the stupidest or smartest thing I’ve ever done.
Problem is, I’m not sure which.
It’s all I’ve been able to think about ever since.
Late afternoon sunlight pours into Marie’s office through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun rapidly descending in the sky; it’s four-thirty p.m., and I have an evening practice after this. Not ideal timing for a therapy session, in my opinion, but Marie was so booked up that I didn’t have much choice. And the appointment was badly needed because I was losing my shit.
“You haven’t talked about Violet very much.” Marie’s tone is gentle, her words carefully measured because she knows pushing me is the best way to guarantee I’ll clam right up. “Is there a reason?”
That’s because it hurts to even think about, let alone recount how I single-handedly decimated a good thing. I took a wrecking ball to our relationship, smashed it to pieces, and walked away.
I neutralize my expression while my grip on the arm of the couch tightens, navy velvet bunching beneath my fingers. Marie’s attention drops to my hand, evidently noticing the gesture, but she says nothing. Drawing in a breath, I release my grasp. “I don’t like to talk about it. Or think about it.”
She gives me a small, sympathetic smile. “It’s hard for you.”
“It is.” The two simple words are difficult to force out. Suddenly, throwing myself out that window seems like a more appealing alternative than discussing this.
“You must care about her a lot.”
A knot forms in my chest, winding around my throat. “Yeah.”
What kills me is, I’ve never told Violet that directly. When she said she loved me, I couldn’t bring myself to say it back—which goes to show how dysfunctional I am. I’d like to fall back on the whole, “actions speak louder than words” concept to defend myself, but I’m not so sure I’m great at showing how I feel, either.
“You’ve mentioned that you dated,” Marie says. “What exactly happened?”
With significant coaxing, I recount the high-level version of my history with Violet, both past and present. From the sweet start to the bitter end and everything in between. I’m sure Marie sees all kinds of things clicking into place, because it basically confirms what she and I both already know.
According to a previous session we had this spring, she believes I have “attachment issues.” What she didn’t say, and what I later found out via Google, is that’s shrink speak for “emotionally fucked up.” Supposedly, my issues stem from growing up with a temperamental, impossible-to-please father. That checks out; I don’t think anyone could grow up under his roof and emerge in one piece mentally or physically.
It’s not an excuse, but it’s a major contributing factor as to why I screwed things up so spectacularly with Violet the first time around. Emotional intimacy is scary as hell for me, largely because I haven’t experienced much of it. From what I remember of my mother, she was kind and loving, but she’s been gone since I was four. From ages four to eighteen, I was on my own emotionally. Doug was worse than neglectful; he was a toxic presence in my life.
Since I came to college, I’ve been navigating adulthood on my own. Trying to undo all that damage from my father. Or trying to live with it, at least.
My friends are the only true family I have. Even then, male friendships are different from a romantic relationship. We mostly bond over shared interests and doing shit together. Being with Violet represents something much deeper; something much more significant. It requires openness and reciprocity, trust and understanding, none of which I’m particularly skilled at. And the stakes are exponentially higher.
When I finish explaining, Marie pauses. “What do you think will happen if you let Violet in?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . every time I start to, I panic. My brain slams on the brakes. I want to leap out of the car and run. Figuratively, I mean.”
She hums thoughtfully. “What are you afraid of?”
Everything.
“Getting hurt.”
It’s not a logical fear. I know this on a cognitive level, but it doesn’t change the dread that creeps in when I think about getting closer to her again. I have no real reason to suspect Violet is going to hurt me. That was a one-way street in our relationship, which she definitely didn’t deserve.
“But this time around,” I add, “It’s different. Because I think my fear of losing her again might outweigh that.”
“You’re saying you might be willing to take the risk?”
I shift in my seat, my agitation from this conversation driving me to physical discomfort. Beads of sweat form along the back of my neck, T-shirt sticking to my skin. Is it hot in here? It feels that way all of a sudden. Violet makes me feel things, and my life is exponentially easier to navigate when I don’t.
“I’m not sure I have a choice. I’ll never forgive myself if I let her get away again.” Long-repressed regret trickles into my brain, seeping through the cracks of my consciousness. “But that doesn’t make it any less scary. I’m convinced I’m going to fuck it up again.”
“In what way?” she asks gently. “Everyone makes mistakes, and no relationship is perfect.”
“Fuck it up like, not be enough for her or what she needs.”
I’ve never been enough for Doug. What if I disappoint Violet, too?
Marie makes another flurry of notes on her notepad and pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, glancing up at me. “This is noteworthy progress, Nash. We went from a general fear to one that’s quite specific. You said you were scared of getting hurt, but it sounds more like you’re scared of hurting Violet. Does that resonate with you at all?”
It resonates a little too much.
“Kind of,” I admit. “I don’t want to be Doug version two-point-zero.”
