My coaches, teammates, and friends are all worried about me, but I can’t bring myself to give a fuck. I’ve been bringing it on the ice. My sole focus and motivation is hockey. It’s become more of an obsession—a fixation—than ever before. Hockey is the one thing that brings me a modicum of relief from the pain that consumes me.
I slam the front door shut behind me, making my roommates lift their heads from where they’re playingCall Of Dutyin the living room. Emmett nods in greeting to me. I nod back as I head up the stairs to my room. I need to take a shower and get ready before we head out.
I’m just tightening the Half Windsor knot of my tie when my phone rings. I answer on the third ring, hesitating when I see my dad’s name flash across the screen.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Griffin, I wanted to talk to you. Is now a good time?”
“Can you make it quick? I’m about to head to the rink for my game.”
“Right. Sorry, who do you play tonight?”
“Harvard, it’s rival night.”
“If you can get something past Calvetti, you guys have a shot at staying undefeated.”
“I’m not too worried about it. Calvetti’s ego needs to be checked, and we plan to do so tonight.”
“That’s my boy,” he says before clearing his throat. “Listen, Griff. I wanted to let you know I’ve accepted a job at Mass General in Boston as their Chief of Surgery. I originally turned them down, but with you on the East Coast and Katie gone, I changed my mind and accepted their offer. I’m selling the house and should be settled in Boston by the end of the month.”
I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around what he’s saying. He’s moving here. He’s selling the house. My childhood home. The place that’s filled with memories of both Katie and my mom. I hear my dad getting emotional on the other end of the phone.
“What?” I barely choke out the question—my voice pinched with emotion.
I hear the pain in my dad’s voice when he replies, “I’m sorry, Griff. I just can’t do it. I’m not strong enough to stay in a house that reminds me of them every second of every day. I miss Katie. I miss your mother. I feel like I’m drowning in that house, and I’m all alone.”
Taking a deep breath, I try to see his side of things.
“I could hardly stand sleeping in that house the night before her funeral. It’s okay, Dad. We should let it go,” I tell him.
AndIshould really listen to my own advice. I need to let everything go from that house and the one next door. I can’t fuck up anymore by calling her—I need to let her go like I said I would.
In my heart, I know I’ll never get over McKenna Wilder. She’ll always be the one I pushed away. The woman I’ll compare all others to for the rest of my life. She’s Sunshine—just not mine anymore.
16
December
Our team lost in the first round of the post-season last week on our home court. To be honest, I’m surprised we got a playoff berth with how bad our record was in September and early October. And honestly, it’s been difficult being a spectator on the sidelines during home games—unable to contribute.
But it’s for the best. I’m still feeling the effects of my concussion. The headaches I still get cause waves of nausea to hit at the most inopportune of times.
Like now, for instance. I’d been in the library studying for my finals for the past few hours when a serious bout of nausea hit. I’m currently in a public bathroom stall dry-heaving. Talk about hitting a new low.
After a few more minutes, I think it’s safe to conclude that I’m not going to throw up. I make my way back to the study room I reserved with Brooke.
When she hears me shut the door, Brooke takes out one of her AirPods. “Hey, are you alright? You don’t look so great. Another headache?”
I nod, then shake my head. “Yes and no. My head doesn’t even really hurt right now. Maybe I just need to grab a bite to eat.”
Brooke stares at me for a few beats before she says, “Don’t take this the wrong way, and feel free to ignore me completely, but I remember during training camp that you had like, the worst period ever. We’ve been hanging out a lot since then, and I can’t remember that happening to you again . . .” She doesn’t finish; she just lets her thoughts linger in the silent room.
A small bout of anxiety squeezes my chest at her insinuation. “I mean, my endometriosis typically makes my periods unbearable. But it also makes them irregular. It’s not uncommon for me to go two or three months between my periods.”
“Did you typically get headaches and nausea this much before the accident?” she presses on.
“No. But the doctors did say the recurring headaches could be a short-term side effect from the accident.” I sound defensive—I know I do.
