Page 121 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

The sight of Gabe lying on the ice on his back, his hand on his left shoulder, almost buckles my knees.

“Oh my God.” My hands fly to my chest as if trying to clutch my surging heart. “What happened?” Then I peer closer at the screen and the player being pushed back by the ref. “Is that Wyatt?”

“Yup.” Aunt Lou takes a firm but gentle hold of my arm and pulls on it until my knees bend and I’m sitting next to her.

“While they get Woods up, let’s take another look at that,” the voice from the TV says.

“They’ve shown it three times already,” Aunt Lou says.

“Is it bad?” I can’t take my eyes off the screen.

She’s silent while the slow-motion replay rolls.

Gabe and Wyatt charge for the puck at the same time and smash into each other with such force that both Gabe’s feet leave the ice and he rolls across Wyatt’s back and slams down on the other side of him, his left shoulder hitting the ice first.

I cry out and grab my own left shoulder in sympathy as Gabe’s face contorts in obvious agony.

Aunt Lou sucks in air between her teeth and tops up her glass of cider from the can.

The TV cuts back to the live shot as a guy wearing all black helps Gabe up onto his knees, talking to him.

“Not sure anyone was at fault there,” the commentator says. “Looked like a fifty-fifty tackle to me.”

“Fifty-fifty?” I turn to Aunt Lou. “How could that befifty-fifty when Gabe’s the one down and hurt and Wyatt’s standing there just fine?”

She shrugs. “Just the way it goes sometimes. Watching a loved one play the game can be tough.”

“I don’tlovehim. Why would you say Ilovehim?”

She picks up the glass and gives me one of her looks over it. “I was talking about Wyatt.”

Okay, that’s embarrassing. My cheeks immediately feel like someone set light to them. “Right. Well, Wyatt looks fine. So that’s good.”

And Gabe is talking now, so that’s something.

The guy in black gets him to his feet, and a cheer rises with him.

“The home crowd here was so happy to see Woods back,” the commentator says. “But his return hasn’t lasted long.”

Gabe turns away from the camera now, the guy in black’s arm around his back as they head off. He manages a quick wave of thanks to the fans with his right hand as he steps off the ice, and the camera cuts back for the resumption of play.

“They could do without losing him for three weeks again,” the commentator says.

Three weeks? If he gets that much time off he might come back up here to rest again, right? If he could do the training and rehab exercises remotely before, surely they’d let him do it again.

“The Apollos have definitely suffered without the inspiring presence of his skill on the ice,” the commentator adds.

It’s not just Gabe’s hockey skill that’s inspiring. Would I have ever confronted the arts committee the way I did if I hadn’t met him? If I hadn’t had his wordsabout fighting for what I believe in and standing up for myself ringing in my head?

“Should you text him to see how he is?” Aunt Lou asks before taking another sip of cider.

“Absolutely not.” Holding firm and not texting him after I found his letter was the best decision I could have made. The mouthful I would have unleashed right after I read it would have caused irreparable damage. And right now all I want to do is repair it.

But he doesn’t want me. And I’m not going to make a fool of myself by contacting him when his letter could not have been more clear. Especially since I don’t want him to know I’ve been watching him play when he knows I never watch hockey—not even when my own family member is playing.

The only thing I can do is live my life the way I want to live it. Without the need to prove anything to anyone else or even myself.

“There’s someone else I need to call, though,” I tell Aunt Lou.

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