THE FIRST TWO weeks of term have been an absolute blur of hockey sticks, assignments, and sheer panic that Aaron is going to upset Stassie.
They started their couples counseling that isn’t for couples a few days after her drunken shenanigans with Sabrina, and each time she comes home teary, tired, and overwhelmed.
It’s normal, is what she keeps telling me. Starting any type of therapy is difficult, her tone is determined when she says it, her desperation to seem in control shining through like a fucking beacon on a dark night. But I remain unconvinced, she’s hurting herself to forgive him and I fucking hate it.
We try to talk about it, but I become irritated, which forces her to become defensive. So we let it go because I’m not spending the rare free evenings I get with her arguing about Aaron Carlisle. She’s still living with me, and she still calls it home, but her schedule is overflowing with extra practices, works outs, therapy with Aaron, therapy by herself—it’s never ending.
I can’t say I’m much better. Close to two months without hockey has made me sloppy, although the time I spent with Stas has made me a better skater. I’m cleaner, smoother. I can visibly notice how much better I am when it comes to the game. I wish Stas could see, but last week Arena Two was reopened following repairs, so we packed up all our shit and moved back to our own rink.
I miss those moments before or after training when I’d see her, an elbow brush or an impatient hand on her hip and a glare when we overran. But she has a competition in a week, so the fact that the pressure of sharing the rink has been relieved for her is something I can’t be mad at.
She says she isn’t surprised that Aaron has returned to skating as perfect as he left it; she says it’s in his blood and that, for all his faults, he doesn’t let her down on the ice. She mutters that she can cope with the rest of it if he just keeps skating.
I can’t pretend I don’t miss being her skating partner. No, I’m not thinking of jacking in hockey to be a subpar figure skater, but it was fun, and I miss that time we had together. It made it clear how much time partners spend together, especially partners who live together. The idea that she has to spend that much time with Aaron or that he’s going to be in our lives that much fills me with dread. I know it can’t be me, but I low-key wish it was.
JJ and Robbie told me I need to get a fucking grip, and they’re right, but I have this unshakable off feeling. Henry says I’m obsessed with Aaron the way Aaron is obsessed with Anastasia, but the kid is on my side for once.
That’s how I know shit is bad.
I force myself to put all the Aaron bullshit to the back of my mind since today was my first game back with the Titans, and I needed to deliver. By some miracle, I didn’t fuck it up, and we won.
I’m not sure if I was nervous about being back, nervous because Stassie was watching for the first time, or because fifteen seconds before stepping onto the ice, Faulkner told me he was sending me back to Brady if I messed up.
The guys have been pumped that I’m back, and their excitement is infectious. Well, when I don’t think about how quickly my senior year is flying by, and how we don’t have that many games left together.
Stassie worked this morning, followed straight after by a session with Shithead and Dr. Robeska, so I didn’t get to see her before the game started, but I got her and Brin the best seats. When she was packing up a change of clothes this morning, she made a point of putting in her Hawkins jersey.
“I can’t believe you’ve managed to convince me to watch hockey.” She tutted playfully, but I know she was excited.
It was a weird feeling knowing that there was someone in the crowd just for me. I’ve been playing for Maple Hills since freshman year, and I’ve heard my name screamed plenty of times, but this was different.
Every time I went past where I knew she was sitting I felt good. It was worth getting abuse hurled at me by Robbie when I skated over to her,
pressed my hand to the plexiglass, and she did the same thing on the other side.
He shut the fuck up two minutes later when I scored.
Just to add to it all, Stassie’s dad texted me this morning to wish me luck. He said he’d found a bar showing the game, so he was going to treat himself to a beer—or five—after Julia made him decorate the spare bedroom. He said he’d be bragging to anyone who’d listen, so to make sure I play my best. I sat staring at my phone for ten minutes before I managed to type back a response thanking him for the support. Thankfully, I gave him a reason to brag.
I’m feeling angsty as fuck waiting for Faulkner to finish his post-game debrief. He likes to do it while it’s fresh in everyone’s head, no consideration for the fact we want to go and celebrate. It shows how much stuff has changed, because I remember sitting here a couple of months ago, the same situation, but I was thinking about how focused I was on hockey.
“Okay, I’m done, you can all stop looking so fucking miserable,” Faulkner barks. “Don’t celebrate too hard—I’m not bailing anyone out of jail tonight. See you all Monday.”
Stassie is leaning against the wall, scrolling on her phone, when I finally make it away from Faulkner.
Sensing my approach, she looks up from her phone, gives me a glowing smile, and starts to run toward me. I catch her with one arm as she jumps, letting my bag slide off my shoulder and onto the floor by my feet.
“I’m so proud of you,” she squeaks, wrapping her legs around me and pressing kisses over every inch of my face. “I want to drop out and be a hockey wife. My heart didn’t stop pounding for one second, and when that guy bashed into Bobby, it was like I was possessed! I was shouting so loudly, and I didn’t even understand what was going on most of the time… but you won!”
I lower her back to her feet and look her up and down. Fuck she looks good in that jersey; it really was my best present. “You’re drunk. Please don’t drop out…”
“I never said your hockey wife.” She giggles. “And I’m not drunk! Well, I was, but all the stress and excitement sobered me up. You’re so good, Nathan. I don’t even know anything about hockey, but everyone around us was talking about you…Oh! And Dad was texting me constantly.”
