Chapter 3 #2
Apparently, it surprises Angela too because she grins triumphantly. “I watched Grant's interview after and he's fucking hot. Why don’t you ever set me up with any of your coworkers?”
I roll my eyes. “I think worrying about two hockey boys would be too much for you.”
Angela laughs. “True. Did the guy lose all his teeth?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“The guy Grant punched.”
“No.”
She looks disappointed. “Oh.”
“Just one.”
“That's still pretty impressive.” Angela nods thoughtfully. “Maybe I should come to a game in person next time...”
I laugh again. “Ange, you can't prey on all my teammates.”
Then Angela suddenly gasps. “Oh my God.”
I blink. “What?”
“I forgot.” She disappears into her apartment before I can ask what she's talking about.
A second later, she reappears carrying a container wrapped in a kitchen towel.
The sight immediately makes me suspicious. “What is that?”
Angela thrusts it toward me, shimmying the box slightly. “Opening night cookies.”
I stare. Then stare some more. The container sits in my hands. Warm. Homemade. Ridiculously thoughtful. My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Angela.”
She shrugs; the gesture is almost embarrassed. “I wanted to do something nice. I know how rough…everything has been for you.”
I look down at the container. The edges of the towel are covered in tiny, stitched hockey sticks.
Of course they are. Something painful twists inside my chest. Painful because kindness still catches me off guard. Two years ago, I probably would have accepted the gift without thinking much about it.
Now it feels almost overwhelming because people don't have to be kind. Especially to me.
Yet somehow Angela always is. My eyes sting unexpectedly.
I blink hard.
Jesus Christ. Get it together.
They're cookies. I’m crying over cookies.
Angela's expression softens, a sad smile on her mouth.
“Thank you.” The words come out rougher than I intended.
Angela shrugs again. “No worries. You can pay me back with Grant's number.”
The cat stares at me like he personally baked them. “Tell Cleveland thank you too.”
Angela snorts. “Cleveland contributed nothing.”
The cat meows. Offended.
She pats the fat cat's head. “That's exactly what somebody who contributed nothing would say.”
I laugh quietly. The warmth in my chest grows. For the first time all day, the arena feels far away.
Angela points at me. “Get some sleep.”
I immediately make a face.
She points harder. “I mean it.”
“You're not my mother.”
“No.” She narrows her eyes. “But somebody has to parent you.”
I shake my head.
Angela smiles.
“Goodnight, Kai.”
“Goodnight, Ange.”
She heads back toward her apartment. Cleveland's tail disappears around the corner a second later.
Then I'm alone again. The hallway falls silent. I step inside my apartment and close the door behind me.
For a few moments, I simply stand there. The container of cookies remains warm in my hands. The apartment feels different somehow. Not less lonely. Just less empty. I set the cookies on the counter and carefully remove the towel. Peanut butter, my favorite.
Of course she remembered. My vision blurs unexpectedly. I sit down at the kitchen table before my legs can give out beneath me. The tears arrive quietly.
The cookies are still sitting on my kitchen counter when midnight comes and goes. I ate two of them. They were excellent. For about fifteen minutes, they even managed to distract me. Then the quiet returned.
Now I'm standing on my balcony in sweatpants and a T-shirt, staring out over the city while insomnia works its way through me like a disease.
The lights below blur together into streaks of white and gold, and a cool breeze moves between the buildings.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails before fading into the background noise of the city.
The world keeps moving.
I don't.
Sleep feels impossible tonight. Every time I close my eyes, the game starts replaying in my head. My brain has never been interested in preserving the good moments. It doesn't care about the pass I threaded through traffic or the applause afterward. It doesn't care that I played well.
Instead, it collects the worst parts and sharpens them.
The boos.
The whispers.
The feeling of stepping onto the ice and knowing some people wanted me gone before I ever touched the puck.
Most of all, I remember the man in the crowd. I close my eyes and immediately hear it again.
The strange thing is that I don't remember his face anymore. I couldn't pick him out of a lineup if you paid me. I don't remember where he was sitting, what he looked like, or who he came to the game with. All I remember are the words.
Maybe that's because some version of them has been living inside my head for two years.
Tonight, somebody else just happened to say them first. My hands tighten around the balcony railing. The metal is cold beneath my palms, and I focus on the sensation because that's what every therapist I've ever had tells me to do. Ground yourself. Find something real. Something physical.
I've spent two years collecting coping mechanisms. Most of them don't work. The voice keeps echoing anyway.
You should have been the one who died.
William Grove falls.
I survive.
The world keeps turning.
My chest tightens until breathing becomes work. By the time I step back into my apartment, I feel like my skin is too tight for my body. Every thought is louder than it should be. Every memory feels close enough to touch.
I move toward the kitchen without thinking. The cookies Angela brought me are still sitting on the counter. The towel she wrapped around the container is folded neatly beside them. A glass sits near the sink. Next to it is a pen.
My eyes stop there. It's completely ordinary. Cheap plastic. Black ink. Nothing special. I stare at it anyway.
The pressure inside my head keeps building. The memories circle endlessly. The crowd. William. The blood. The voice.
You should have been the one who died.
I know exactly what I'm doing when I reach for the pen. I also know I shouldn't. Those two truths have been living side by side for months. I plunge the pen as hard as I can into my thigh.
I feel my skin break, the rush of pain flooding my thigh. Then everything goes quiet.
Not permanently. Not completely. Just enough. Enough that the memories loosen their grip for a moment. Enough that I can finally take a full breath. Enough that the panic recedes from the front of my mind and retreats somewhere farther away.
A shaky exhale leaves my chest. For the first time all night, I can think clearly.
That's the part I hate most. The fucking relief. The fact that it works.
For a few moments, everything settles. The noise fades. My thoughts stop racing. The constant pressure behind my ribs finally eases. Then I feel something else. The desire for more.
More quiet, distance, relief.
The realization turns my stomach. I stare down at the pen in my hand before throwing it across the room. It strikes the far wall and clatters onto the floor, leaving the apartment silent once again.
I brace both hands against the counter and lower my head.
No. No more. Not tonight.
The relief is already fading, but it lasts long enough for me to recognize the danger. I know where this road goes. I've been walking it for months. Every time the relief gets shorter. Every time the need gets louder. Every time I convince myself it will only be once.
The city glows beyond the windows.
Angela's cookies sit untouched on the counter.
A dark stain slowly spreads through the fabric near my thigh.
I look away. Right now, I don't want to acknowledge any of it. I just want one night where William doesn't die. One night where strangers don't scream at me. One night where my own brain stops treating me like a criminal.
The exhaustion settles over me again, familiar and heavy. Eventually I push away from the counter and head toward the bathroom.
Tomorrow will come whether I want it to or not. It always does.
And somehow, despite everything, I'll still be here when it arrives.