The Tales of a Professional Hockey Player

Chapter 44: Eggs

~Ben~

"Eggs. Stupid fucking eggs." I put my hand on Eleanor's lower back and rest my chin on her shoulder to try and see what she's doing. She doesn't react to my presence. She keeps throwing every egg in the dozen I bought yesterday in the sink. The shells break loudly, the sound echoing on the stainless steel. Out of the eleven eggs left in the box, only two are still intact.

"Why did you buy eggs?" Her voice is calm, too calm comparing to the strength she uses to break the eggs. I move my hands to rest them on her stomach. I inhale the sweet smell of her hair. Before, she only used that fancy shampoo occasionally because the bottle was small and expensive, but, now, she uses it all the time. It smells like exotic fruits like papaya and mango with a hint of coconut and I love it. That smells brings me back to when we were living in Windsor, and it reminds me that, no matter how much has changed, some things will always be the same.

"The coach gave us recipes of protein smoothies and they require eggs for the protein part." When the nutritionist came over a few weeks ago, she told us that we didn't need to take eggs out of our diet. Eleanor and I aren't allergic, so we shouldn't have to eliminate eggs completely. The thing we have to pay attention to the most is the list of ingredients in the food we buy like crackers, sauces, types of breads, etc. I was happy when she said that. I like having eggs for breakfast, especially before practice since they're a big source of protein. Eleanor stopped throwing the eggs in the sink when we started talking.

"But what if Ophelia would have eaten one accidentally?" She doesn't sound angry. Her voice is filled with worry, anxiety even. I tighten my hold on her waist and I feel her laying back into me.

"I really doubt that Ophelia would have been able to open the fridge, open the box, and eat a raw egg with the shell." I try to hide the laughter in my voice because of how serious Eleanor sounded. She slaps my arm with her hand. I lean over to give her a kiss on the cheek and feel proud of myself when I see a small smile on her lips.

"Don't laugh." I give her one last kiss on the cheeks before pulling away. As my hands leave her stomach, hers grab my wrists. "No, stay." The desperation in her voice makes my stomach twitch. I wrap my arms back around her waist and pull her into me. I then ask the question that will unravel everything.

"What happened today, El?" I feel her sigh and lay back into my arms further. It's as if she laid all her weight on me. I have to support her physically and mentally in that moment.

"Oph almost ate a scone at daycare today." Call me ignorant, but I have no idea what a scone is. But by judging Eleanor's reaction, I can assume that scones contain eggs. My heart starts beating faster, until I focus on the word "almost."

"But she didn't." It's more a question than a statement. Eleanor shakes her head on my chest.

"It was another kid's mother who brought them, and she gave one to every kid without asking if anyone had allergies. It was Nadine who intercepted the scone before Oph had the chance to put it in her mouth. It came really close. The mother felt bad apparently." It's my turn to sigh as Eleanor raises her shoulders. I bury my nose in her hair and inhale deeply, the smell of mango filling my senses.

"It angers me that we can do everything that's necessary to protect our daughter, but that the second she goes somewhere else, anything can happen. I doubled checked everything we have in the pantry when I got back just to be sure. That's when I found the eggs. I'm sorry, by the way, you're right. There's no way she would have eaten those eggs."

Images of the future flash in my mind. Ophelia at school having to check everything she eats. Ophelia at her friends' birthday parties, sitting alone in the corner because she can't eat the cake like everybody else. Her always having to ask if there is mayonnaise or anything else that contains eggs in every dressing or sandwich, she wants to buy at the school's cafeteria. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I force myself to think. If I focus too much on that right now, my anxiety will get the better of me, and I can't let that happen. I unwrap my right arm from Eleanor's waist to grab one of the two remaining eggs in the box. I then throw it as hard as I can in the sink. The shell explodes in a million of tiny white pieces. I focus on the yolk trickling slowly in the sink along with the other ten before it. I try not to compare the pieces of broken shells to Ophelia's life. It would be too easy to see every piece as one more challenge she will have to face compared to the other kids. Just like it would feel ok to think of the yolks going down the drain as Ophelia's pleasure while eating disappear. I grab the last one, but Eleanor's hand on my wrist stops me from throwing it in the sink.

"Together." I nod, and we throw the egg in the sink, her hand above mine. The cracking noise fills the house for a second, only to leave us in complete silence afterwards. Without letting go of my hand, she pulls me back upstairs in our bed. "I think we should get her that allergy bracelet the nutritionist talked about," she says when we're laying down face to face, her head hidden in my chest. I nod as I kiss the top of her head. I feel her kiss my chest, just above my collarbone before I drift off to sleep.

When I get out of bed the next morning, half an hour before my usual alarm, I decide to clean up the mess we left in the kitchen before leaving for practice. I'll be gone all day afterwards, only coming back tomorrow after our game against the Toronto Maple Leafs tonight, and I don't want to leave this mess to Eleanor. I wake her up with a kiss five minutes before I have to leave.

"Have a nice trip and a good game. I love you," she whispers, still sleepy.

"I love you too. Have a nice day, I'll call you tonight after the game." I give her one last kiss on her forehead and leave the room. I go say goodbye to Ophelia who is still asleep and walk out the door. Leaving is getting harder and harder each time.