Page 19 of Mistlefoe
“Makes sense.” His lips stretch into a little smile for a second, but then the light changes and he sets us in very slow motion again. “The eye injury is what ended my career. Or technically, the brain thing.”
“Brain thing?” I shriek.
He’s nonplussed. “Severe concussion and an exudative retinal detachment. Super fun. Thirteen out of ten recommended.”
My jaw drops. I bodily turn to face him, checking for signs of I don’t know what. Except there’s nothing in him that tells me he’s gone through something so traumatic. The Conor Mahoney I’ve known these past two years likes to joke, givesme crap, is sharp in meetings, and clearly still works out. I knew he’d had some sort of injury that cut his career short, but no one talks about it and I assumed it had been a bad torn ligament or some knee issues—the more common stuff that forces athletes to retire.
“But like… are you okay now?”
Conor turns to glance at me, openly surprised that I even ask. “Well… I guess so. I just can’t get another blow to my head because it could be catastrophic, but no biggie.”
“No biggie? What if you’re walking down the street and something hits you in the head by accident?
“That would really suck.”
“I’m being serious.”
“Me too. No one would like that.” His laughter dies off when he catches sight of my glare. He checks his left side again before merging to the left-turning lane. Sighing, he says, “It really sucked back then. The recovery, the delusional hope that I could play again, the depression that followed right after… Let’s just say I’m okaynowand leave it at that, okay?”
“Okay,” I mutter and shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable in my own skin. There’s a block of ice lodged in my throat that I can’t explain.
“Oh, I think this is the place.” Conor slows the truck down even more as he points to the right. There isn’t a trace in his voice that he’s remotely as upset by the conversation as I am to have brought it up.
The modest convention center in downtown Mapleton is decked in Christmas paraphernalia until it almost looks like a blown up gingerbread house. There’s enough tinsel hanging from its roof to wrap around the Ecuador line, and I’m pretty sure the lights are spending half of town’s electricity. A massive sleigh with a Santa and reindeers hangs from the slant of the roof. Firs on sale flank the entrance and take a good portion of the parking lot.
We end up parking a block away and walking in what I feel like an awkward silence. In comparison, Conor appears relaxed with his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket.
“Um, give me a moment. I need to use the restroom,” I say the second we walk into the venue and before he can respond, I mix with the throngs of people in the direction of the restrooms.
Inside, there’s a little old lady who looks a lot like Grammie just washing her hands. She doesn’t seem to mind that I pace back and forth, instead of actually using the facilities.
What would my grammie say if I told her all of this? That I’m today years old when I find out the guy I’ve been hating on at work is actually… a person? Someone who’s been through some shit?
I fish my phone out of my pocket and find Youtube, where I type a hasty question.What happened to Conor Mahoney?I hit play on the first video that shows up.
The old lady looks up at my gasp.
The video didn’t even give me a chance to brace myself with some short introduction or something. Literally one second, Conor is in his uniform skating furiously in the middle of a game, the next second someone else’s stick slams against his legs and sends him sliding at full speed against the board, where he slams his head at an awkward angle. Then he doesn’t move. Like at all.
People rush to the ice to check on him and I speed forward, waiting for the moment he gets up or even moves. But the video ends with him being taken away on a stretcher, and one of his gloves falls on the ice and stays there.
My lungs work in overtime as I click on another video but it just shows the blow from a vantage that makes it look worse, almost as if he’d sustained a neck injury even though he didn’t mention one while on the car a few minutes ago.
I change to a different video. This one must be fromsometime after he underwent some procedure. There’s a patch on his left eye, at odds with the sharp suit and tie he’s wearing. His hair is shorter here than on the man waiting outside for me, and he’s fully shaved too. His right eye is devoid of life as he stares into the camera and announces his retirement.
I finally understand what I started feeling in the car. Horror. At myself.
What does it say about me that it takes knowingthisto see him as a person, and not the asshole I built up in my head because I was intimidated?
Because that was what made me snap out of it—when he said thatIintimidated him.
“Shit, I’m such a terrible person.”
“Are you, dear?” I whirl around. The old lady’s drying her hands with paper towels. “You seem pretty normal to me.”
“No, I’m so not normal.” I shake my head hard and bite my trembling lower lip. “I’ve been really, really mean to this guy who maybe isn’t so bad.”
“Have you apologized?”
