21. Brashe #2
How do I look at you? I’d asked.
Like I matter.
You’re the only thing that matters right now.
I’d meant every word. And then I’d thrown it away in a hallway because I was too scared to believe someone could see me as more than the weapon in the net.
My fingers moved.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please.
I sent it and watched the thread.
No response. No three dots. Nothing.
The instruction sheet sat on the coffee table, both copies side by side. The original, soft from lots of handling. The laminated backup, still crisp.
Her handwriting filled the margins. Notes about form, reminders about breathing, and little corrections that showed she’d been paying attention to details I didn’t think anyone noticed.
Proof she’d believed in me.
Before I proved to her and the world that I wasn’t worth it.
The team meeting started at 10 AM sharp the next morning.
I dragged myself into the conference room, finding a seat in the back. The screen at the front showed the opening frame of Game four footage, frozen on my position in net.
Coach hit play.
I watched myself fail in high definition, every mistake magnified. The first goal, where I was a half-second slow. The second, where I overcommitted and left the top corner exposed. The hesitation before each shot, the way I kept glancing up at the family section instead of tracking the puck.
The footage didn’t lie. I’d been somewhere else entirely, and it showed.
“Kedish.” Coach’s voice cut through my spiral. “You’re overthinking. It’s a game. We win some, we lose some. You need to shove all of that out of your head, go out there, and play the hockey I know you have in you.”
“Yes, Coach.”
I had no idea how to do that anymore. Trusting myself had gotten me pulled from two playoff games in a row.
After he went over our power play, offense and defense, the meeting ended. The team left, heading to their various training routines. I went to the gym, needing to do something with my hands that wasn’t checking my phone for messages that weren’t coming.
The gym doors had been propped open, and I heard Fedor’s rumbling bass and her voice.
She was finishing up with Fedor’s knee. She didn’t look at me, just wrapped up the session, made notes on her tablet, and walked past me as if I didn’t exist.
Fedor watched her go before turning to me. “What did you do?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You fucked up bad, didn’t you?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
He shook his head and strode past me, leaving me alone with the machines and my mistakes.
I only made it through a few sets before I gave up and headed to the weight room, hoping the empty space would give me room to breathe.
Crim stood by the squat rack, his arms crossed on his chest, tapping the toe of his shoe on the floor.
“I’m going to talk,” he said. “You’re going to listen.”
I stopped, my shoulders sagging. “Alright.”
He studied me for a long moment, chewing on words he couldn’t quite spit out.
“I spent most of the past year telling you to stay away from her,” he said. “I thought I was protecting her from getting hurt.” He shook his head. “But I was wrong. You want to know what would hurt her?”
I didn’t answer.
“Not you failing or you having a bad game.” He stepped closer. “You making her feel like she’s only worth what she can do for you.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know what you meant. You’re scared. You think you’re not good enough.” His voice gentled slightly. “But my sister doesn’t give up on people.”
The words stuck, sharp-edged and choking.
“She spent the past two weeks fixing you and not because it was her job.” He held my gaze. “She saw something worth fixing. Worth keeping. And you threw it back in her face.”
“I’m going to lose everything,” I said, the words tumbling out. “The team. The playoffs. Her. I can’t do anything right.”
“You’re right. You can’t. Not alone.” Crim’s expression softened. “But you don’t have to do this by yourself. She was standing beside you while you did it, and you pushed her away.”
“She’s better off without—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice went hard. “You’re both fools. You’re perfect for each other, and you’re both too scared to see it.”
I stared at him.
“She thinks she’s only valuable for what she does.”
The words hung in the air between us, and I turned them over, trying to find the sense in them.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “She’s brilliant. She knows she’s brilliant.”
“Does she?” Crim’s expression went sad in a way that made a dull ache spread under my skin.
“Or does she work herself into the ground trying to prove it? You’ve seen her.
Coming in early. Staying late. Researching treatments at midnight as if she stops being useful for five seconds, she’ll stop mattering. ”
My throat closed.
Oh fuck.
“At the picnic,” I said, the memory slamming into me. “When I shut her down. She thought…”
“That you looked at her and found her wanting. That she wasn’t enough.” Crim’s voice went hard. “And last night, you confirmed it. You told her the only thing she was good for was fixing you.”
