Page 1 of What It Means To Be Found

Prologue

LOGAN

The first moment I met Eloise Bane would haunt me.

This was for several reasons.

The first, which made my stomach churn every time I remembered it, was because I was blatantly rude to her when we first met. I knew I was being rude, and I knew I was attempting to scare her away, and unfortunately, I had been successful. She had left in tears, which instantly made me reevaluate my emotional maturity and all of my life choices.

Let me back up.

I had never been a social butterfly. I wasn’t that outgoing growing up, and ever since my accident, it had gotten significantly worse. I could go into all the details, but the reality was that an eighteen-year-old boy losing both his mother and little sister, and being left with an alcoholic father was enough of a reason for anyone to withdraw into themselves. It wouldn’t be until the NHL got sick of my overly aggressive shit on the ice and forced me into therapy that I realized how textbook my behavior really was.

While I would always attribute the sport of hockey to helping me process all the anger and bitterness that had developed and erupted to the surface my first year of college, I had known it wouldn’t end up being enough long term. I was able to join my college’s hockey team my first year, a special treatment since I had missed tryouts. Apparently, some other guy on the team had injured himself during the first week, ending any chance he had of continuing any sort of physical sport. So when the coach saw one of his players practicing drills on his own time, with a kid who learned quickly and seemed to enjoy the sport enough to keep helping his roommate practice, I think he just jumped on the opportunity that was available.

The college team was a massive clusterfuck.

I joined, and I officially became a hockey douche. One of those guys who made the sport his entire personality. I dated only when I felt I absolutely needed to, usually a handful of times a year. Other than focusing on my sports management degree, all I did was play hockey.

After college, I got drafted by the NHL. I was offered a mediocre deal to play for a mediocre team, and I took it because, well, what else was I supposed to do, I had nothing else to live for. My father was flittering in and out of my life, always asking for money, and seemingly drunker as time marched on. Hockey grounded me. It allowed me to feel like I had a purpose or a goal of some sort, something to keep me going. It was also an excellent excuse to beat the shit out of anyone who said the wrong thing to me on the ice.

After a few years of developing a reputation as someone who was violent and aggressive on the ice, and after slapping a number of fines on me, the NHL eventually didn’t give me a choice and forced me to attend therapy to help with my obvious anger issues.

It was encouraging. Therapy taught me that I wasn’t an abnormality. A lost cause. It taught me that being an extreme introvert was something that I could address and improve going forward.

That I wasn’t something to be fixed, but someone to be understood better.

And I tried.

I pushed myself in little ways. Even though being part of an NHL team allowed me to get unrestricted access to top-tier facilities to help me stay on top of training and practice during the off-season, I decided to take my therapist’s advice and branch out.

Nestled in between the cities of Tustin and Irvine, California, was a small hole-in-the-wall gym that didn’t intimidate me. There was no chance in hell that I was ever going to attend a mainstream gym—a gym that had thousands of locations across the states and far too many people. No, if I was going to push myself to get out of a rut, and expand my social circles to hopefully develop better people skills, it was going to be at a small mom-and-pop place where people bothered to learn each other’s names and my membership money would actually go somewhere.

The problem was, though, that simply attending a public gym wasn’t enough.

To no one’s surprise, my face didn’t exactly welcome friendly people to come up and say hi, and the thought of their pitying expressions when they realized I couldn’t speak meant that I sure as hell wasn’t going to go out of my way to communicate with anyone beyond a head nod in passing. And so even though I had been publicly attending this gym for about two years, I still hadn’t made any lasting relationships from the change.

That was something that my therapist really pushed me to do. She didn’t even want me to find a best friend, necessarily. Just someone that I could maybe meet up with intentionally at the gym, for the bare minimum. At this point, my big plan to expand my routine by attending a gym not provided by the NHL, had become just another rut I clung to for familiarity.

It was hard. I was already frequently drained by playing on a team with over a dozen loud, social, and handsy men. Finding the energy to socialize beyond that was taxing. But not impossible.

Then entered Courtney Henderson, an extremely extroverted woman who approached me with no hesitation one random day. I was so shocked to see someone willingly walking towards me, that I almost missed the terrifying resemblance she had to my little sister, Anna, before she passed away.

In my panic, I even tried to scare Courtney off. I signed something quick and blunt, which usually worked because others assumed I was deaf and didn’t think they could communicate with me.

Nope, not Courtney.

She signed right back at me, and I accepted the fate the universe dealt me. As if it was sick and tired of me not making any progress in my private social life, and it threw her my way.

Thankfully, becoming friends with Courtney Henderson was relatively easy. We met up at least once a week, if not a few times a week, at this random gym on the edge of Tustin and we chatted about our day. Well, Courtney chatted about her day. I listened and kept my cards held close. She didn’t push me that hard, the most she’d ever do was say hi to someone in passing and then raise her eyebrows at me expectantly to follow suit. Since I had almost no use of my vocal cords, those people would get a head nod or a wave of my hand.

It was good enough for her.

She originally signed to me, even though she knew that I could hear her just fine. I eventually learned that she lived with two women who had hearing loss and that she had picked up American Sign Language incredibly well in order to meet them halfway.

I eventually encouraged her to just speak to me. This threw her off at first since my primary form of outward communication was still ASL, but she shrugged her shoulders and went along with it. She only signed to me if it was a private conversation of some sort.

I liked the idea of others seeing Courtney speak to me vocally, and so did my therapist. Mostly because they suggested that other people could see her vocalize to me, and that it could make them more comfortable about approaching me, too.

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