Page 2 of Ruled Out

And he’d be right. Having Mia Jenkins in my life is a blessing I’ll never take for granted, but equally, it’s a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

So, instead of answering her question, I brush my lips against hers, hoping my mouth can show her all the things she makes me feel. Even if I can never say the words I know she longs to hear.

Her scent is a window to another existence I long to have. Her touch is a reminder that peace and happiness do exist. Her kisses make my heart beat for a reason other than fear.

Her dad might have saved me from the wreckage of my childhood and given me a chance in life, but his daughter makes me feel alive.

CHAPTER ONE

FOUR YEARS LATER — DECEMBER

JESSIE

Scars.

We all have them. Whether hidden away in the depths of our brains or visible on our skin, they’re there.

I have both—and all at the hands of a man who was supposed to love and protect me.

The injuries he inflicted on my body were painful. But nothing cuts as deep as the thoughts I battle every day. Or the feeling of worthlessness.

Because if my own father couldn’t find it in himself to love me—something that should’ve been coded into him from the second I was born—then why should anyone else? Including myself.

Sometimes, the self-loathing feels like it’s under some sort of control. But that’s the thing with progress; it’s never linear, and neither is our mind. One second, I feel great—or at least in check—and the next, I’m spiraling off the deep end. The feeling of not being able to control my emotions is frustrating as shit and, at times, fucking scary. All it takes is for the red mist to descendfurther and stick around for longer than normal, and I find myself teetering on the edge of doing something so final that it can never be reversed.

I know I need help, and I know I’m in the fortunate position where I have access to people who would listen. But I’ve already exhausted that route and endured all the poking and prodding from professionals I could stand, and being honest, the only reason I walked into the team psych’s office in the first place was for my mom—if I’m not doing the things my coach and general manager want, then I’m not playing hockey; and if I’m not on the ice, I’m not supporting the woman I wish were capable of caring for me in the same way that I do her. All this trying to “fix” the unfixable and erase permanent damage, it doesn’t work, only serving to unearth more pain than healing. And that’s when the Band-Aids come out, trying to stem the bleeding from wounds that keep being reopened.

And talking to my teammates about any of this? I can imagine the questions right now.

“Why do you hate on yourself, Jessie? You’re a good person, and you don’t deserve it.”

“Are you seeking help?”

“Shit, man. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“You know you can’t play like this, right?”

I hate every one of those questions. It’s not like I haven’t asked them myself, desperately trying to find the answers. Like I haven’t tried to remind myself that I’m a product of the abuse I was exposed to and not inherently broken. But when it comes down to it and I’m facing dark thoughts at two in the morning, do I believe in any of that shit?

Fuck no.

You can’t just snap your fingers and break a futile cycle of self-loathing because someone tells you you’re worthy. I have to believe it myself. And that’s the battle right there. One I’vefought repeatedly, and each time, it ends in the only “solution” I can find.

I sit at my kitchen counter and push away the empty liquor bottle I opened only a few hours earlier. Deep down, I know that no part of drinking my feelings away will ever offer anything good. However, after years of searching, my options are running low, and this is the only way I can “function” today, even if I know that long-term, it will send me to the same place as Mom.

It’s true—a problem shared might be a problem halved. It also might be a great idea in principle, but in my reality, it’s fucking impossible.

I’d love to be that guy and spill my guts to my closest friend, Jensen Jones, who also happens to be the goalie for the Seattle Scorpions—the team I now play for and have for the past three seasons. I’d love to lay it all out and answer the questions I know burn inside him. He’s the kind of guy who would listen to everything I had to say too. He’s not easily fazed, and he would absolutely go to the ends of the earth to help me in whatever way he could. I see the intuitive looks he gives me on the benches in the locker room. And I know he wants me to tell him all that I’m hiding when I head home at night and lock my apartment door.

But I can’t.

I can’t face—let alone share—the shame I feel when I pour myself another drink. My default setting is to withdraw and survive. Just as I did as a kid and just as I do now. And I’m good at it. Actually, no. I’m fucking great at it.

And I’ll do it until I can’t anymore.

Parts of my memory are blanked off from recalling what really happened in my childhood, and frankly, I’m grateful for small mercies. It’s like my brain knows that no good can come from that portion of my past. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to process that kind of shit.

As for the memories I do have … well, I’ll hide those too.