Page 73 of Puck to the Heart
“I’m getting there.” My fingers tightened around the mug, and I glanced around the room, seeing it for how small and lonely it must have been for him. More guilt curdled. “When the doctor said something about a previous injury contributing to it?”
“Vaguely, but the first few days after the accident are a little hazy with all the drugs. What’re you getting at?”
The words bubbled up; I needed to get them out. “When you drove through the freezing rain to come get me and lost control on the ice and shattered your leg? It was my fault, and so is everything going on now. If I hadn’t called, you wouldn’t have been on the road when the truck skidded. And if you didn’t have problems with the old injury, you wouldn’t have had the accident.”
“Olivia,noneof those things were your fault. I would’ve picked you up if you called and said you wanted to leave. You didn’t have to lie about falling.” Between his brows, a divot formed, so similar to the one so often on my own face. Outside, a flash of lightning brightened the room for a split second.
“Technically, I didn’t lie. I did fall.” A vague hint of a smile tugged my lips upward. Until I sobered again, remembering. “But if I hadn’t called?—”
“The fact that I would’ve had to pick you up later aside,” he aimed a very specificdadlook at me, “do you have control over the weather?”
I shook my head, the damp ends of my ponytail stinging where they flicked against my face.
“Then you aren’t responsible for what happened, and you aren’t now. Is that why you’ve been so…”
“Overbearing?”
“I was going to say aggressively helpful, but sure.” He patted my hand. “I’m not your responsibility. And while Imostlyappreciate how much you’ve sacrificed; Icantake care of myself.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“It’s just… you’re all I have.”
“Is that true, though?”
Startled, I took a sip of my cooling tea, swirling the brownish liquid. Its spiraling depths spun me into contemplation for a while until it hit me. “I guess not.”
“How is Asher, by the way?”
“Ash is… having a rough season.”
“He’s still unsure of himself?” Trust a parent’s insight to cut right to the point.
“There’s a lot going on. But yeah. He thinks because he made bad decisions in the past, he doesn’t deserve to be captain, even though it’s what he wants.”
“We’ve all made some bad decisions.” He stared thoughtfully into the dregs of his tea.
Did Dad have any regrets? About the way Mom foisted me on him or his early retirement?
I regretted the way I left Ash alone with his thoughts, but I still had no way of knowing in which direction my future lay, and the analytical side of my brain refused to be silent. It told me not to decide until I investigated every possibility and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt when I’d be back. If I came back at all.
Usually,before games, my focus narrowed down to the sound of my breathing. The ability to ignore my teammates came in handy, particularly when some of them said the rosary or prayed so quickly they droned on like a hive of bees or when the others sang along to fifteen different songs. Loudly and offkey. Usually, I didn’t need help hyping myself up.
Ilovedhockey, the sounds and energy it built were electrifying. The pounding of my heart, the slap of the puck against a stick. Teammates banging sticks on glass or ice, swearing and screaming. The crowd’s mercurial reactions.
But this game was different.
When I first started skating, I didn’t know how to filter out all the outside sounds. Hecklers, even at youth games. Parent “coaches” in the stands, who wouldn’t know a hat trick from a hole in the ground. Music and commentary. All of it trickled past the cage on my helmet into my ears. Eventually, it disappeared when the buzzer sounded.
But as sweat dripped down my face tonight,everythingassaulted my senses.
And I didn’t know what changed.
Except maybe I did.
Responsibility.
