Heal the Heart

28.

I finally got the chance to explore the trophy room SaSa had shown me last night. She had just given it a fleeting mention and a quick on-off of the lights. Perhaps the talk she'd given me in the hallways took more of her attention, but the quick glance I was allowed piqued my interests and took it to unimaginable heights.

The room was crowded, to say the least. All three walls were filled with framed photographs and posters, medals and trophies, signed hockey sticks and encased pucks, jerseys and helmets.

It was set like a timeline, the frames showcasing a story of Beck's achievements, starting off with tiny jerseys and signed mini sticks. Moving right, the signatures changed. Beck's signature started from a childish scribble of Christopher Beckett to a cursive C. Beckett, to a looping and swirling Chris Beck and the latest was a simple, neat C. Beck. The sticks got bigger. The jerseys got bigger. The little boy in the photographs got bigger.

In the first few photos, Beck was small and adorable. A baby-cheeked, full-teeth, heavily freckled smile present in every picture. There was one where he was sitting on a man's thigh, both of them decked in full hockey gear as the man squatted with Beck on his lap. Beck was nothing but a tiny bobblehead, his hockey stick held backwards. He was full of joy and dreams behind his cage helmet.

"I should've locked this room and swallowed the key," Beck said, his arm going around my shoulders.

"I would've somehow broken in." I wrapped mine around his waist. The entire front wall held trophies, and photographs of Beck in action, of Beck when he made it to the papers. There were his district wins, his WHL win, his World Juniors win. Many had Beck flanked with SaSa on one side and a tall, humongous man on the other.

"That's Uncle Brodes." Beck pointed to the grinning giant. "Out of all my uncles, he's the one I'm closest to. Maybe it's because he's my mom's favourite brother, so, you know, by default he's my favourite uncle. But he was also my first coach."

The photos and the pride went on forever. I spotted a few of Beck as an Eagle, our university colours were perfect on him. There were even photos of Beck when he graduated from high school. A golden and blue graduation gown and cap hung below the framed diploma. Beside, there was that same picture Beck had on his study table back home in Vancouver. The one with SaSa and him. Everything Beck had done, SaSa celebrated and was so fucking proud of.

"This is exactly how you should be loved." I spread my free arm out and tried encompassing the vastness of his achievements. "Your mom is awesome."

"Told you." He let go of my shoulders and stuffed his hands into pockets of his joggers, not meeting my eyes when I looked at him. "She thinks you're pretty awesome, too," he said, still avoiding eye contact. "You guys talked about me last night."

It wasn't a question. "Only the best things," I said.

There was that faraway look in his eyes again. Like he was here, but he didn't want to be. He stared straight into one of the photographs. The one where he was maybe six years old and was on his uncle's shoulders as his uncle hefted the Stanley Cup. There was so much happiness and pride radiating all around this room, yet when Beck stood in the middle of it, it felt like his shoulders drooped with exhaustion and sadness. His jaw clenched so hard, I could see his pulse racing beneath it.

"Why didn't you apply for the draft?" I asked.

He barked a sad laugh, his voice heavy with hidden emotions. "Like my mom said, I wanted the college experience."

I tugged on his forearm and forced him to face me. "Don't bullshit me, Beck."

He sighed so hard, a strand of hair flounced from with his quiff and landed on his forehead. "I don't have a lot of people in my life. Don't have any friends who I can say Yeah, we grew up together. We've known each other our whole lives. Partly, it's my fault. I kept everyone at a certain distance. Maybe it was because I was afraid. I, myself, didn't know what was happening to me. Why was I always the last one to hit the showers? Why was I so conscious of every hug, pat, look one of my teammates threw at me? At that time, I didn't want answers. I just wanted to win.