The weight room tilted. I grabbed the squat rack to keep from falling.
I’d done to her exactly what terrified me most. I’d made her feel disposable. Valuable only for what she could do, not for who she was.
She’d shown up to the game wearing my name and believed I was worth the risk.
Right up until I proved I wasn’t.
“You think you’re only valuable for what you do,” he said. “Maybe you should both figure out if that’s the problem.”
He left, and I stood in the empty weight room, his words echoing.
I’d made her feel exactly as worthless as I’d felt sitting on the bench.
Mid-afternoon, I stood outside her office, my hand raised to knock, my heart trying to force its way through my ribcage.
The door was cracked open. I could see her at her desk, bent over her tablet. She’d pulled her hair up in a messy bun, and she was chewing on her stylus cap the way she did when she was concentrating.
I knocked.
She looked up, and her expression went carefully neutral. Nothing like the softness I’d seen in the treatment room yesterday.
“Do you need something?” she asked.
“Can we talk?”
“If it’s about your hip, yes. Anything else, no.”
“Ellie—”
“Dr. Lundrig when we’re working.”
The formality cut deeper than any insult could have. I stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind me.
She stood, crossing her arms on her chest.
“I’m sorry about last night.”
“I see.” Her voice stayed flat.
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Of course you did. I’m your physical therapist. I fixed you. That’s my job.” She tilted her head. “Was there anything else?”
“I was scared,” I said. “I played like shit, and you were there watching, and I couldn’t handle knowing you saw me fail again.”
“So you made me feel like I was nothing.” Her voice stayed level, but her hands were shaking.
She unlinked them and shoved them into her pockets.
“Do you know what it’s like to care about someone and have them treat you like you’re furniture?
Like the only thing that matters about you is what you can do? ”
“I do know.” The confession ripped out of me. “That’s all I’ve ever been. The weapon in the net. The save percentage. The highlight reel. If I can’t do that, I don’t matter.”
“And you decided I was the same?” She laughed, but it sounded broken.
“You decided we were both only worth what we could do for other people, so you pushed me away before I could figure it out and leave first? If our relationship only works when you’re winning, we were doomed to fail from the start. ”
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.” She sat down and picked up her stylus. Her hands were still shaking. “Sorry doesn’t fix it. Sorry doesn’t make me trust you again. Sorry is just a word you’re saying because you feel bad, not because you actually understand what you did.”
“Then tell me what I did so I can fix it.”
“No.” She looked up, and her eyes were red but dry. “I’m not going to do your emotional labor for you. I’m not going to explain how you hurt me so you can feel better about apologizing. Figure it out yourself.”
“Ellie—”
“Dr. Lundrig. And I want you to leave.”
I stood there, useless. All the words I’d practiced on the way evaporated under the weight of her gaze.
“You were right,” she said. “This was a bad idea. We should’ve kept it professional. I have work to do. I asked you to leave.”
I sighed and walked out of her office because staying would only make it worse.
The door clicked shut behind me, final as a coffin lid.
I stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door, my palms pressed against my thighs.
I’d come here to apologize. To explain. I’d planned to find some way to un-fuck what I’d broken.
Instead, I’d proved her right.
This was a bad idea. We should’ve kept it professional.
I heard those words in my head all the way to my truck. All the way home to my empty apartment where the instruction sheets still sat on my coffee table and my phone still showed no new messages.
I sat on the couch and stared at the laminated paper. Her handwriting. Her belief. The smiley faces she’d drawn because she’d thought I was worth encouraging.
She’d seen something in me I’d never seen in myself. Something beyond the saves and the wins and the brutal reputation.
And I’d thrown it back at her because I was too fucking scared to believe it might be real.
I traced her handwriting with my thumb.
I didn’t know how to fix this. But for the first time in my life, I knew I had to try.
I pulled out my phone and opened a new note.
Ways I Made Ellie Feel Like She Didn’t Matter:
I started typing. Every moment I could remember where I’d reduced her to what she could do for me instead of seeing who she was. The list got long fast.
When I finished, I stared at it, my stomach churning.
This was what I’d done. This was who I’d been.
Now I had to figure out how to become someone different, a person who deserved a second chance.
Even if I never got one.