when I recount the differences in our lives.
He made every single one of his dreams come true.
NHL? Right out of college. MVP? Yep. Stanley Cup?
Twice already. He’s been photographed with models and superstars.
I refuse to admit to anyone the first time it happened, I sobbed under the full spray of my shower until it became too cold to withstand.
Despite his success, he’s generally admired as a good guy.
Too bad he couldn’t be one when it counted, I think.
The crowd’s shrieks of excitement pull me away from my memories.
The game on the television is heating up, and along with it my excitement.
As an Oklahoma native, I was a Kings fan long before Brennan joined the team.
It’s my everlasting wish he gets traded to Seattle or Minnesota where I can try to actively hate him.
Maybe then I can truly put the events of the past behind me and move forward because seeing him like this? Seeing him flourish? It’s a continuous reminder I was once loved by him.
That he gave up on me.
God, I’m so tired of the past ruling my life.
My lips quirk when I think about an offer discussed in our group chat a while back.
Christin:
Let me modify his contract. Just a little. He’ll never notice.
I snicker at Christin calling Brennan too stupid to live. Then I reply.
Me:
That’s what he has an agent for.
Maya:
You forget, we know his agent.
Maya:
Mark passed college by skimming.
Emery:
Both of them are too stupid to live. I vote yes.
Me:
I vote we don’t go to jail.
Chuckling at the memory, I’m jolted from my reverie when thousands of voices rise together in a near deafening roar. I desperately wish I’d thought to watch the game with my AirPods so it would dynamically adjust the TV volume even as I blindly slap the remote.
Tucking my legs beneath me on the couch, I tug my blanket up for comfort as much as warmth all while lying to myself—again—that seeing Brennan dominate my television is fine because it’s Kings’ hockey.
I can’t prevent the hitch of my breath when the puck drops in the face off circle closest to the Kings’ goalie. Then, everything speeds up so that the players look as though the ice itself carries them forward
Brennan’s line hops over the boards. Suddenly he’s everywhere—cutting through players, jaw set like nothing in the world could knock him off course. I’ve seen this version of him before. The one who moves like he owns the ice as if it’s an extension of his body.
The last time I saw it live was just a few days before my life imploded.
Clenching my teeth together to bury the memories, I follow the puck—which means watching him. My fingers curl into the fabric of the blanket as he drives hard around the boards, unaware—or maybe unwilling to acknowledge—the offensive player coming up on his blind side.
Knowing the room won’t betray me, I shout, “Look up, Bren!”
Whether it’s my call to the divine hockey gods or his self-awareness kicks in, Brennan does.
But it’s too late.
The hit connects before he can even think to react.
Even through the television, I know this one is different. It’s a brutal collision, a momentum that doesn’t end when bodies slam together. The sound rings through my television.
Brennan’s head snaps back. His helmet clips the glass before he goes down. It flies off skidding across the ice.
The puck skitters away, forgotten.
“Oh, this is bad. So bad.”
The arena erupts—a universal howl of agony and chaos. Play immediately ceases. Players from both teams crowd around him dropping to a knee even as the refs skate over to assess the situation.
The sky camera cuts away, before zooming in.
He’s not moving. His fingers aren’t moving. He’s not letting anyone know he’s fine by surreptitiously curving his hand into one half of a heart. Only me and his parents knew what that hand gesture meant.
It was to relieve us while he stayed down on the ice.
He still does it to this day, even if the gesture isn’t meant for my reassurance. Regardless, I study his hand waiting so my thundering heart can calm down. Not seeing it, I surge to my feet and shout, “Get up, you prick. Get up, damn you!”
Anxiety is affecting everyone on the ice. The way the crowd stands even though no one tells them to. Respect. Fear. The unspoken understanding that this isn’t a game any of them want to play any longer.
Trainers rush toward him. One of Brennan’s gloves lies abandoned near the boards. His fingers, part of a hand that used to cup the side of my face right before he’d lean in for his good luck kiss before a game, curl in on themselves like he’s bracing for impact all over again.
That’s when the camera zooms in and I get a good look at his face.
His eyes are open—but unfocused. Glazed over.
“He’s too still.” The kind of still that Brennan never is on a hockey rink. The kind of still no player ever should be. Something cold settles in my stomach. Just then, the camera cuts to the game commentators who announce they’re cutting to commercial.
They didn’t show the stretcher, but I know it was there just out of view. Waiting to take him away to be evaluated.
The broadcast comes back from commercial break with hushed voices and somber tones.
In-studio commentators speculate carefully about Brennan’s condition.
Then begins the replays and second by second commentary in slow motion.
They talk about head contact. About concussion protocol.
About Brennan’s history of hard hits and fearless play.
They speculate about his future. One of them wonders if this could be a career defining moment. “Normally, he bounces back quickly. You have to wonder what’s happening in the locker room for Brennan McCallister, right now.”
“You think this will change how he plays?”
“I imagine it has to.”
I turn the TV off before they finish the conversation. The screen goes black, my reflection faint against the matte black screen. The silence in my cozy apartment is louder than the crowd ever was. It presses in from all sides like it’s wondering what I’m going to do next.
I stay where I am on the couch, remote still clutched in my hand, thumb resting uselessly over the power button like I might need to use it again. My heart is still racing, but there’s nowhere for it to go now. No whistle. No replay. No slow-motion angle to soften the impact.
Just me and the echo of a past that was brutalized just as badly as Brennan was tonight. Just then, my phone lights up on the coffee table. Message after message comes in from my girls.
Emery:
Are you watching this?
Maya:
Did you see what happened to Brennan?
Christin:
That hit was brutal.
I text back in our group chat one word.
Me:
Yes.
The persistent vibrations makes me almost drop my phone.
Emery:
They’re saying concussion. Maybe worse.
Christin:
I’m not trying to be insensitive. I just know your heart.
Maya:
Saw the news. Call us if you want to talk.
Talk? Talk about what? That my hands are shaking over a man who likely still believes I was seeking attention outside our relationship? Who abandoned me because it didn’t look good for his career?
Yet, the image of him unmoving on the ice won’t leave my mind. The way his body went limp. The way the arena fell silent.
I exhale slowly, pressing my palm flat against my sternum like I can physically hold everything in place. Because if I don’t, I’ll have to admit something I only allow myself to feel after I wake up crying late at night.
That some part of me has never stopped loving him. Despite what just happened on that ice, it changes nothing between me and Brennan.
After all, when Brennan left my life, I was taught a very valuable lesson I immediately incorporated into my life.
People who love you don’t abandon you.