Page 16 of Hat Trick

“Yippee.”

“—testing then acceptance. You’ll come to terms with this change eventually. Life will go on. I’m not asking you to give me a mile, Riley. I’m not even asking for a foot.”

“I hope not. I only have one now, and it would be pretty fucking rude of you to take that from me.”

“Humor is a positive sign. Maybe that will be your coping mechanism.” Dr. Ledlow chuckles. “All I’m asking for is an inch. Any forward motion is still progress. Okay?”

“Okay.” I reach for my crutches and stand. “Sure.”

“I’ll see you in a few days. And I’ve been told to remind you about your meeting with the team next week. Coach Saunders was adamant I get the message to you.”

“What’s the point?” I look at him. He’s not much older than me. Mid-thirties, maybe, if I had to guess, and he came highly recommended according to my mom, who’s been driving me to my appointments three times a week. “Why bother when we all know what they’re going to say? No skating. My contract is voided.Thanks for all you’ve done for the team, but we need to make room for a guy who can actually handle a stick.”

“Because they’re your family, and they love you.”

I rub a hand over my chest, thinking about the flowers and balloons that were in my hospital room when I woke up. All the food that’s filled my fridge and the low voices I hear when I’m locked in my bedroom.

I thought I was losing my mind at first, but the noises turned out to be my teammates—again, according to my mom. They sit in the living room for five, six hours. Sometimes there are hushed conversations. Sometimes I hear video games being played on my TV. Other times—most times—it’s quiet.

They don’t try to get me to come out, but I know they’re there.

And it makes me cry into my pillow.

“Okay.” My fingers curl around the hand grip of my crutches. Dr. Ledlow is nice enough to hold the door open for me. “I’ll go.”

I make my way out of his office and wait for the elevator, grateful when I get to the ground level and back outside. I can breathe better out here, and I don’t care how unbearable the September heat is in my hoodie and sweatpants.

I’m not ready for the world to see my scars yet. The ones on my leg, yeah, but the others that are still healing: my arms. A small spot on my cheek. My left shin and knee.

TMZ got a hold of photos from the crash, and they still pop up on ESPN every now and then. I threw up in a trash can the first time I saw them. Now I can get through a solid forty-five seconds of seeing my face plastered on the TV before I have to change the channel.

“Hi, sweetie.” My mom rolls down the passenger side window of my SUV. “How did it go? You stayed in there longer than you did last week. That’s encouraging.”

“Mmhm.” It takes me a second to lower myself into the seat, and I wince at the exertion. “I guess.”

“Dad and I have our flight to Chicago in the morning. I’ve been in touch with the airline and explained our circumstances. They’re willing to let us change our return ticket so we can stay?—”

“I’ll be fine.” I stretch out my left leg and drop my head against the seat. “You both have done enough to help me. I’m going to have to figure it out for myself eventually.”

“Are you sure?” She reaches over and puts her hand on my thigh. “You might be twenty-six, Riley, but you’re still my baby. I?—”

“I said I was fine, Mom. Stop fucking coddling me,” I snap. I push my glasses up my nose. Hot tears sting my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. That was… I didn’t mean?—”

“I know you didn’t.” She moves her hand to my hair. It’s gotten long, and it likes to stick up in random directions when I wear a hat. My barber texted me and said he’d come to my apartment to cut it so I wouldn’t have to figure out a way downtown, but I haven’t answered him. I haven’t answered anyone in weeks. “I know you’re feeling hopeless, and you might be thinking?—”

“I’m not.” I swallow. “That’s a lie. I have. I was. But I’m not anymore.”

“Good. That’s good.”

She sniffs. When I look over at her, I notice how much she’s aged since the time I saw her at an away game in Chicago last season. Her skin is paler. She’s lost weight. Her hair—which she usually keeps bright blonde—is fading to brown.

It’s like I’ve sucked the life out of her, and that’s reason enough to make sure her and Dad head home tomorrow and get back to their routine.

I don’t want to be the reason for anyone’s unhappiness.

My own is enough.

“I won’t.” My voice shakes. It feels like there is sand stuck in my throat. “I promise.”

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