Heal the Heart

37.

Two Years Later

I tipped my head back and faced the sun head-on. The glare made white spots dance behind my eyelids, warming my skin and ridding me of the day's fatigue. There was something about the heat beating down on me that gave me energy. It was weird as fuck, but staring at the sun filled me with some much-needed vigour that I'd need to do my rotations with a smile plastered on my face.

Leaving Vancouver had to be one of my best decisions ever, and considering how few of those I'd made in this lifetime, it wasn't hard for it to rank on top. The moment I received my admit, I was ready to bid adieu to the city that caused all my misery with its unpredictable weather and stupid skyline that people appreciated so much. I had turned in my notice the very next day and began packing up my life. With how little I was carrying, it didn't seem like I'd spent four years in one place. Which was for the best. I didn't need more reminders than necessary for all my stupidity.

Los Angeles was a welcome change. The city brought with it the sun, an even deeper hole in my pocket and a steady stream of never-ending gay bars.

I was moving on. In the way I knew best.

I turned my face away and scooted closer to the table. The iPad's screen began to dim; the article I had pulled up stared at me, the words taunting me to read them. For all my talk about cleansing my life of Beck, I wasn't anywhere close to doing it. And perhaps that was another perk of leaving Canada behind. None of that hockey shit following me. Yet, here I was, in a sandwich parlour, chasing the senseless sport.

Hockey legend, Brody Beckett, succumbs to cancer after a three-year battle

Everything in me told me not to read ahead. And I listened to it. At least for the entire morning, I did. Classes kept me busy, and the clinic I'd have to be at in another hour would keep me from reading it for another few hours. But, at night, with nothing to hold me accountable and no self-preservation left in sight, I knew I'd pour over it, then lose myself in a steady cocktail of booze and sex, taking my body to the point of no return. The art of not giving a fuck sometimes came at a price too heavy to pay with just my sanity.

Fuck this.

My eyes scanned the texts, and I willed every emotion rising in me to lock itself back up in that tiny box at the back of my brain.

A picture of Brody Beckett sat right below the headlines, unrecognizable. I hadn't seen him in the flesh, but I did go searching on the web a long time ago when being something to Beck was my life's greatest mission. Brody Beckett had been a hulk of a man, intimidating in every aspect except his smile, which seemed to be a constant. And the same smile was present as he looked down at his nephew hauling the Stanley Cup in the air for the same team he had led to the finals all those decades back. The tear streaks on his sunken cheeks shimmered under the heavy lights, and his weakened frame held his chest high with pride. Brody Beckett was reduced to nothing but a bag of bones under the hundreds of sweaters and scarfs he had wrapped around him. His eyes drooped, and a walking cane rested on one side of his seat.

I scrolled further down, skimming through the text lauding him for all his past achievements until I reached a picture of Christopher Beckett.

His hair hid beneath a ball cap as he raised the Cup in the air, his mouth opened in a wide smile with his teeth clenched.

Beck's words rang in my head.

He said he'll die only after witnessing me lift the Stanley Cup.

Brody Beckett stayed true to his words. Two weeks after the Bears' had won, he'd breathed his last surrounded by friends and family.

I couldn't stop staring at Beck. His reddened cheeks, his frazzled nerves, his blue watery eyes. Was he happy? Was he at peace knowing he'd fulfilled his uncle's dream? Would he reach out?