I don't know how to do this. Talk about feelings? Write them down? Bullshit. But I promised her I'd try.
Elena laughs. "Strong start."
"Yeah, well." I smile sheepishly. "I wasn't exactly thrilled about therapy at first."
She flips forward a few pages, pausing at an entry from after a particularly rough game where I'd been provoked but didn't fight back:
Coach actually nodded at me today. Just a nod, but it felt huge. Didn't take the bait when Reynolds tried to start shit in the third. Old me would've dropped gloves, spent 5 in the box, maybe gotten suspended. Instead, we scored on the power play after HE took a penalty.Elena was right. Walking away isn't weak. Sometimes it's the strongest move.
"I remember that game," Elena says, touching the page. "You were so proud of yourself after."
"It was the first time I really felt like I was changing," I admit.
She continues through the journal, finding an entry that makes her burst out laughing:
Told Dr. B today that I do yoga now. He asked if I was just doing it to impress Elena. Told him the truth - that I started for Elena but keep doing it because it actually helps my flexibility. Also may have drawn a stick figure of myself in tree pose. Dr. B said my art skills need work.
A crude stick figure occupies the bottom corner of the page, arms sticking out at impossible angles.
"Your artistic talents are... unique," Elena teases.
"Hey, I'm a hockey player, not Picasso."
She turns another page and stops, her expression softening at an entry from after one of our first big arguments:
Nearly fucked it all up today. Old patterns. She called me out on my shit, and I almost walked. Almost ran. But then I remembered what Dr. B said about sitting with discomfort. So I did. We talked. REALLY talked. And somehow, it’s all okay. Still sees something in me worth fighting for. I don't deserve her, but I'm trying.
"Nate..." Elena's voice wavers.
"Keep going," I encourage.
She flips through more pages—notes about team dynamics, breakthroughs in therapy, doodles of hockey plays, observations about how different I feel on and off the ice now. There's an entry about the first time I told her I loved her in New York during thesnowstorm, another about introducing her to my teammates as my girlfriend.
Then she reaches an entry from just three months ago:
Parents called today. Out of the blue. First time in almost two years. Said they've been watching my games. Following my career. Want to "reconnect." My first instinct was to tell them to fuck off. Why now? But then I looked at Elena sleeping next to me and thought about second chances. About growth. About forgiveness. I said we could talk. Baby steps.
"Is this when they first reached out?" Elena asks, looking up from the page.
I nod. "I didn't tell you right away. Wanted to see if they were serious."
"I'm glad you gave them a chance," she says, squeezing my hand.
She turns another page, and another. My palms start to sweat as she nears the end.
She gets to the last page which was dated yesterday. The page is blank except for two very important words:
Marry me?
Elena gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. For a terrifying second, she just stares at the page, not moving, not speaking.
"Elena?" My voice cracks on her name.
She looks up at me, tears spilling down her cheeks.
I’m on one knee with a ring box in my hand. I open it to show her the ring I spent weeks selecting—platinum band, cushion-cut diamond, simple and elegant like her. And, if I do say so myself, it’s fucking gorgeous.
"Yes," she whispers. Then louder, "Yes. A million times yes!"
