Page 4 of Played
September 2
I miss you like fuck.
I don’t stop reading until the last entry, dated two days ago. I close the leather cover and lift my hand to my neck, and seemingly without my permission, my fingers close over the pendant under my shirt. My Saint Florian necklace. Or rather, my inherited necklace. My lashes flutter down, but I don’t need to put my eyes on the pendant to see the engraved images of Saint Florian holding a flag and pouring water on an emblazed house or the ladder, hydrant, and lettersFD. Or see theSaint Florian Protect Usabove the engravings. They’re branded into my memory from staring at the silver many times as it rested on a hard, bare chest. Keshaun’s hard, bare chest.
Shaking my head, I refocus on the journal and not my heart slamming against my rib cage, pumping hurt, anger, and sadness through my veins. All moisture fled my mouth at about the fourth entry, and as I swallow, it hurts, like sandpaper dragging over new, sensitive flesh.
At some point, I realized the identity of the book’s owner.
Solomon Young.
No, I don’t follow hockey, but even most non-hockey-fans have heard of the Pirates’ forward, especially if you’re from Providence. Not just because he’s one of the few Black players in a sport dominated by white men. And not only because he’s apparently one of the best in the game, according to Jared.
No, even if you don’t follow hockey, like me, most everyone in Providence still knows about him losing his wife in an automobile accident two years ago, leaving him a widower and his little boy motherless. It dominated the news, and not just the sports channels, for weeks. Even now, images of him—huge, his impossibly wide shoulders straining the seams of a black suit jacket, head down and dark shades covering his eyes as he walked out of a church, his hand wrapped around that of a small boy beside him—pop into my mind. Other men his size and width, all wearing dark suits and shades, surrounded him, a wall of muscle between him and the ravenous press. Again, I didn’t have to watch hockey to guess those were his teammates. Giants, all of them,and wearing identical don’t-get-fucked-up expressions aimed at reporters who got too close to Solomon and the boy I assumed was his son.
I lower the journal and smooth my hand over the cover, as if I can soothe the writer. But he and I both know a simple touch isn’t enough to erase the pain of loss, of a grief that’s entrenched so deep in the soul it’s grown teeth and roots.
My eyes burn behind my lids, and I sink my teeth into the tender flesh behind my lip to fight the sting.
No one ... I suck in a shuddering breath. No one has ever captured the ache, the emptiness, the powerlesslongingas this man did in words that are raw, sometimes brutal, at times ugly, but always gut-wrenchingly honest. My fingers, which haven’t stopped clutching Keshaun’s necklace, tighten, and the beveled edges of the pendant press into my skin.
A part of me feels like a disgusting Peeping Tom for intruding on his grief, his utmost private thoughts. So private he addressed them to his wife. The love they shared, the need drenching those words ... they reflect what’s in my heart, my soul. Though it’s ridiculous, it’s almost as if he’s the only person who understands me. Dad, Mom, Malcolm, Malik ... they empathize, but none of them have lost the person they considered their other half. The person who completed them.
Keshaunwas that person.
No.
He wasmyperson.
And losing him a little over a year ago—fourteen months, to be exact—had almost taken me out of here. Three and a half years with him, gone on a routine call to a house fire that ended up being anything but routine.
A shiver runs through me, and just like on my necklace, the other hand holding the journal tightens.
“Dina? You good?”
I open my still-stinging eyes and meet my brother’s dark-brown gaze. A frown draws down his thick eyebrows as he leans over me.
My lips part to give my usual reply—Of course. I’m okay. But maybe because I’ve just finished reading Solomon Young’s bitterly honest words, my throat closes around the lie, and I’m unable to shove it out.
Instead, I slowly shake my head, and Malcolm’s face clears, sadness and understanding crowding into his handsome features. He and Malik take after Dad, with their tall, big frames, and right now, as he sinks down to the bed beside me, he uses that frame to gather me close and give me a safe place to lean against and on.
“No one expects you to be strong all the time, Dina,” he murmurs, his arm wrapped around me. Pressing a kiss to my forehead, he gently rocks me. And I let the tears that I’ve been managing to hold back fall. “Let it go, baby girl.”
I do.
Dimly, I hear footsteps in the room, several pairs. No one in this house would shame me for crying. No one here would judge me for mourning not just my fiancé but the firefighter brother they all lost too. But I still don’t glance in their direction. I can’t look at them ... let them see me. So I bury my face deeper in my brother’s chest, and I let the broken, jagged pieces of me out.
And underneath the heartache, the clawing sorrow, there’s a bit of relief. This man, who has no idea I exist, gave me the gift of understanding, and like a valve that’s been twisted, I release some of the pressure that has been building for over a year.
How do you thank someone for putting your feet firmly on the path of healing?
I don’t know.
But I’ll find a way.
Chapter Two
SOLOMON
