Page 69 of Scoring Zone
“No, but they’ll trust me more,” I say, and she taps her steepled fingers together.
“You mentioned your parents won’t appreciate the scandal of strangers talking about your sex life if you come out. What would’ve happened if you had come out while you still lived in their house?”
“I wouldn’t have,” I say without hesitation.
“Why not?”
“They wouldn’t have believed me and would have taken me to the church for redirection. Shamed me.” The truth of the statement physically hurts.
“How often were you told to quiet down or behave?”
“Daily.” I swear they wanted a silent son, and hockey saved my sanity.
“Tell me how you expressed your joy or anger at home.”
Memories flash through my mind of my father’s reproachful look and my mother shaking her head. All the air leaves my lungs. “I didn’t. I learned to hold everything in.” My mind finally makes the connection. “Grayson’s probably right.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Your opinion is more important. Before you leave, let’s talk through your reasons for coming out and the possible consequences.”
By the time my appointment is over, I have more questions than answers.
Gray has a late dinner ready when I get home. He hugs me and sticks one of the notes he found to my chest. It saysI can’t remember anything without you. He doesn’t push me to talk, and we eat in silence at the counter.
When we’re done, he takes my empty plate and kisses my head. “I love you.”
“How come you were never mad at me about your knee injury?” I blurt out. It might be projection, but he could harbor anger toward me.
“What?” He stops short in the kitchen with our plates in his hand.
“It was me and Smith who hit you.” I brace for his reaction, never understanding his willingness to forgive me.
He sets the plates on the counter and rounds the island. “If you tell me these last ten years have been based on your guilt…” He trails off and chews the inside of his mouth. “Please tell me that isn’t the case.”
“No!” I shout in horror and per Victoria’s instructions, I don’t mute my response. “You were my best friend for years before that happened.”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “Did you ever watch the hit? I have it on video.”
“You do?” I’m shocked, and unsure if I can watch it.
“It’s somewhere in the cloud.” Gray digs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls and scrolls. It takes him forever to find it. “I’m casting it to the TV so you can see it on the big screen.” He stands next to the TV mounted on the wall and uses the remote to slow the video down.
“Here it comes. You hit me, I’m fine. Smith smashes into my other side…and watch my feet… There, that’s where I felt it.” He stops the tape. “But I made it far worse.” He starts the tape, andon it he tries to stand, collapses but keeps trying to get up. “If I had stayed down—like everyone told me to—I probably would’ve been able to play again. I panicked and thought if I could stand up, everything would be fine. I did so much damage to my knee putting my full weight on it. Have you felt guilty all these years?”
“For lots of reasons,” I admit.
“There’s a punching bag in the building gym. If I can find my old gloves, we’re going to beat it to a pulp.” He doesn’t wait for my answer and retreats to his room for his gloves. He comes out holding them in triumph. “Me and punching bags go way back. They don’t talk back when you get angry and yell at them.”
I change into sweats and hand him some of my workout gear even though his clothes are available. Sue me for wanting to watch him in my joggers as I follow him down to the gym. It’s a reprieve from prying eyes since it’s empty. I couldn’t vent in front of anyone else.
“Watch and learn.” Gray pulls the gloves on and squares off with the punching bag. “I hate feeling helpless when Tinny’s darkness overtakes him.” He punches and sends the bag swinging. “I hate causing him stress.” He pounds it again as it swings back.
I catch it and hold it steady for him as he yells his frustrations at the top of his lungs. When he’s done, he wipes the sweat off his brow with his forearm.
“Your turn.” Gray strips off the gloves and hands them to me.
Part of me maintains that this is ridiculous, but I punch the bag. “I hate being clueless about my own mind.”
“Good start but I want you to send the bag flying, with or without a declaration. Focus your fear on the bag and get angry.”
