Page 49 of Second Shot

He shakes his head. “My team lost a championship game at a travel tourney. I played my ass off, but it didn’t matter. My dad was pissed. Said I choked. Like a fourteen-year-old’s supposed to carry the whole damn team.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s bullshit.”

“It was. I played really well, but I didn’t hear one compliment from him. He was fixated on the one mistake I made during the game.” He lets out a harsh breath, his eyes haunted. “When Dad got me alone, he went nuts. He started yelling and he slammed my head against the trunk of our SUV.”

“What the fuck?” I growl, sitting up. “Why?”

His laugh is unpleasant. “Why?He didn’t like losing and that was enough of a reason. He treated every game like the Stanley Cup.”

“Jesus.” I reach out to touch his arm and he tenses. “I’m… I’m guessing that wasn’t a one-time thing?”

“Fuck no.” He avoids my gaze. “The sad part is, even when we won, he didn’t say I’d done well. Oh, he’d be jazzed my team won so he could brag, but he never singled me out with any praise. But at least when we won he wasn’t knocking me around, so that was better.”

“Why didn’t he give you any praise?”

“Honestly?” He wrinkles his brow. “I think he felt competitive with me. I didn’t understand any of it when I was a kid, but as I got older I started seeing him more clearly. He played hockey when he was younger, but he got an injury that prevented him from continuing. He’d wanted to play professionally, so he was bitter. He was living his hockey dream vicariously through me, but resenting me the whole time.”

“That’s messed up.” I feel sick as I study him. I’m regretting opening this can of worms. I can see the memories are painful for him, and frankly, it’s hard to hear what he’s saying.

He flicks his wary gaze to mine and his jaw hardens. “Don’t you dare pity me,” he rasps. “I’m not complaining or whining. I’m only telling you this because you asked.”

“I don’t pity you, Ryan. I… I’m sorry you had to go through that. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if you were complaining.”

“Well, I’m not,” he growls. “And don’t forget, I was an asshole too. You know what I did. You know how I handled my pain.”

You have no idea how well I know that.

“Did your mom know what he was doing?” I ask quietly.

His mouth hardens. “Probably. How could she not? Lucia knew, but she was too scared to lose her job to do anything about it.”

“Seriously?” I say harshly, anger searing through me. Had Lucia thought making him cookies made up for the abuse he was enduring? “That’s sickening to think the adults around you knew, but didn’t protect you.”

He grimaces. “I don’t blame Lucia because she had her own kids to think of. I do blame my mom though. You’re right. She should have done something to help me.” He meets my gaze, eyes dark with emotion. “Did… did your parents protect you from that kid who bullied you?”

I shake my head. “No, but that’s because I never told them it was happening. I didn’t have a scar over my eyebrow, or bruises they could see. I was mostly just emotionally bullied.”

“Just,” he repeats. “That’s almost worse.”

He’s not wrong. The mocking and shaming had been worse than the shoves into the lockers. Whatever physical bruises I’d had faded longago, but the emotional wounds had lingered over a decade.

“I went to therapy as an adult,” he admits quietly, looking embarrassed.

“That’s great, Ryan.” I take his hand, and his fingers feel cold and stiff. I put my other hand over his, trying to warm them up. “Did it help?”

He stares at our hands. “It helped me understandwhyI was an asshole, but it didn’t take away the guilt. I… I don’t think anything can.”

I’m no fool. I know this would be the perfect time to tell him the truth. Sure, it would be awkward as hell, but at least then I could reassure him that I’ve forgiven him. Maybe he’d be upset with me. Maybe he’d never want to see me again. But at least he’d have some peace, knowing that one of his victims no longer holds a grudge. I want that for him. I don’t want him to keep suffering for something that happened so long ago, not when he’s truly sorry.

But I break out in a cold sweat at the very thought of coming clean. I’ve let this go on too long. He’s going to be angry. Hurt. I’ve had sex with him, knowing exactly who he was, all while hiding my identity. He wouldn’t understand why I kept it a secret. No one would. If he finds out who I am, he’ll feel used. Tricked. And honestly, I wouldn’t even blame him.

I realize I’m being selfish bynottelling him. It’s unfair that I’ve been able to partially heal, but he’s still guilty and tortured by his past. He deserves to know that, seeing the change in him, and hearing his regret about the past, has helped at least one of his victims heal.

But in order for him to have that closure, I’d have to detonate what we have together. Odds are this thing between us would never survive what he’d see as a betrayal of his trust. Because it is a betrayal.

However, instead of doing the right thing, I give into my fear of ruining what we have together. I’m selfish, and instead of being honorable, I smile at him and say, “I’m proud of you for seeking help, Ryan. That took a lot of courage.”

He beams at my praise. “It was helpful in a lot of ways, even if I do wish I could change the past, or at least apologize to the kids I wronged.”

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