Page 42 of Behind the Bench

I’ve had to deal with my anger issues ever since Mom’s accident. Our life was forever changed the day her car hit that tree. I was only ten when she had her accident, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t blamed myself every day since. She was on her way tomyhockey game. My dad gave up his career to take care of her after that accident. Who else could possibly be to blame for my parents having to give up their dreams? No one. It’s all on me. Nothing like a case of guilt with a side of anger to accompany me my entire life.

My therapist has other things to say regarding who is to blame. “It was no one’s fault. It was dark out. The roads were covered with black ice. It was an accident and nothing more.”

Except, if it wasn’t for my intense hockey schedule, she wouldn’t have felt obligated to be on the road, driving to my fourth hockey game of the weekend.

It’s why I push myself so hard. Do I love the game with every inch of my soul? Of course. But my mother lost her ability to walk because of the game. I need to make a name for myself because my father gave up everything in order to care for my mom. There is no other option.

So, to say I was triggered at that postgame press conference is an understatement. No one is harder on me than myself. When asshat Roger Park questioned if I was qualified to be behind the bench, every piece of self-criticism came creeping back in. I wasn’t angry at Roger for making his claim. I was angry atmyself. Because clearly I’m not doing enough to prove myself in this job. The cherry on top was when Lincoln interrupted me a second time. What is it with men talking over women like it’s their favorite hobby? I know his heart was in the right place, but after everything else that transpired, it just added fuel to the fire.

What pisses me off even more is that I lost control. Not only did I lose control, but I lost it in front of Lincoln. My head coach. The man who, still after fifteen years, can push my buttons like no other, but also has the ability to turn me on with one smoldering look.

Talk about a rollercoaster of emotions, all of which I just discussed over video call with my therapist. That woman is a damn saint for squeezing me in this week. We weren’t scheduled for a session for another two weeks but I’ve been so messed up in the head since everything happened, I needed help. I’ve been unfocused at work, avoiding being alone with Lincoln at every turn. Hell, I make Hunter come to meetings he isn’t even needed at, claiming I want his input on things.

It’s no way to do a job. Unfortunately, the team is who suffers the most. We have lost three out of seven games, and our power play unit has only scored on 12 percent of our opportunities. It is absolutely unacceptable, and no one’s fault but my own.

So, yeah, clearly I needed a therapy session.

I close my laptop after a very positive meeting with my therapist. We have a rare day off, which means I’m still in my pajamas, taking it easy for the rest of the day. Except, I am starved after emotionally unloading during our therapy session.

Luckily, I have some leftover chicken parm in the refrigerator that is calling my name. I’ve just hit start on the microwave when my phone starts buzzing on the counter. I look down to see who could be calling me on my day off. Sadie is the only one who calls me these days for anythingnon-work related, and she’s at some yoga session in the park right now. So that only leaves one option.

Dad.

Another person I’ve been avoiding at all costs.

I really have no good reason to avoid his calls, other than the fact that I know he’s going to say something super sweet and amazing. I just wasn’t in the headspace for his positive outlook.

Come to think of it, that’s really stupid. And probably exactly what I need.

I hurry and answer the call before I accidentally send him to voicemail again.

“Hi, Dad,” I say while the microwave simultaneously beeps at me. I squeeze my phone between my ear and shoulder and quickly grab my food before the microwave starts yelling at me again.

“Hey, kiddo. Long time no talk. It almost seemed like you might’ve been avoiding me there for a minute. But that would be crazy wouldn’t it?” He says it in a loving way, so I know he’s only teasing me, but it doesn’t make me feel any less guilty for actually avoiding him.

I take my reheated lunch and sit at the table overlooking the river. “I mean, maybe I was a little bit. Sorry, Dad. I’ve just been dealing with some stuff at work.”

What are the chances he won’t push me further on that statement? Probably zero.

“Does thisstuffhave anything to do with that asshole reporter or your head coach who lost his shit on him?”

Damn, he’s good.

I groan, not wanting to dive into that night again. “Ugh, Dad. Why do you have to be so good at that? Why can’t you just pretend you don’t care for once and ask me how the weather is?”

He laughs. “Well, honey. Anyone who knows you and watched that press conference knows you weren’t happy afterward.I just wish you would’ve answered my calls sooner. We’ve been worried about you.”

We’vebeen worried about you. Of course Mom has been worried too. Only, she’s never the one to pick up the phone and call. It’s not her fault. Our relationship hasn’t been the same since her accident. Another thing to blame myself about.

I subconsciously distanced myself from her following her accident. I was consumed by guilt and the need to prove to everyone that hockey was worth it. It had to be worth it. Being in middle school, and then high school, is hard enough without the guilt of your mother’s accident weighing on your shoulders. I miss her. So much. But it’s my own damn fault, so I swallow down my regrets and try to focus on my dad instead.

“No need to be worried, Dad. I can handle myself.” I must come off way more defensive than I mean to, because the next thing my dad says has me feeling even worse than before.

“I’ve never once questioned if you can handle yourself, Ellie. But it doesn’t mean you should have to go through things alone. We are your parents. It’s our job to worry. So maybe, just pick up one of my twenty calls next time to ease our minds, yeah?”

I blow out a breath, feeling like the world’s worst daughter. “Okay, Dad. Sorry.” I take a bite of my chicken parm and hope to god he changes the subject. I’m on a world-class guilt trip already, and don’t want to add embarrassment over the press conference on top of that.

“Ellie, stop saying sorry. Now tell me about that prick Roger Park. Did Lincoln kick his ass afterward? Because he looked like he was about to murder that guy.”

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