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The vivid memories of dedicating that goal to her now feel like a misguided decision. What is wrong with me? The media's scrutiny wasn't something she signed up for, and I can't shake the shame that clings to me.
She hasn’t texted me. I run a hand through my tangled, sweaty hair. What if she’s already seen this? What if she’s already mad at me? How can I ever convince her that I would take care of her, protect her, after all that has happened?
I grapple with the realization that I was wrong. The path I chose for us now seems laden with obstacles that threaten to tear us apart. I'm lost, uncertain of how to make things right again. The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders, and I feel the gravity of my actions pulling me down.
The sounds of the showers quiet as the guys step out of the locker room.
Game footage. I shake my head. Even now, even off the ice, I’m too distracted to get things right.
This entire place, once a haven of teamwork and belonging, now feels like a suffocating space. The place I once cherished has morphed into a breeding ground for speculation and judgment. I can't escape the disapproving glances and hushed conversations that linger as I move to shower. The few guys that remain don’t say anything, but their silence says everything that I need to know.
I make it quick, shampooing my hair and scrubbing my skin raw. By the time I make it back to my locker and change into my sweats, the room is empty. I shove my damp feet into socks and slip into my tennis shoes as I jog towards the film room.
My phone buzzes incessantly with notifications in my pocket. A quick glance at the screen tells me that none of the messages are from the one person I wish would talk to me.
Fuck.
I take my seat with the rest of the guys and pray that this day will go quick. I need to get home. I need to see her, to talk to her in person.
I know that I can’t fix everything. And I can’t take away the constant barrage of media attention that she’ll likely receive if she chooses to stay with me. But maybe I can convince her to stay anyway.
The breakdown of footage doesn’t alleviate the multiplying turmoil within my chest. I hesitate before glancing at the screen, half-expecting another damning headline instead of the footage of our defense falling apart.
The reality of being under the public eye is stark, and I’m starting to think that it’s selfish to ask Astrid to handle the scrutiny.
I resolve to tell her, to explain everything, and to give her the chance to make her own choice. But I also vow to never let this sport become the reason for her unhappiness.
The door to the house feels heavier than usual as I walk into the hallway. With a deep breath, I knock, bracing myself for the conversation that awaits.
Astrid is sitting on the couch, the tv playing but her eyes glued to her phone, her expression a mix of weariness and uncertainty. It pains me to see her like this, caught in the crossfire of my choices.
"Hey," I manage, my voice carrying the weight of the situation.
"Hey," she replies, startling when she sees me. She takes a steadying breath, her eyes already searching mine for answers.
"I saw the article," I admit, the admission heavy with regret.
She sighs, her shoulders slumping. "I knew something like that was coming." She chews on the inside of her cheek. “I just didn’t expect it to be that brutal.”
"I'm sorry," I offer, though the words feel inadequate in the face of the mess we find ourselves in.
The mess that I created.
She shakes her head, a sad smile playing on her full lips. "It is not your fault."
"But it is," I argue, my frustration surfacing. "I shouldn't have brought you into this mess."
Astrid reaches out, her small hand resting on my arm in a gesture of comfort. "We'll figure this out, Sean. Together."
Her words spark tears in my eyes. She sounds so certain. A lump of guilt lodges itself in my throat.
The genuine kindness reflected in her eyes doesn’t lift the burden weighing on me, it doubles it. I’ve hurt her. "I hate that you're dragged into this," I confess.
"I knew what I was getting into," she reaches for my hand. "We'll weather this storm, and things will settle. Soon it will be yesterday’s news, right?"
I nod, grateful for her unwavering support. Yet, a lingering doubt taints my optimism.
The path forward feels uncertain, and I grapple with the realization that my choices have consequences that extend beyond the rink. The question now isn’t whether Astrid and I can navigate this storm and emerge stronger on the other side.
