Page 73 of Behind the Bench

It’s not lost on me that all of this is happening with Lincoln Scott. If you would’ve told me six months ago I’d be sitting half naked with this man, preparing to confess my innermost secrets, I would’ve laughed in your face.

But not only do I owe it to him, I owe it to myself to finally let someone in too.

Whatever is happening between us is completely unexpected. I don’t know when the lines between us got so blurry and when I started trusting this man, but I find myself not caring. Maybe it’s the fact that we connect on a different level—both losing our innocence at such a young age. But whatever the reason may be, I’m running full speed ahead into the unknown.

Because whenever I’m in a room with Lincoln Scott, my heart beats a little louder and my worries get a little quieter. He sees me as so much more than some girl trying to make a splash in a man’s world. I feel seen and I feel safe. The realization of all of this has my body buzzing with nerves.

I climb out of his lap but don’t get far before he’s pulling me back into him. “Don’t run, Ellie. Talk to me.”

My eyes find his again. “I’m not running. I just can’t sit still when I tell you what I’m about to tell you. You know me, I’m a pacer. I have too much energy.”

Lincoln flashes me his million-dollar smile and I melt.

“Yeah, you’re not lacking in energy, that’s for sure.”

I swat him, and he laughs but finally lets me go.

I’ve paced the room three or four times already,contemplating how I’m going to explain this to him and not portray myself as some weak, emotional woman. Every worry washes away when I look up and find Lincoln patiently waiting for me to speak. He doesn’t rush me. All he does is nod, and that simple gesture is the only encouragement I need.

“I’m not sure how much you know, since we weren’t on the same team, but my mom was in an accident when we were younger. Actually, it was right around my tenth birthday too, which means it happened the same year your mom left.”

I bite my lip, fighting the emotion that threatens to creep up my throat, and continue pacing.

“And it was all my fault.”

I hear Lincoln shift on the bed, but keep my eyes focused on the floor as I pace. His footsteps get closer but I don’t stop my pacing. I know he’s close, but he still gives me space to pace and work off my pent up energy.

“What do you mean it was your fault? You were just a kid.”

When I make it to the window of his room, I stop my pacing and stare out across his backyard. I try to focus on three things I can see, trying to calm down my heightened emotions. Keeping my emotions in check isn’t always easy for me. I feel things,hard. As a woman in a man’s world, everyone is always looking extra closely at me and how I react in a situation. A man who screams at the refs or his players is idolized. A woman who throws a fit over a missed penalty? She’s ostracized and labeled as too emotional. Therapy and anger management techniques have helped me to dial it back, but at this moment, I’m ready to explode from the emotions I’ve kept locked in a jar for over a decade.

“She was on her way to my game. My fourth game of the weekend for some useless tournament. I would’ve never let her hear the end of it if she missed my game. If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have been driving late at night when the roads were so bad. She wouldn’t have hit a patch of black ice thatsent her car flying off the road head first into a tree. If it wasn’t for me, she would still have use of her legs, and my dad would never have had to give up his career in the NHL to take care of her. They gave up their dreams for me. It’s all my fault.” The dam breaks and tears streak my cheeks as I furiously try to wipe them away.

I don’t hear Lincoln approach me from behind. It’s not until his arms wrap around me that I even know he’s there. “It was anaccident, Ellie. You didn’t put the black ice on the road. You didn’t force your mom to drive. She was going to your game because she loves you. It was just a horrible, stupid fucking accident.”

Lincoln holds me tighter and rests his chin on my shoulder. “You can’t be carrying this weight anymore. It’s going to consume you. It’s going tobreakyou.”

I know he’s right. It’s the same thing my therapist tells me any time we discuss my mother. But every time I see her in that wheelchair, a tidal wave of guilt crashes down on me and it’s like I’m that ten-year-old girl again. Scared and helpless.

“I don’t know how to let it go. So no, Lincoln, moving on isn’t something that comes easy to me. It’s been twenty years and I can barely stand to look my own mother in the eyes.”

Lincoln spins me around and wraps me up in his arms. He’s holding on to me tight, like he’s trying to absorb all of my pain and take it on as his own. His chin rests on top of my head now and he begins to stroke my hair. My body relaxes and the tears slow to a stop, but still, he doesn’t let me go.

“Have you talked to your mom about this at all?”

I pull back enough so that I can look up at him. “Besides Sadie, you’re only the second person I’ve told any of this to. Well, third, if you count my therapist.”

Pushing away from him, I make my way to the bed because suddenly I am utterly exhausted. I sit on the edge of the bed and then collapse back onto it. Staring up at the ceiling, I confess something to him I’ve never confessed to anyone. “I’m afraid she blames me too. I’m afraid she hates me as much as I hate myself.”

The bed jostles as Lincoln lays down next to me. We both lie there quietly, staring up at the ceiling. He hooks his pinky finger with mine. It’s a whisper of a touch but it speaks volumes. It says everything. A comfort, a promise, a quiet understanding like he’s telling me“I’m here.”

The smell of food cooking wakes me the next morning. I stretch my arms out across a bed that’s way too big to be mine. It takes me a few seconds to recognize where I am, as thoughts of last night start coming back to me. I vaguely remember Lincoln lifting me off the foot of the bed, where I must’ve fallen asleep after we bared our souls to each other.

I do, however, vividly remember the feel of Lincoln’s body against mine as he held me from behind all night. I especially remember how hard he was when I pushed myself back into him in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, the only action I got was him feeling me up underneath his shirt that I slept in. But that’s probably for the best, because not only am I sore from the one and only time we had sex, I’m also emotionally hungover.

To top it off, I just slept with my head coach. What the hell happens next?

The wood floor is cold on my bare feet as I step out of bed. I find a pair of socks in the top drawer of his dresser and make my way downstairs. Tiptoeing, I do my best to go undetected as I round the corner into the kitchen.

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