Page 13 of One Pucking Heart

I’ll figure out the answer to life's struggles another day. For now, I’m hanging out with my girl.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ELENA

It’s been a week since Ari’s visit, and the training sessions with Beckett have returned to how they were for the most part. Actually, they’ve been better. Regardless of how mad he seemed at the time, he’s let it all go. It’s one of the things I really like about the man. He’s just… chill. Besides hockey, he doesn’t take life too seriously. He doesn’t hold on to anger or grudges. He’s fun, easygoing, and loves to talk. Maybe too much. I’m trying not to judge that aspect of his personality too harshly because it’s hard to get an accurate read when I haven’t offered much in the way of conversation over the past month. So unless we were to work together in silence, he had to be the one doing the talking.

I’m trying to be more open and build my patient rapport with Beckett. Some of the things Ari said made sense. I may be projecting some of my own insecurities and fears onto Beckett when he’s done nothing to deserve it. I’m trying this new strategy where I pretend Beckett is one of my favorite patients at the University of Michigan Hospital. Because of Mildred’s age and her double knee replacement, she was admitted for a couple of weeks. She’d ask me how my night was every morning, and I’d return the question. Simple. Easy. Nonthreatening.

Each day, I visualize what I would say if Mildred were here and striking up a conversation with the hockey player. Beckett was visibly shocked when I asked him what he’d done over the weekend, but he shook it off and carried on as if asking about his life was something I always did.

Conversing about TV shows is something we do with ease. One, because it’s the only thing I really have to talk about, and two, now that I’m watching some of the more popular shows, I have opinions. I’m pathetic, I know… but I’m trying. I don’t want to be a bitter Betty my entire life. It’s just hard to tear down walls that have been firmly in place for so long.

“We good?” Beckett grunts, dropping his leg onto the bench, having completed a third set of weighted leg raises. Sweat runs down his face.

I’m running out of things to have him do that don’t require the use of his knee. I want to give the ligament at least another week to heal before we start working it. I’ve been having him focus on core and quad strengthening, and at this point, he has the quads of a god. “Give me another twenty-five on each leg.”

“Yeah?” He grins with a shake of his head. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

He starts his lifts with a slow and controlled movement as we’ve practiced. The upper part of his leg trembles, his muscles fatigued at this point, but I know he has another set in him. The guy is a machine. I can’t wait until we can really start using his knees. I’m fascinated by the body. It’s one of the many reasons I went into sports medicine. I love pushing an athlete’s body to its limit and see how well we can get it to perform. Beckett is an amazing athlete. I don’t have to watch him play to know that’s true. Not only does he have the muscles and the form, but he has that fire that all the great ones have.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for a Ms. Elena Cortez?”

I turn around to find a mail courier holding a manila envelope. “I’m Elena.”

“Sign here.” He holds out a digital signature pad. I scribble my name onto the black screen with the stylus, and he hands me the envelope before leaving.

Beckett continues his reps while I open the envelope and read the contents.

It takes me a second to figure out why a law firm is sending me a letter until I see my father’s name. Every muscle in my body tenses up, and I freeze, holding the papers in a death grip. My surroundings fade away—the gym, complete with Beckett and his grunts, disappears. All I can hear is the muffled beat of my heart. It’s as if I’m underwater, covered in panic. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. More than anything, I can’t believe what I’m reading.

I haven’t had contact with my father since I left at eighteen. He made it very clear that I was no longer welcome or considered his daughter after bringing such disgrace to his name. My father and I were never close, but he was the only living parent I had. It wasn’t easy to leave a life of luxury with one bag and a handful of cash that I had in my jewelry box, but I did it. The cash bought me time in a stinky motel while I worked as the maid for the same motel. I scrubbed grimy toilets and cleaned up after guests who were so disgusting they had no business sleeping indoors in the first place. It would’ve been a better experience had the tenants been wild dogs. But no, I scoured through the disgustingness and pushed through my morning sickness. I worked my ass off and saved the little money I was paid until I could afford an apartment away from the slums. I was fierce, determined that my daughter would not be raised in such a place. I was strong… I am strong, then and now.

The letter is to inform me that my father is dying, but that’s not the upsetting part. It’s the piece of information that comes afterward.

I return to myself to find Beckett standing in front of me. His hands are on my shoulders, and he’s shaking me, pure fear in his eyes. I realize that I’m crying. Tears fall from my cheeks in rapid succession. It’s not Beckett who’s shaking me. I’m trembling so hard my body jerks as Beckett tries to hold me up.

It’s as if the wall I’ve kept fortified for thirty years, the fortress that held my deepest, darkest secret, has crumbled to the ground, leaving my broken soul in ruins.

Somewhere in the far crevice of my mind, I know I should pull myself together. The private person I am would hate for anyone, let alone Beckett, to see me like this. But I have no control. My emotions—raw and painful—are exploding out of me, and I’m powerless to fight them. I feel it all, so much pain, regret, shame… and anger. No, this is so much more than anger. It’s blind rage.

Sorrow radiates from every pore, a tsunami of emotions escaping through tears and wails of pain. I’m not sure what is happening to me. A panic attack? Or maybe this is the result of a lifetime of avoidance? Regardless, I’m powerless to stop it.

Somewhere along the way, my knees buckled, and I slumped to the floor. Beckett picks me up in his arms, looks around, and carries me into my office. He sets me on the leather loveseat in the corner and hurries to lock the door and close the blinds to my windows. With a clean hand towel, he wipes my face. I must look a mess, not that my appearance matters at all to me at this moment.

Face wiped up, he holds my cheeks in the palms of his hands and gives me a gentle smile. “It’s going to be okay.” He swipes a wet piece of hair behind my ear before retrieving a bottle of water from the mini-fridge on the other side of my office. “Drink this.” He hands me the bottle.

My tears have slowed, and the uncontrollable visceral reaction I experienced has passed. My heart is still broken, and I feel sick to my stomach, but I’m aware of my surroundings. I’m grateful to Beckett for bringing me in here. It’s bad enough that he had to see me like that. I’d hate for anyone else in the organization to witness such a mess. Surely, they’d second-guess their hire. My family has taken enough from me. Memories of them can’t steal this job away from me, too.

I swallow the lump of emotion lodged in my throat and take a sip of water. “Thank you,” I choke out on a whisper, unable to meet Beckett’s eyes.

“Elena, let me help you.” His voice is full of concern. “What’s going on? What is it?”

Eyeing the crumpled-up letter to my side, I pick it up. With a sigh, I hand it to him.

He scans the letter. “This looks like end-of-life estate planning for Anthony Cortez. Wait? Are you related to Anthony Cortez?” His shocked gaze finds me.

I nod. “Yeah, I’m his only daughter. I’m surprised you hadn’t figured that out already. It would only take a Google search, and I figured you’d done that when you found my address.”

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