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"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE NOT pressing charges," Lauren says, leaning her elbows on the kitchen bar. Her dark green eyes peer at me as her bead necklaces dangle over her neck, and she clasps a mug of tea, the steam momentarily hazing her. "Seriously, Elly, you know it wasn't an accident."
I sigh and lean back on the bar stool in my apartment. Morning light pours in through the glass windows, and beyond that, an insane view of Godfrey City—the skyline's like crooked teeth under clear blue skies. We're twenty stories in the air, and I love it 'cause everything spreads before me like a map—the neighbourhood I grew up to the east, then to the west end of town. I bought this apartment to have a homebase during the off-seasons and still see my family, but I've been here a lot longer than I intended.
It's not like being in Godfrey is easy for me. Memories burn like gasoline when I think of this place, but Lauren's been taking care of me. We've basically been trialling living together. Lauren still has her place, but she's here a lot. I've never lived with a girl before—I mean, not on my own, anyway—so it's an experiment for me too. I'd say it's going pretty good. We don't fight. And she's always there when I need her.
When I realize I didn't answer her, I snap back to attention, then pop a grape in my mouth. Healthy food, even though all I want is bacon. Can't be eating like shit while I'm off, or I'll come back from my injury sluggish and weak, and I don't wanna be that guy.
"Things get intense on the ice," I say. "Whitney apologized personally, and he got their team disqualified from the game, so it's really not a big deal anymore. I'm over it."
Lauren lifts a brow, then nods at my crutches, leaned up against the bar. "Not a big deal?"
Okay, it is a big deal. I've been off my foot for two months now. No hockey. Barely any working out.
Yeah, it sucks ass.
But I blame myself too. I mean, if I'd been faster or keener or more agile, I could've avoided Whitney flanking me, then I never would've crashed into the wall or slipped and broke my shin then smashed my head off the ice and got a minor concussion. Lauren doesn't get it—there are risks when it comes to sports, and we're not on the peewee team. The NHL is life or death, and I'm lucky I've gone this long without a serious injury.
"Trust me, it could've been worse," I mutter. "Some guys can get put out for months or a year or even more. I'll be playing next season, no biggie."
Lauren sighs and turns to the kitchen, dropping her mug on the counter. "You're too good, Elliot."
I'm not too good, I'm just trying not to dwell on things. Years of therapy will put that in your head. I try my best not to live in the past, to always be thinking about tomorrow, not yesterday—'cause yesterday's already happened, and tomorrow could be the best day of my life, or whatever my therapist said once. It's a mantra that helps keep me looking to the light at the end of the tunnel, not the pitch black darkness behind it.
