Page 42

I don't know how to do this. Talk about feelings? Write them down? Bullshit. But I promised her I'd try.

Elena laughs. "Strong start."

"Yeah, well." I smile sheepishly. "I wasn't exactly thrilled about therapy at first."

She flips forward a few pages, pausing at an entry from after a particularly rough game where I'd been provoked but didn't fight back:

Coach actually nodded at me today. Just a nod, but it felt huge.

Didn't take the bait when Reynolds tried to start shit in the third.

Old me would've dropped gloves, spent 5 in the box, maybe gotten suspended.

Instead, we scored on the power play after HE took a penalty.

Elena was right. Walking away isn't weak. Sometimes it's the strongest move.

"I remember that game," Elena says, touching the page. "You were so proud of yourself after."

"It was the first time I really felt like I was changing," I admit.

She continues through the journal, finding an entry that makes her burst out laughing:

Told Dr. B today that I do yoga now. He asked if I was just doing it to impress Elena. Told him the truth - that I started for Elena but keep doing it because it actually helps my flexibility. Also may have drawn a stick figure of myself in tree pose. Dr. B said my art skills need work.

A crude stick figure occupies the bottom corner of the page, arms sticking out at impossible angles.

"Your artistic talents are... unique," Elena teases.

"Hey, I'm a hockey player, not Picasso."

She turns another page and stops, her expression softening at an entry from after one of our first big arguments:

Nearly fucked it all up today. Old patterns.

She called me out on my shit, and I almost walked.

Almost ran. But then I remembered what Dr. B said about sitting with discomfort.

So I did. We talked. REALLY talked. And somehow, it’s all okay.

Still sees something in me worth fighting for. I don't deserve her, but I'm trying.

"Nate..." Elena's voice wavers.

"Keep going," I encourage.

She flips through more pages—notes about team dynamics, breakthroughs in therapy, doodles of hockey plays, observations about how different I feel on and off the ice now.

There's an entry about the first time I told her I loved her in New York during the snowstorm, another about introducing her to my teammates as my girlfriend.

Then she reaches an entry from just three months ago:

Parents called today. Out of the blue. First time in almost two years.

Said they've been watching my games. Following my career.

Want to "reconnect." My first instinct was to tell them to fuck off.

Why now? But then I looked at Elena sleeping next to me and thought about second chances.

About growth. About forgiveness. I said we could talk. Baby steps.

"Is this when they first reached out?" Elena asks, looking up from the page.

I nod. "I didn't tell you right away. Wanted to see if they were serious."

"I'm glad you gave them a chance," she says, squeezing my hand.

She turns another page, and another. My palms start to sweat as she nears the end.

She gets to the last page which was dated yesterday. The page is blank except for two very important words:

Marry me?

Elena gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. For a terrifying second, she just stares at the page, not moving, not speaking.

"Elena?" My voice cracks on her name.

She looks up at me, tears spilling down her cheeks.

I’m on one knee with a ring box in my hand. I open it to show her the ring I spent weeks selecting—platinum band, cushion-cut diamond, simple and elegant like her. And, if I do say so myself, it’s fucking gorgeous.

"Yes," she whispers. Then louder, "Yes. A million times yes!"

I carefully remove the ring from the box, my fingers trembling slightly. "I had this whole speech planned," I say, taking her hand. "About how you've changed my life. How you make me want to be better. How I can't imagine my future without you in it."

"I don't need a speech." She holds out her left hand, which is shaking as much as mine. "I just need you."

I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly.

“Oh my god, Nate! It’s absolutely stunning.” She holds her hand out, admiring the ring.

She throws her arms around my neck, and I pull her into my lap, burying my face in her hair. Her tears wet my shirt, but she's laughing too, that beautiful sound that's become my favorite in the world.

"I love you," I murmur against her temple. "So fucking much."

"I love you too." She pulls back to look at me, her eyes shining.

She glances down at the ring, then back at me. "Were you going to propose tonight even if you lost?"

"Win or lose," I confirm. "Though winning made it easier."

I lay back on the bed, pulling her with me. She settles against me, her hand with the ring resting over my heart.

In this moment, I'm the happiest man in the world. I've got the woman I love in my arms, wearing my ring. I've got parents who are making an effort, who came to see me play, who are proud of the man I've become. And I’ve never played better hockey.

Eighteen months ago, I never could have imagined this life. Never thought I deserved it. But Elena saw something in me worth fighting for, worth saving. And somehow, against all odds, I became that man.