Chapter 23
CYCLE: A STRATEGY WHERE PLAYERS ROTATE POSITIONS ALONG THE BOARDS TO MAINTAIN PUCK POSSESSION
When my name is called at Dr. Halvorsen’s office, I’m eager to slide into the chair opposite his. “Good to see you, Brennan. How were the exercises I assigned?”
I close my eyes for a moment before answering, because the truth is heavier than I expected after my coffee with Amy. “I started them. They were…challenging.”
Dr. Halvorsen nods. “Apologies are hard. Especially when they require absolute honesty instead of cycling through excuses.”
I blink, startled. “That’s…surprisingly accurate.”
He folds his hands over his notepad. “Do you want to read them to me?”
“Want?” No. I wish I never had to write them in the first place.
“Need? Choose? Take your pick.” He gestures to the folder sitting beside me.
I lift the folder and explain, “I wrote both.”
“Who do you want to start with?”
“Amy.” She’s the catalyst for me changing how I look at myself.
He lifts his pen and gestures to me. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I slide out the letter slowly and read aloud.
Amy,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m taking the time to say what I should have long ago without excuses.
I’m sorry. Not just for how we ended but for what I failed to do—support you when you needed me most. I was afraid, overwhelmed, convinced that silence was the safest choice even though it hurt you. I chose to believe wrongful lies over your attempt to tell me the truth.
You’re braver than I am. This week, you invited me in. Asked me into your class.
Then I remembered something else.
How you stormed into your principal’s office to defend a student who was in a situation similar to the one you endured. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t mince words. You acted, even when it could have had consequences.
It reminded me of how cowardly I was. I backed away so fast when you needed me, I’m surprised I didn’t trip on my own skates. I allowed rumors to shape my decision instead of listening to you, then using my voice to defend you.
I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough then. I’m sorry for my lack of belief adding to your pain.
Still, I can’t believe you asked for my help.
I want to be there for you as you move into the future you deserve. Not to make up for my actions or because I think I’m worthy of forgiveness, but because you deserve a future that holds love. The kind of love built on respect.
My apology isn’t a demand for redemption. Nor is it for you to acknowledge or take action. It’s an appreciation of the harm I caused and the work I still need to do to become a man you respect.
If, someday, you are able to forgive me, I’ll likely cry as hard as you did the day I walked out due to my shame.
Always yours,
Brennan
I lower the letter.
Dr. Halvorsen doesn’t speak immediately. “What was the hardest part to write?”
“The part where I acknowledge my chosen actions. It’s easier to apologize for general reasons than specific ones.”
“Good insight,” he says. “Also, think about this.”
“What?”
“Your apology to Amy was directed to the woman she is now but you reconciled it with the woman you loved. You were right to acknowledge both parts of her as it was a different you in that moment—something I hope you addressed in your letter to your younger self.”
I nod, letting that settle before pulling out the second letter and starting.
Young Me,
Maybe you didn’t appreciate what you were doing. Not fully. Back then, you thought backing away was protection—and it was. For yourself. The problem is you were protecting the wrong thing.
You chose to protect your dreams instead of your love’s heart.
You didn’t appreciate the damage you’d cause with that single decision. The lives you’d affect—from hers to your family’s. Not to mention your own. You let insecurity and self-preservation guide your actions. You chose the easy path, decisions by popular opinion.
But the cost of your choice? Catastrophic. Worse yet, it was paid by someone who didn’t deserve it.
I wish I could go back in time to stop you from making this mistake in every lifetime, but I can’t. You see, I’m you. And in less than a decade you’re going to find out the decisions you made were all wrong.
I’m sorry you’ll find out too late about lies from people who were “looking out for you.”
I’m sorry you didn’t listen to your heart. If you had, I might not be writing this letter.
Your future self.
I glance away from the letter to Dr. Halvorsen. “That one was harder.”
He nods. “Because it forced you to accept your choices, not just passively acknowledging your mistake?”
“That’s one way of putting it. So is saying I was a jackass.”
“Not quite how I’d say it.”
I stare over his shoulder. “Former me needed a lot of affirmation.”
He looks thoughtful. “An interesting observation.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that due to your home life as a child?”
“No, my parents were—are—amazing. Still married after almost thirty years.”
“Where do you think it comes from then?”
A great question. “My need for emotional validation? Likely hockey.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“I was taught to measure my worth in stats, praise, and awards.”
