Page 88 of Tripped Up

My mom is quiet on the other end of the line, though I can hear her breathing, so she hasn’t hung up. She’s just not saying anything.

She never says anything.

I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes stinging.

This is it. I have to let them go.

“Listen, I’ve got to run, I have to get on the ice soon.” I’m not even dressed for practice yet, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Wyatt.”

She doesn’t say she loves me, like my teammates’ moms tell them. She doesn’t say she hopes to see me soon.

She just says goodbye.

And maybe that’s the sign I was looking for all this time. I’m never going to be enough for them. I’m never going to be the child they’re proud of.

I don’t resent Bex for being their pride and joy. She doesn’t crave their approval the same way I do. She’s never held it against me for being dragged to all my practices and tournaments growing up. She doesn’t care that I dropped out of school to play hockey for a living.

She just wants me to be happy.

My sister loves me unconditionally, and I’ve never doubted that for a second. Instead of wondering why my parents can’t do the same, I need to live my life for me, not for them.

Blowing out a breath, I email my therapist. It’s clear I’ve got some work to do. I’m finally ready to get started.

thirty-one

Elsy

When I put out the call on social media for new friends, I wasn’t sure what to expect. A bunch of people replied to my post and we’ve been messaging back and forth since.

But who am I to organize something like this?

There are seventeen people in the back room of this café. Mostly women, though there are a few guys and two people who introduced themselves as nonbinary.

Cis, het, queer, trans… I’m looking for friends, and I don’t discriminate. They’re all welcome, as far as I’m concerned.

What’s more important is who they are inside. They like romance novels and they like hockey; anything else we have in common is a bonus.

A blond woman approaches, a coffee cup in her hand. I blink when I recognize Katrina O’Connor—Anastasia’s wife.

“Room for one more?” she asks, a smile curving her lips.

“The more, the merrier,” one of the other women says.

My heart nearly bursts with happiness. This is exactly the inclusive environment I’m trying to foster.

Katrina bumps my arm with hers. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I didn’t know you liked hockey,” I counter.

She shrugs. “I talked to some players that night at the gala. I like your boyfriend. He’s cute.”

My face flushes. “He wasn’t my boyfriend back then.”

“But he is now?” She grins at me. “Girl, he’s so in love with you.”

“Yeah, he is.” I bury my face in my hands. “He told me last night.”