Chapter Nine #2
Honor takes a few tissues and dries off her face.
She murmurs, “Thanks,” and stares down at Puck.
When her shoulders slacken, I can tell the weight of her thoughts are piling on her.
“I found out from my doctor today that I might need surgery that would prevent me from having children of my own. And it made me think about what kind of parent I’d be compared to my parents.
I didn’t have the best childhood, but it could have been worse.
I definitely didn’t have a role model mother, but I’d figure out how to be a great one to my kid.
If I have one. And hearing how much you love Gemma, it just…
” She shrugs limply. “I don’t know. It made me sad. ”
Swallowing, I shake my head. “I don’t want you to be sad, Honor. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”
Do I ask about her surgery? It seems a little too personal to prod, but I’d like to think we’re friends now. At least, close to it.
“Do you know for sure that you’ll need the surgery?”
Her head moves back and forth after a moment of silence. “No, but it’s the most likely outcome. I have something called PCOS. It’s a reproductive disorder. My case is severe, which makes everything for me more difficult.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Do I hug her? Tell her I’m sorry? None of that would probably matter, because it wouldn’t change anything. It’s like telling someone you’re sorry that someone closed to them died. It won’t bring them back.
Before I can come up with something, she inhales and lets it out, picking up her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m not here to unload on you.”
“It’s all right,” I reassure her, moving from in front of her to the cushion beside her on the couch. I keep the tissue box between us, allowing her some personal space. “It sounds like you needed to get it off your chest.”
Her cheek turns a darker shade of red. “I swear I don’t normally bawl like that. It’s been on my mind all day, and I haven’t fully processed it yet. The more I think about my age, the more I realize time is running out for me to have kids in the first place.”
I don’t point out that she’s only thirty. “There are other ways to be a parent. I know it’s not the same as having them yourself, but you have options.”
The thought of her having somebody else’s kids doesn’t sit right with me. I sure as fuck don’t have claim over her, but seeing her cry—seeing her heartbroken over this—makes me want to help her.
Protect her.
Make her feel better.
“Do you like milkshakes?”
My question has her brows pinching.
“Milkshakes,” I repeat, when she doesn’t answer. “Whenever something is bothering me, I like ice cream. Took me a while to find the best around here, but there’s a small place right down the road that has great malt milkshakes. My dad got me into them when I was a kid.”
Honor continues staring as if I’m offering her crack. “We just ate.”
I stand, patting my stomach. “There’s always room for milkshakes. It’s walking distance, if you’re up for that. We can burn off some calories before replenishing them. My treat, of course.”
“I can buy my own milkshake.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t, honey,” I reply, holding out my hand and waiting for her to accept it.
Her eyes are still glassy as they study my face, but she doesn’t tell me no even though she’s trying to find a reason to.
But I don’t want her to.
Not yet.
“We can still go over the positions on the ice,” I promise, wiggling my fingers in front of her gaze to see if she’ll accept my hand.
“And you can ask me whatever else you need to. Like how travelling for away games works. We haven’t discussed that, and you’ll need to know it for the upcoming matches we have.
So, use me. That’s what I’m here for. Well, that and to get ice cream with.
I’m really in the mood for a peanut butter shake now that I suggested it. It tastes just like a Reese’s cup.”
I’m not sure what she’s thinking, but the smallest curve tilts her lips at the corners. She whispers, “I love peanut butter cups” so quietly, it makes me wonder if she meant to speak it aloud.
Then she looks up at me, her glassy gaze getting better by the second. “Okay. But I’m going to hound you with questions about the defensive line because I kept getting that mixed up during the last game.”
When she takes my hand, I pull her up in one swift motion. “Deal.”
Her hand squeezes mine. “And I’m buying my own shake.”
“Fine,” I tell her.
When we get to the ice cream store, it’s me who beats her to the cashier despite the glare she casts in my direction as I tap my credit card against the reader.
But I see it.
The tiniest smile hidden behind the straw of her shake.
And one small smile feels like I just won the Stanley Cup.
*
Long after Honor is picked up by Sylvia to go home, I lay awake in bed with my phone screen displaying everything there is to know about polycystic ovarian syndrome.
I’ve already watched three different videos breaking down the disease that looks and sounds painful, including the lasting side effects and treatment plans.
The more I learn, the worse I feel for Honor.
It’s no wonder she was so upset earlier.
And there’s nothing I can really do to help her, which sucks.
The milkshake was a temporary distraction that seemed to lighten the mood enough to go back and forth on the six key players and what their positions are on the ice, and how often players are switched out during a game.
By the time we were finished with our drinks, she seemed to understand the primarily roles of my teammates and who filled the positions throughout the games.
But milkshakes can’t help forever.
In fact, I’m pretty sure dairy causes flareups for people with PCOS, so there goes my feel-good go-to.
Whoops.
The next day, I pick up Gemma from her sleepover and ask if she wants to help put together a goodie basket for Honor.
Although she only met her once, she knows exactly who I’m talking about.
Because along with the numerous supplements and vitamins that I jotted down last night in my note app, Gemma added dog toys and treats for Puck in the grocery basket.
And despite her protests, I wait until I have to go back to the sports complex to drop off the goodie basket in the small office Honor was given.
Part of me is glad she isn’t here when I show up, because I don’t know if she’d rather I forget her admission and pretend it never happened or not.
So, I play it off the rest of the day even when I feel her gaze on me when Coach is talking to her about something off the ice.
But the way she stares feels like entirely new territory.