“And how did that affect your relationships not just with Amy but with everyone?”
I stare at the floor, at my hands, like the truth might be written there if I look hard enough. “With everyone—including Amy—if I was admired, needed, praised—I felt secure.”
“And when you weren’t?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“Did you pull back?”
I shake my head. “No. Not always. Amy showed up even when I wasn’t impressive.”
“Did you feel uncomfortable with that?” He presses.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it because you can’t remember a time you weren’t in the spotlight?”
The words sting because they’re true. “Maybe.”
“And now that hockey’s not a part of your life?”
“Maybe…” The realization of what I did hits hard.
“What?”
“I cut her out when I thought she wouldn’t be able to feed that.” A sick sense of understanding settles inside of me. “Who does that?”
“A lot of people, Brennan. It’s not uncommon.”
“Oh. Really?”
“I’m not going to feed your ego and tell you you’re unique.”
“How do I work on this?”
“Start living life as if you sent those letters.”
I nod, feeling capable of following through. But he circles back. “I want to unpack something. When you apologized in that letter to Amy, what do you feel you harmed the most?”
I think of the way we talked at The Honeyed Hearth, the way our community buzzes about her. “Her beliefs. Her confidence.”
“So, reframe the question. How do you demonstrate remorse in action? Not in theory.”
We talk through ways I can be someone who shows up without expectation, without an agenda, without needing a pat on the head for doing the right thing.
Just like Amy.
“For our next session, I want you to write one more letter.”
“To whom?”
“To the current version of yourself. Not the past one. To the man who’s sitting here today.”
“I’m surprised it wasn’t part of the first batch.”
“I wanted you to discuss the past before you faced the obstacles you’ll face in your future.”
For the first time in therapy, I’m facing a challenge I am not certain I’m ready for.
Not yet.
Not because it’s hard but because I’m not certain I’m worthy.
The house is quiet when I finish. My letter to myself sits in front of me. I scrawled my name at the bottom like a signature on a contract I can’t back out of. Because that’s what it is. A contract with myself to be better.
I read it aloud. “This letter isn’t about punishing the boy you were. It’s taking responsibility for the man you want to be.”
My voice sounds strange in the empty room—rougher than it did in my head. I lean back in the chair and keep reading, letting the words exist outside of me.
“I will not be the man I was all those years ago. But I don’t get to inflict change on anyone else. My growth doesn’t erase the impact of my past hurt. It will have to answer for it.”
Ever since I started playing, I realized I relied on the high of hockey to validate me. I narrowed my world to what was immediately in front of me—the puck, the play, the next hit. Everything else became background noise.
Especially people.
I keep reading. “I have to accept that my regret may be too late. I may not be able to fix it, despite desperately wanting to. That’s why it’s so important to listen to the boundaries Amy has for me in her life.”
That one lands harder because hockey rewarded decisiveness. Action. You anticipate, react, dominate. There’s no room for ambiguity when your livelihood depends on performance. But somewhere along the way, I stopped slowing down long enough to hear the person who was supposed to mean the most to me.
I swallow and keep going. “I don’t get to demand or barter for Amy’s forgiveness. Forgiveness isn’t the goal. My integrity is.”
I consider what my parents gave up to give me the opportunities they did and the responsibilities I applied to myself.
“When the photo of Amy surfaced back in college, my first instinct wasn’t to protect the person I loved.
After all, hockey gave me structure. My family gave me the opportunity to play.
How could I do anything but protect both of those things first?
The problem is, I chose wrong. I was supposed to be a protector.
A leader. A partner. I walked out of those roles to protect my future. ”
I was weak when I should have demonstrated I was strong. That’s on me. I keep reading. “I have to stop rushing outcomes. Stop rewriting narratives. Stop mistaking proximity for progress.”
I reach the final lines. “I broke trust and it’s up to me to repair it. Regardless if Amy never allows me into her heart again, I will become someone she can rely on. Safe. Worthy of her regard. Any more than that is not up to me.”
I set the paper down and let the silence settle around me.
For the first time in years, I feel steady.
Folding the letter carefully, I slide it into an envelope so I can place it with the others I wrote.
I scrawl my name across the front. “This is it. Your accountability for the man you want to become.”
Just the knowledge that I’m not that man causes an ache in my chest. Tomorrow, the world can see how much I’m changing. Tonight, I sit here with the knowledge I needed long before my relationship with Amy imploded.