I don’t know what to say to her as we walk toward the car, so I let her recap every minute of the game that made her ass leave her seat or made her scream at the ref, even though she wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong, but she knew her boys were being fucked.
“So, you enjoyed it then?” “I really enjoyed it, bub.”
The rest of the guys left with Sabrina before I left the locker room, and the plan is to go out for drinks and food. Part of me wishes we were going home, but the guys deserve this; it isn’t their fault I’m boring as hell these days. The walk to the car takes twice as long as people pat me on the back and congratulate me, but we get there eventually. I wait until we’re in the privacy of the car before asking Stassie the question that’s been on my mind all afternoon.
“How was therapy with Aaron?”
She keeps looking straight ahead as she shrugs her shoulders, voice cracking as she speaks. “Fine, we’ll talk about it later. Let’s celebrate.”
The anxiety radiating from her body is almost palpable. Anastasia can’t hide when something’s bothering her, she doesn’t have a poker face. I know there is something she’s not telling me by her stiff posture, the way she won’t look at me, the way she’s chewing on her lip. Leaning over to link her hand with mine, I try to keep my voice even, “I want to know now. The guys can wait…I want to hear about your day.”
She twists in her seat to face me, bringing our linked hands to her mouth, and kissing my knuckles gently. Her blue eyes, the ones that were bright and so fucking happy earlier, are now swimming with something uncertain. “Please, Nathan. I don’t want to talk about it now. Let’s have fun.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re not going to like it,” she whispers. Her face softens and she exhales deeply, running a hand through her hair. “And I know how you’re going to react. It’s making me anxious to talk to you about it. I want to celebrate your win.”
She’s telling me she doesn’t want to talk about it. I can hear her loud and clear, but my gut is already telling me what she’s going to say. If I don’t confirm I’m right, I’m not going to be able to do anything tonight. “You’re moving out, aren’t you?”
She sighs and I know I’m right. “Dr. Robeska thinks it’s a good idea. We have nationals next weekend, and she thinks it’d be good for us—Aaron and I—to spend this week getting in the zone. We used to feel so in sync when we lived together, and we’ve lost that. She said even if it’s just a trial, now would be a good time to do it.”
I’m not sure which emotion to feel as the jealousy, bitterness, anger, concern, and hurt hit me all at once. “So, the doctor that he picked and he’s paying for thinks you should move back to the apartment. There’s a fucking surprise. I can’t believe you’re falling for it.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m naïve, Nathan.”
“I’m not. I just don’t understand how you don’t see what he’s doing to you! How are you forgiving him for everything he’s done to you? All the things he’s said?”
I feel like a broken record.
“You don’t understand. You’re not even trying to understand, you just want me to shut him out and I can’t! This isn’t like hockey, Nate! There aren’t other people ready to step up and fill in. It’s me and Aaron—that’s it. I’m not forgiving and forgetting; I’m trying to rise above it and not throw my dreams away over hurt feelings.”
“Anas—”
“No, you need to listen to me for once,” she interrupts, stopping me from trying to defend myself. “I know that Aaron has been a terrible friend, but it takes sacrifices to be the best. I can’t be the best without him, but you’re so fucking determined to put up this wall between me and him that you’re not listening when I tell you that I know what I’m doing. I’ve made my choice to try to fix things professionally.”
“That’s bullshit. You always have other choices, Stas. You don’t have to move out, you don’t have to go to therapy, you don’t have to do any-fucking-thing you don’t want to for that man. Why should you make sacrifices for him? He doesn’t care about you, and I think it’s funny that he hates me, and suddenly your therapist is telling you to not live with me anymore.”
“This isn’t about you, Nathan. You’re making the choice to not understand,” she says quietly. “You’re not attempting to see things from my point of view. Your sacrifice was for your team, but mine is for myself, for my future, what’s supposed to be our future. You need to separate Aaron the
friend from Aaron the skater. You need to get this thing out of your head that I’m being manipulated because I’m not.”
I hate every single thing about this. I hate that I seem like the unreasonable one, that somehow Aaron comes out on top. I simply don’t want her spending time with him. I get that she has to for skating, even though I wish she didn’t. But her commitments are tight enough as it is without me having to share her with him. “Is he going to let you eat when you move back in with him?”
Her head drops into her hands, and the longer she doesn’t answer, the more I regret what I said. Eventually, when I’m squirming uncomfortably in my seat, she looks back up. “I’m trying very hard to be patient with you because I love you, and I know deep down you’re worried for me. But if you can’t talk to me with the same respect I talk to you, don’t talk to me at all. I have the most important competition of my skating career in one week, and I can’t be preoccupied with protecting your ego, because you think Aaron fucking Carlisle is capable of undermining how much I love you.”
I feel like a naughty kid by the time she’s done, and I can’t do anything but nod silently. She leans over the center console and presses her lips to mine, and when we eventually break apart, she rests her forehead against mine and runs her hand across my jaw softly. Everything she’s said is right, and in my head, I can admit it, but when it comes to voicing it, the words won’t leave my mouth.
Finally, I manage to say something, but it’s not the apology she deserves. “I just don’t want him to hurt you.”
She links our hands back together and brings them to her chest. I can see the hurt in her face, and I can’t even blame Aaron for it because this one is all me. “Can you please take us to celebrate now? Please, Nate. I want to enjoy tonight with you,” she pleads, voice barely above a whisper.
I put the car into drive and do as she asks, even though I don’t feel like I’ve got anything to celebrate anymore.
