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I read and reread the text from Hannah. What I want to tell her is that I miss her too and that I hate myself for missing tonight. I saw the videos of her and Wilson in the dunk tank and was filled with jealousy. That was supposed to be me. The smile on her face as she watched the kids should have been shared with me. But no, I’m here throwing myself a pity party. And I’m beyond mad about it. But guess what? I can’t stop it.

I heard from my parents, but I haven’t heard from any of the guys on the team, which is odd. Reed was blowing up my phone earlier about putting my big boy panties on and getting to the carnival. But since it started, there has been radio silence.

Deciding it’s time I eat something, I walk out of my room to find my brother sitting on my couch, staring into space. “When did you get here?” He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t even look at me. “Tate, you good?” Slowly, he turned his gaze to me, his eyes full of pain and regret.

“I know none of this is your fault, but the kids were sad you weren't there.” He nods his chin toward the kitchen island that I notice is covered in gifts and get well soon balloons.

With that, he gets up and walks out without saying another word. I can tell he was holding something back from our brief interaction. Walking to the counter, I look at all the handwritten cards and drawings of me with kids; one even had an invite to his next game, time, location, and all. The tidal wave of guilt crashes at full force. Why am I here? Why do I put the people I love and care about in a position where they have to check on me? Why couldn’t I get myself together enough to go to something I knew meant the world to Hannah? If anyone isn’t good enough for the other, I’m not good enough for her.

My appetite is gone, and in its place, all I want to do is go back to sleep. I can call my therapist on Monday and work through some of this. But that’s a problem for another day.

“Greyson, it’s been a while.” Staring at Dr. Williams, I nod, not knowing where to start. “Do you want to tell me why you’re here?”

“I don’t, but that defeats the purpose of being here, doesn’t it?” The old man chuckles, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard. I haven’t been out of bed since Tatum came over on Saturday night. I know this is a step I need to take; I’ve only been this far into the mental pit once before, and it was terrifying.

My constant desire to sleep the days away because it’s easier than feeling anything. I neglect myself, not showering or eating properly. If I want to get back on the ice, I need to get it together. But darn it, it’s freaking hard.

“Let’s start with the most overwhelming feeling.”

“Guilt.” He puts his pen down and looks at me with the fatherly eyes he’s always had.

“Have you done something wrong?” His voice holds no accusations, just genuine curiosity.

“No.” My voice cracks as I speak; I shak e my head to try to get myself out of the sticky spider web that’s grown over the weekend.

“Where is your guilt coming from?”

I don’t know how long I stare at my hands laced together between my knees before I answer. “I don’t have a good enough reason to feel the way I do. I’m overwhelmed; I’m angry. But mostly, I just want to get off this ride. It’s dark, and it’s cold, and I don’t want to be here. Look at my life, Doc. I’m living a lie.”

“Your status in life doesn’t mean much, Greyson. You’re putting way too much emphasis on what you do rather than who you are. I’ve known you a long time, longer than you’ve been a professional athlete. You sat in this very spot when you were in high school, telling me the exact same thing. The only difference was you felt guilty because you had opportunities other kids didn’t.”

“So why, all this time later, do I still feel like I don’t deserve what I have? Why do I feel guilty for not being happy when my life is so great most of the time?”

“Depression doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t matter how fruitful your life is. And to be completely honest, you didn’t choose this. I think a lot of what you’re grappling with is that you worked hard for the things you have your entire life. Yet you didn’t want or ask for this. You don’t have control over it like you do much of the rest of your life. And that scares you.”

I never thought about that. “How do I make it stop?” My voice is a desperate plea; I’d do just about anything to never feel like this again. To feel so utterly broken but not know what the root cause is. To not be able to follow the string back to my soul to discover where it all begins.

“You have to put in the work just like you do on the ice. It’s not going to go away overnight. In fact, you’ll have to continue to work on it for a long time, if not forever.” His voice holds no judgement, it’s soft, understanding. “First, I want you to know that you are worthy, and you deserve the life that you have. Second, we’re going to talk about what happened for the next twenty-two minutes.”

I take a shaky breath and finally meet the eyes of the man who has walked me off this ledge before. Praying to the good Lord above, he can do it again. “Alright, where should I start?”

“The beginning would be good.” I can’t help but crack a smile before diving into what’s been eating me alive about this whole situation.

