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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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We've had two funerals in three weeks—my mom's and Kimberly’s dad's, the great Steve Summers. I used to love the color black, but after these funerals, I think it’s safe to say I won’t be touching it for a while. I've already had my PA find a white suit for the NHL awards in Vegas next Friday.
It's been a rollercoaster of emotions since the airport. The entertainment news has finally found something else to focus on besides her. I wish I could see the peace on her face. Now, the industry is buzzing about the NHL awards, with many sports analysts speculating on my win of the Vezina. I’m excited, but at the same time, I’m devastated. She should be here. The teacher needs to watch her student make it to the finals. But she's not.
Instead, I came home to the letter she left behind in my kitchen, the same kitchen where I made pancakes for her for the first time. The letter sits there, stark against the cold marble countertop, a painful reminder of her absence. I can still remember her laugh echoing through the room, the way she’d scrunch her nose at my attempt at flipping the pancakes, the way she focused on me the entire time I flipped the pancakes over and over, and the way she sucked on them fucking blueberries. Now, the silence is deafening. The white suit hanging in my closet feels like a beacon of hope amidst the darkness, but it’s hard to shake off the shadow of loss that looms over me.
The contrast between the joy of potentially winning the Vezina and the grief of losing loved ones is almost too much to bear. Every accolade feels bittersweet, every cheer from the fans a reminder of the voices I’ll never hear again. The letter is both a comfort and a torment, filled with words I wish I could hear her speak. The memories of her and the weight of my recent losses intertwine, creating a tapestry of love, loss, and longing that I carry with me as I step into the spotlight next Friday.
I take the letter from the Kitchen table and I head to the living room. I collapse like a giant on the couch as I rip open the envelope to reveal the letter. In her perfectly calligraphed handwriting, it reads:
Dear Terence,
I remember the day we first met, like yesterday. It was almost three years ago. I'd just gotten to the Kraken's home arena and I'd met Alex, who wasn't exactly thrilled to work with me. And then I met you. And you weren't thrilled to work with me either but something was different. You didn't treat me the way a lot of people did, no matter how cold I was to you, no matter what cold and harsh things I said, you had something warm to say back.
I thought you were crazy. There must be something wrong with him, I remember thinking. And then there was the time you got me alone with some drinks, I'd never admit it, but that was the happiest I felt in that entire year, and that was why I gave in when you leaned in to kiss me. But let's keep this letter PG in case one of the kids finds it.
I ghosted you right after. It was only right—or at least what I felt was right. I've never been one to get involved with athletes for obvious reasons, but even as I booked a flight to New York, there was a part of me that wanted to turn back. I knew it wasn't just about you being an athlete.
