Page 27

Nate

T he final buzzer sounds. I stare at the TV screen, watching my teammates skate off the ice with slumped heads and downcast eyes.

Seven to one. A slaughter. And here I am, wrapped in a blanket on my couch, utterly useless to them when they needed me most. My throat feels like I've swallowed shards of glass, and my head is pounding.

This fucking virus has laid me flat for three days now, but seeing the Blades get demolished feels worse than any physical symptom.

I reach for the remote and turn up the volume, masochistically tuning in to the post-game analysis.

"The Blades were clearly missing Barnes tonight," one commentator says. "Their offense looked completely disjointed without him."

His partner chimes in: "Coach Martinez listed him as 'unavailable' this morning. No official word on whether it's an injury or something else."

I snort, which immediately triggers a coughing fit. As if I'd voluntarily sit out a game against the Jets, one of our biggest rivals.

The empty soup container sits on my coffee table next to half a bottle of ginger ale that's lost its fizz.

I ordered delivery from that Jewish deli downtown—chicken noodle soup that's supposed to be some kind of miracle cure.

It wasn't bad. Salty, with thick noodles and chunks of chicken and vegetables. But it wasn't my mom's.

Mom's soup was amazing—just chicken, carrots, celery, and those little star-shaped pasta pieces I loved as a kid.

She'd bring it to my room on a tray with saltine crackers arranged in a smile pattern on a napkin.

"Soup for my little champion," she'd say, her hand cool against my forehead as she checked for fever.

That was before Teddy died, of course.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. When was the last time I even talked to my parents? A year ago? Longer? The fight we had the last time we talked still keeps me up sometimes when I'm trying to sleep.

"You're making millions now," Dad had said, slamming his beer bottle on the table. "And you can't spare a little more for your mother and me? After everything we've done for you?"

Everything they'd done for me. Right. Like how they treated me after the fire. Like never coming to a single one of my hockey games until I made it to the NHL. Like treating me as an ATM rather than a son.

"I send you five thousand dollars every month," I'd replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "That's sixty thousand a year. Tax-free because I pay the taxes on it. What more do you want?"

"You think that's enough?" Dad had laughed. "Your signing bonus alone was three million. You could give us a real piece of that. Set us up."

The memory makes my stomach clench. I'm still sending them the money every month. And they never acknowledge it. Not a text. Not a call. Nothing.

My phone sits dark and silent on the cushion beside me. No messages from teammates asking how I'm feeling. No check-ins from friends. No word from Elena.

Elena. The one person I actually want to hear from. The one person who's seen the real me and still looked at me like I was worth something. And now she's gone, yanked out of my life because we crossed lines we shouldn't have.

I cough again, each hack feeling like sandpaper against my raw throat. The medicine I took earlier is wearing off, and the fever is creeping back.

The post-game wraps up, and some mindless sitcom comes on. I don't bother changing the channel. The laugh track washes over me like white noise as I drift in and out of consciousness.

My thoughts keep circling back to my parents. To that last fight. To the years of complicated history between us.

I wonder sometimes if they ever think about me as anything other than a source of income. If they remember the little boy who lived for hockey, who just wanted to make them proud. If they ever regret how things turned out between us.

I reach for my phone and pull up my banking app. The monthly transfer to their account went through three days ago, right on schedule. Five thousand dollars. No acknowledgment. No gratitude. Just the same silence I've grown accustomed to.

I could stop the transfers. I've thought about it before. Let them call me if they want more money. Make them at least pretend to care.

But I never do. Because despite everything, they're still my parents. And some pathetic part of me still hopes that one day, they'll reach out and want to make amends.

The sitcom ends, replaced by local news. I finally find the strength to hit the power button on the remote. The screen goes black, leaving the room dim except for the street light filtering through my blinds.

Tomorrow will be better. My fever's already lower than it was this morning. Another day of rest, and I'll be back at practice, ready to get back to it.

Because at the end of the day, that's all I can do. Keep playing. Keep trying. Keep sending money to parents who don't care and wanting a woman I can't have. Keep pretending that the emptiness inside me is just temporary.

I pull the blanket tighter, shivering despite the heat radiating from my skin. Sleep tugs at me, promising a few hours of escape from the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with this illness.

The locker room buzzes with post-practice chatter, guys peeling off sweat-soaked gear and giving each other endless shit about the usual topics.

I feel good again after that brutal flu—no more fever, no more feeling like my lungs are full of broken glass.

But my stomach's tied in knots that have nothing to do with being sick.

I've rehearsed what I'm going to say to McCoy a dozen times, but the words still feel clunky in my head, foreign and uncomfortable.

Practice went well today. Coach ran us through new power play formations, and I nailed every pass, every shot.

Being sidelined for those three days made me hungry for the ice in a way I haven't felt in awhile.

Maybe it's the contrast with how shitty I felt last week, or maybe it's something else—something shifting inside me.

McCoy stands by his stall, carefully taping a stick blade with the precision of a surgeon. His captain's jersey hangs behind him. He's been with the Blades for forever, respected by everyone from the rookies to the veterans. The kind of player who leads by example, not by running his mouth.

The exact opposite of me, in other words.

I take a deep breath and cross the room, dodging discarded shin pads and equipment bags.

"Hey, McCoy. Got a minute?"

He glances up, surprise flickering across his face. "Sure, Barnesy. What's up?"

"I wanted to apologize," I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "For the fighting. The penalties. All the shit that's cost the team over the past months."

McCoy's hands go still on the stick. The surprise on his face deepens to something like shock. "Okay..."

"I know I've been a liability," I continue, the words coming easier now that I've started. "And I want you to know I'm working on it. For real this time. Not just saying it."

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sets down the stick and turns to face me fully.

