Page 50 of Stay
Am I okay?
I almost laugh.
No, I’m not. I want to get out of here and never return. My heart isgalloping, racing as if it’ll pound right out of my chest. The ache is building. Intensifying as it spreads, infecting more of my body.
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and silently recite the words in my head.
Deepbreath in. Slowly exhale out.
Deep breath in. Slowly exhale out.
Cole stays silent. His hand remains anchored on my shoulder as if tethering me to the earth. After a few minutes, the tightness in my chest loosens, receding like the tide.
I need to find my gear and hightail it back to school where I can breathe again.
As a child, I never imagined the day would come when this house wouldn’t be my refuge. Now, this is just another place where I don’t belong. A wave of sadness crashes over me, threatening to drag me to the bottom of the ocean.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I try to keep the strain from seeping into my voice. “Let’s check the basement.”
What I don’t add is that if my gear isn’t there, then my dad got rid of it the same way he got rid of me.
As we move silently through the first floor toward the staircase that leads to the basement, Cole finds my fingers before enveloping them in his larger ones. When I glance over my shoulder, he gives me a reassuring smile. I force myself to give him one in return. Without him by my side, I would have never been brave enough to make the trip. I don’t think I could have faced the silent ghosts of my family.
Even though I’m taking gear that’s mine, it feels like I’m doing something wrong. Like stealing stuff that doesn’t belong to me. As much as I try to shake off the unsettling feeling, I can’t.
Once we make our way to the basement, I move to the furnace room where the storage area is located. Our family has always jokingly referred to this room as a mini hockey store. My sisters dance and cheer, so other than shoes and costumes, they don’t have equipment to store.
This room has always been for me and my dad. He grew up playing hockey, and played juniors straight out of high school. Twoyears after that, he was forced to quit when he broke his leg in three different places. He loved hockey way too much to give it up and continued playing in beer leagues. When I started skating, he coached me until I made a girls’ travel team.
I think that’s why my failure hit him so hard. He was totally invested in my hockey career. But still…even though he was disappointed, he should have been there for me.
I needed him.
I needed my entire family.
Even though I fucked up, I needed all of them to help pick me up again.
Unfortunately, that’s not what happened.
I inhale a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut again. I’m irritated at myself for allowing all this garbage back inside my head. Maybe I disappointed my family, but they let me down me too. When I needed them to stand by me, they’d taken the easy way out and shipped me off, leaving me to deal with the fallout by myself.
My eyelids fly open when Cole wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me against his hard body. He doesn’t ask any questions. He simply holds me until I’m strong enough to move forward again. I don’t understand what it is about Cole that makes me feel so safe.
“If they kept my gear, it would be here.”
As we step into the back room, Cole looks around the shelving units my father built to house all of our old equipment. It’s crammed full of clear bins that contain skates, socks, gloves, pants, shoulder pads, and jerseys. Fiberglass sticks take up a whole shelf as do the oversized bags.
“Holy crap, it’s like a hockey store in here.” There’s a touch of awe tinging his voice as his gaze flies around the room.
One side of my mouth lifts. “Yup.” I glance at him. “My dad owns a hockey and lacrosse store in town.”
“Wow,” he mutters before rifling through the sticks. He pulls out one before running his fingers across the shaft. “Do you know how expensive this is?”
His question is more rhetorical in nature because we both know how costly that brand of stick is.
“Do you see any of your old stuff?” he asks, helping me to search through the bins.
I take another deep breath before rifling through another plastic container, looking for the equipment I’d taken to school last year.