The words hang in the air, and Marie’s expression softens. “You’re not your father, Nash.”
I wish I could believe that.
Sometimes I catch myself reacting to things the same way I know he would. Sometimes I look in the mirror and see his face, and it makes me want to take the mirror off the wall and smash it. Sometimes I wonder how, or even if, I can break out of the mold he’s tried to force me into.
One of my biggest fears is that I might not be able to.
“What do you think will happen if you don’t let Violet in? If you continue this pattern of behavior from before where you push her away when you get too close?”
“I’ll lose her again.” Justifiably so.
She raises her eyebrows at my admission. “Would that hurt?”
So much I can’t even let myself imagine it.
“Yes.”
***
Nothing like following your therapy session with a call from the person who sent you there in the first place. For fuck’s sake. His timing is nothing short of impeccable.
“Hi, Dad.” I pull into the arena parking lot and shift into park, letting my car idle. There are fifteen minutes until I need to start getting dressed, but I don’t bother mentioning this time constraint; I’m sure he’s already aware. His controlling tendencies have gotten progressively worse throughout the course of my college career. I’m surprised he hasn’t placed a tracking device on my vehicle. Hell, maybe he has.
“I was watching your last game,” he says. “Your gap control could use some work.”
Is that so? Just last week, Coach Ward remarked that I have some of the best gap control in the entire conference.
“Noted.” Leaning back in the leather seat, I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut. I sense a headache coming on. I don’t get them very often; Doug is my only trigger.
“More turnovers than I’d like to see, as well. Is Coach Ward even addressing these things with you?” I can picture the scorn across his face like he’s standing right in front of me, his gray-flecked brows lowered, upper lip lifted in a sneer. “I have some real concerns about the coaching team at your school.”
Shifting in the driver’s seat, I groan inwardly. Coach Ward and I have had our fair share of differences over the past few years, but his credentials speak for themselves. He played for fifteen years in the league before retiring due to injury and he has three cups to his name. A couple of LSU championships behind him as Head Coach, too. Pretty sure the guy knows what he’s doing, but I know better than to argue that point.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Doug, trying not to sound as weary as I feel. “Coach Ward has it handled.”
He scoffs. “Does he? You’re looking a little soft on the puck lately, too. Make sure to work on those stick checks in practice this week.”
My grip on the steering wheel tightens, a flicker of anger igniting in my chest. While all players have their weak spots, being soft on the puck has never been one of mine. Sometimes, I’m not sure whether Doug is intentionally trying to gaslight me or if believes the shit he says.
“I’ll remember to do that.” Hell, I couldn’t forget his criticism if I tried.
He offers me a crumb by acknowledging that my positioning has been “satisfactory,” and promptly launches into an interrogation about our practice drills. I take a sip of water, trying to swallow the frustration brewing within me, but it’s futile.
After my mom died, it was just the two of us. I wanted to please him so badly. And when I started playing hockey, it seemed like it worked. I remember how proud he was of me when I learned how to skate. Even during the introductory years of minor hockey, he was encouraging, if a little intense. At least back then, there was some praise sprinkled in with the criticism; some approval to help keep me going.
I don’t know when it changed—if there was a specific tipping point or if it was merely a slow, inevitable decline. The higher my tier, the worse it got, until I started playing elite-level hockey and his expectations became downright unattainable. Like I should have somehow been able to control whether our goalie let past ten goals in a game. I might play defense, but I’m not a fucking magician.
Slowly but surely, he grew more and more critical. Nothing was ever good enough. Eventually, I started to dread getting home after losses because I knew what was coming. I guess attending the school where he worked made it easier for teachers to overlook the bruises.
Our call wraps up with another detailed list of my shortcomings followed by a brusque parting. Switching off the ignition, I sit in silence and stare out into the half-full parking lot, attempting to shake off his barbed words. In less than five minutes, I need to walk into practice and forget the metric ton of radioactive negativity he just poured over my head. Nothing lessens the string of his sharp tongue other than time and distractions, neither of which I have at my disposal.
Turns out, being talented was actually the worst-case scenario. If I had sucked, he would have eventually lost hope and moved on. Maybe he would have badgered me about my grades or something else, but nothing triggers the same level of obsession in him like hockey. Probably because he never played a single minute as a pro. Never got drafted to the league, either, which means I’ve already accomplished more as an athlete than he ever did. But that’s his dirty little secret, and one he goes out of his way to hide from anyone else.
On some level, I know my father is living vicariously through me. And in a fucked-up way, I can almost empathize with that. But what I still don’t understand is why he can’t celebrate my successes instead of constantly tearing me down. No matter how high I climb, no matter what I achieve, he always expects more. Success is a moving target in his eyes.
One I’ll never hit.
