Page 142 of Chasing Hope

the bastard cracked a smile and laughed

IRVING

see Johnson? told you you’d make history

Johnson has spent the last two hours staring daggers at Irving. All the while, anytime Coach looks at Johnson, he bursts into a fit of laughter. To say it’s been an interesting officialfirst practice to mark the start of the season is an understatement, and not just because of Irving and Johnson’s shenanigans.

Coach blows his whistle, dismissing us and ending the practice before turning to Coach Foster. Her hair was slicked back today, and in turn, the session was grueling.

I’ve kept up training considering everything going on. Caleb, however, is a heaving mess, the last few weeks partying in Greece on full display. In fact, more than half the team is the same. Clearly a lot of them had overindulged during the time off.

Caleb skates past me, his shoulder bumping into mine along the way.

Rolling my eyes, I’m thankful I haven’t taken my helmet off yet so none of the guys can see the move.Thatis what has truly made this practice odd.

All day, Caleb and I were completely out of sync. We’re usually a well-oiled machine, the best first line defense on the team, a powerhouse and weapon on the ice, but today, that all went out the window when Caleb couldn’t stand to so much as look at me.

I’m glad for it, though. I can’t face him right now, either, not after everything I learned yesterday with Evie.

I understand I can’t force her to tell anyone—it would be catastrophic to do so. But keeping this from my best friend? Keeping it from the person I know would never forgive me if he knew I was hiding such a despicable thing from him? Put aside me being in love with his sister, this secret is friendship ruining.

And it’s eating me alive.

All night I lay awake, Evie in my arms, for once not woken by nightmares, sleeping peacefully for what I’m guessing is the first time in over a year. Whereas I stared at the ceiling for hours, because anytime I closed my eyes, all I heard were the terrified screams of a little girl asking for help and no one answering the call.

When I did manage to fall asleep, I was plagued by a nightmare of me running as fast as I could down a dark hallway, trying to reach Evie as she screamed bloody murder, calling out myname for help. The hallway, though, no matter how fast I ran, continued to grow. And I never reached Evie in time.

I’m thankful I was able to keep my emotions under lock and key because this isn’t something I want Evie to feel as if she has to manage. My emotions on this topic are all my own. She has enough to juggle.

She seemed lighter this morning, though, as if in telling me—telling someone who actually cared about her—helped.

If suffering through this and carrying the weight of it all means that Evie’s emotional burdens are a little lighter for her to carry, I’m okay with that. I want to carry it for her, as much as she will offload onto me. I’ll be there every time with open arms ready to catch her.

At least one good thing came out of my sleepless night. While she was out cold, I went down a rabbit hole of research, trying to find not only the best therapist for her but the best form of therapy.

I never knew how complex it is, how varying it can be. There are different forms—cognitive, general, psychodynamic, and finally, EMDR.

Stumbling upon EMDR was like hitting gold.

Reading through survivor forums, a lot of victims expressed how general talking therapy wasn’t enough. So many sexual assault survivors experience dissociation similar to Evie, and the moment they began to talk about it, they shut down.

EMDR is the best practice to help people heal from traumatic and distressing experiences, especially for those who dissociate, as it recalls memories while stimulating the conscious mind, distracting it. Then, the therapist can guide the brain to process the memories and emotions it locked away trying to protect itself. EMDR is also less emotionally intense, as some survivors on the forums stated they felt retraumatized with the wrong therapist.

The more I researched EMDR, the more my belief in it being Evie’s best avenue became, and then my search for a good therapist who uses the practice for childhood sexual assault survivors began.

It wasn’t until the five-a.m. mark that I felt like I had found a solid candidate.

As Evie was in the shower getting ready for her shift at work, I called the therapist’s office as I made her daily latte, the art this time a simple heart. It felt appropriate considering everything that had transpired in the last forty-eight hours.

Dr. Elizabeth Stutton answered on the fifth ring and it took enormous amounts of pleading and numbers thrown out for her to listen. I got a lecture about how she can’t cancel on patients and wouldn’t take more money, as it was unethical, but I think she heard how broken and panicked I was about Evie and took pity on me.

I’m fucking glad she did. She said she’d see Evie today after hours, would stay back to have a first session with her.

The team files into the locker room as I skate to the boards, lifting my gaze to the time. Two p.m.

Only three hours to go until they meet.

I’m going to have to keep myself busy at home.