"That's... unexpected." His voice is neutral, like he’s not sure if I’m just fucking around with him.

"I'm tired of being the problem," I say simply. "I want to be part of the solution for once."

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I appreciate that, Barnes. And for what it's worth, I've noticed the changes. Coming early to practice. Staying late to work with Tucker on his shot. That's leadership stuff."

Something warm blooms in me. Not pride exactly—more like relief. Like maybe I'm not completely fucking this up after all.

"Thanks," I say, feeling awkward now that the hard part is over. "That's... yeah. Thanks."

McCoy picks up his stick again, but his eyes stay on me. "Keep it up, Barnes. This team needs your talent."

I nod and take a step back. "I will."

"And Barnes? It’s good to have you back. That Jets game was fucking painful to play without you."

I smile at him and turn to grab my stuff. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get to my therapy session.

I arrive with a minute to spare and I’m ushered into Dr. Ballard’s office.

Dr. Ballard sits across from me in a leather chair.

His office smells like old books and coffee, with weird abstract paintings on the walls.

He's older than I expected from our phone consultation—mid-sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses that make his eyes look slightly too large for his face.

"So, Nate," he says, consulting his notes. "Why don't you tell me what brings you here today?"

I stare at the pattern on the rug between us—something Persian and complicated. The therapy session was my idea. No team mandate. No Coach Martinez ultimatum. Just me, finally admitting to myself that I need help that goes beyond sports psychology.

"I'm trying to fix some things," I say, the words inadequate for the mess inside my head. "About myself. How I deal with stuff."

Dr. Ballard nods, waiting for more. When I don't immediately continue, he prompts: "What specifically are you hoping to address?"

I take a deep breath. "I push people away. Before they can hurt me. And I get angry—like, really angry—when I feel threatened or... or abandoned." I pause, the word feeling strange in my mouth. "I guess that's the big one. Abandonment."

"Tell me about that." His voice is calm and carries no judgment.

"My parents basically checked out after my brother died," I say, the familiar story suddenly harder to tell to this stranger. "I was six. He was eight. There was a fire, and I... I got out. But he didn't."

Dr. Ballard makes a note but keeps his eyes on me. "That's an enormous trauma for a child to experience."

"Yeah, well. It gets better." My laugh has no humor in it. "After the funeral, my parents wanted nothing to do with me. Said they couldn't look at me without seeing my brother Teddy. They blamed me for the fire. Rightfully so, since I was the one who started it."

"Did you live with someone else then?"

"No, there was no one else. They just kind of left me alone to fend for myself most of the time.

" I shrug, aiming for casual but missing by a mile.

"I learned to do most everything for myself. Cook. Laundry. Get up in the morning on time so I could get to school. Hockey was the only thing in my life that was good and thank god I got in with the right people that saw my talent and helped me with the money part of it so I could compete with the best.”

Dr. Ballard nods and waits for me to continue.

“Eventually I got drafted. After that my parents were suddenly very interested in my life. Or at least in my paycheck."

Dr. Ballard lets the silence stretch for a moment. "And now?"

"I send them money every month. They never acknowledge it. We haven't spoken in a year, maybe more."

"That must be painful."

The simple acknowledgment hit hard. I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat.

"It is what it is."

"Do you see any connection between your experience with your parents and your tendency to push people away first?" he asks.

"Of course I do." The words come out sharper than intended. "I know exactly why I sabotage relationships. But that doesn't mean I can stop doing it."

"Yet you're here," Dr. Ballard points out gently. "That suggests you believe change is possible."

I think about that. About Elena. About the way she looked at me like I was worth saving.

"There's someone," I admit. "A woman. She makes me want to fix my shit, you know?"

"Tell me about her."

"She's smart. Compassionate. Sees right through my bullshit." A smile tugs at my lips. "But I messed it up. Said things I didn't mean because I was scared of how much I was starting to care about her."

"And now?"

"Now I can't stop thinking about her. About how she made me feel—not just the physical stuff, but like... like I wasn't broken beyond repair." I drag a hand through my hair. "But there are complications. Professional stuff. It's not as simple as just apologizing."

Dr. Ballard studies me for a moment. "What do you think she'd want from you? Not what you want to give her, but what she would want?"

The question stops me cold. What would Elena want from me? Not grand gestures. Not dramatic declarations. She'd want...

"Honesty," I say slowly. "Consistency. Proof that I'm actually working on my issues, not just saying I am."

"That all sounds reasonable," he says. "How do you think you can demonstrate those qualities?"

"This, for starters." I gesture at the office around us. "Actually doing the work. And maybe..." An idea forms, still hazy but compelling. "Maybe giving her the space she needs while showing her I'm serious about changing. About being someone she could be proud to be with."

Dr. Ballard nods. "That sounds like a thoughtful approach. May I suggest something?"

"Sure."

"True change happens for ourselves, not for others. If you're only doing this work to win her back, what happens if that doesn't occur?"

The question stings, but there's truth in it I can't ignore. "I get that. I want to do this work for myself too. I'm tired of being the guy everyone expects to screw up. I want more than that."

"Good." He makes another note. "That's a solid foundation to build on."

As the session wraps up, we schedule another appointment for next week. Walking out of his office into the crisp fall afternoon, I feel lighter. Like I’ve made the first step towards the person I want to be.

Elena deserves someone who's working on their shit, not just promising to. Someone who can offer stability, not just intensity. Someone who can love her without the constant fear of loss driving every interaction.

I don't know if I can be that person yet. But for the first time, I believe I could be. And that belief is enough to give me some hope, and start hatching a plan.

I'm going to get her back. Not with dramatic gestures or fancy words, but with the only thing that really matters in the end: consistent, meaningful change. The kind that lasts. The kind she deserves.