Twenty-five minutes later, I walked out of his office feeling ten pounds lighter and had another appointment scheduled for next Monday. His parting words hit like a brick, “The easy part is done here in my office, Greyson. The hard grunt work is done out there. Around those you love and maybe those you don’t.” His eyes hold mine in a way that feels comforting, even amidst the weight of his words. “They’re worried about you and may unintentionally push you too hard too fast. Your homework is to work to temper your reaction to others trying to help. Don’t push them away.”

Of course, my mind immediately goes to the few unanswered texts on my phone. I’m not ready yet. I’m scared and ashamed.

It’s been a week since the carnival, how? I don’t know; I’ve apparently lost all concept of time. My parents drug me out of my house to have family dinner, and while I appreciate it, I’m so irritated that I feel like I’m going to snap at someone any second. My knee-jerk reaction is to keep everyone at arm’s length so that I don’t have to worry about hurting them. I need to get my head on a little straighter before I feel like I’m stable enough to ask for help.

This is the homework I’ve been given, though. I haven’t spoken to anyone this week. The thought of potentially dragging them down with me was enough to keep me locked up tighter than a vault. I sit on the couch with my back to my family, hoping they get the message that I don’t really want to socialize. Of course, they don’t.

“How was your therapy session?” My mom’s soft voice floats over me as she rests her hand on my shoulder. Deep breaths, Greyson, they mean well.

“It was fine.” The temperature in my body rises by the second, my leg starts to bounce as I try to squash the rising frustration.

“How can we help you?” My dad aks as they both round the couch, coming to stand in front of me. In through my nose for two, out through my mouth for four.

“Guys, I love you, but I really don’t wa nt to talk about therapy or anything related to this entire incident. I’m working on it; if I need anything from you, I’ll let you know. Is that okay?” My mom’s small smile breaks my heart; this isn’t me. I know it, and so do they.

“Of course, honey. We love you and want the best for you. That’s all.” She gives me a small, reassuring smile.

“I know.” She seems to catch on to my tension and drops the subject. My relief is short-lived when she brings up the one thing that almost hurts more than my spiral into the depths.

“Have you talked to Hannah since you’ve been back?” Her name is like sandpaper to my heart; I miss the hell out of her, but I’m too chicken shit that she’ll see me for the broken loser I really am and leave me in the dust.

“No.” I get out through gritted teeth, my hands clench and unclench.

“Why not?” Unbridled anger bubbles just under the surface. “She texted me this morning to make sure you were okay. Are you ignoring her?” Unfortunately for her, that question caused me to snap. Because, yes, I am. And I hate myself for it.

“I didn’t know I needed to give her a play-by-play update, Mom. We aren’t dating.” The words are venomous, sharp enough to cut, and the second they leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. My stomach drops when I see my mom’s hand cover her mouth. Then I realized her eyes weren’t looking at me; they’re trained on something behind me.

I turn slowly, dread curling in my gut like it’s a living thing. My eyes meet Tatums, then slide over to Hannah. She’s standing next to him, arms full of things for me. A bag of my favorite tacos, and a stuffed dog that looks exactly like Harley. I watch as the color drains from her face, but stays a mask of indiffer ence. Her eyes tell a different story, though, and it pierces me to the core.

Disappointment. Hurt.

I see the fragile trust we’ve built shatter right in front of me. I launch off the couch, desperate to fix this. My heart breaks even further as I reach for her, and she takes a step back, stretching out her arms to give me what she brought. The single movement feels like a knife twisting in my chest.

Slowly, I reach out and take it, “Hannah, I didn’t mean...” My voice sticks in my throat.

“No.” She shakes her head. “Don’t, Greyson.”

She won’t look at me, her voice void of emotion. “Please, Hannah,” I beg. She brings her head up and meets my gaze, eyes full of unshed tears.

“I hope you feel better.” She turns and walks toward the door. I immediately follow her, but I’m stopped by Tatum wrapping his hand around my arm.

“Let me go, Tate.” I grit through my teeth. I’m not above hitting my brother right now, and I need him to know it.

“You need to get yourself together before you go after her. You’ll do more harm than good if you try to fix what you just broke.” His words cut through me. I helplessly watch as she walks out the door at a steady pace, but one that’s faster than her normal cadence, her back completely rigid, as if she’s holding herself together by the finest thread.

“I’m sorry.” I cry, desperate, broken—the click of the door behind her sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise silent house.

My knees threaten to buckle as the reality of what just happened sinks in. No. No, no, no. What have I done? My anger finally won; I didn’t help her heal; I broke her. I ruined everything. I couldn’t possibly hate myself any more than I do right now.