It's You.

Chapter 1: Where It All Began

     We can't change where we come from. We can't change who our parents are, the things we've said, the things we regret. Sometimes, life just happens. It slows down for no one and only forgives some while others sit and wait their whole lives for some sort of relief; relief that might not ever come.

     But we can change where we're going, who we become, and how we look at life. Some people take longer than others, fighting a battle at every turn in life. I was one of the lucky ones that didn't have regrets or parents that I wished I could change. I didn't come from a life of poverty, living paycheck to paycheck, hoping and praying that we could make rent payments on time for fear of being evicted. I didn't have a father that drank until he passed out on the floor or a mother who hid in the closet for fear of being beaten for saying the wrong thing. I didn't have to put on a show every time I walked out the door, pretending everything was perfect. For me, everything was perfect. That is, until I met you.

     Miles took me to a hockey game at the rink across town, spending 20 minutes blaring Taylor Swift with the windows down, singing at the top of his lungs. That's something I had always admired about Miles. It didn't seem to matter to him who was listening or what they were thinking about him. He was who he was, take it or leave it, and I always took it.

     By the time we had pulled into a parking space, my ears were ringing, and my legs were tingling from the constant bass and shrillness of her voice, Miles matching this at every key change. I rolled up my window as he gathered his wallet and keys, turning down the volume.

     "Ready Lil?" he said, a big grin plastered on his face. I knew he was excited. Miles had been having a secret relationship with one of the hockey players for the last 4 months, leading him to go to every hockey game that was on their home turf (or ice, I suppose). Miles wouldn't be caught dead at one of these without some sort of excuse. Lucky for him, no one else knew about him and Garrett Shields, who had randomly hooked up one night after a party where both were considerably drunk.

     After that night, I had to comfort Miles for weeks, Garrett convincing him that he didn't remember, and that Miles was lying. Garrett threatened him the entire time, describing the things he would do to him if he was spreading the lies to anyone else. Miles was scared. I was scared for him. So, we kept it a secret, sometimes even from ourselves. Just as Miles was getting over it and had almost convinced himself that it hadn't happened, Garrett came back, calling Miles from a blocked phone number. I still get scared for Miles, wondering if Garrett will act on these threats someday if people notice that Miles is at these games for him. But, for now, I'm tagging along, practicing how to dial 9-1-1 as quickly as possible.

     We walked across the street, Miles saying something about the new Project Runway episode and some dress that Tish had made that looked like a brown paper bag you'd put your lunch in. I laughed, looking down at my feet, the amount of people outside already making me uncomfortable.

     "You good?" Miles asked, opening the door for me. I nodded my head, thanking him and walking inside. There were more people inside, but quickly filing into the arena, the cool air from the ice already creeping out, cooling my ankles and feet. We went over to buy our tickets before heading into the arena, me following Miles to find the perfect seat.

     We ended up sitting beside the penalty box behind the plastic barrier, already covered in grey streaks from pucks that had ricocheted off it. I settled in, crossing my legs, looking around at the other people filing in.

     "This is the best spot," Miles said, a smile on his face.

     "Why?" I asked.

     "Garrett usually gets too rough and ends up in there, so I get to see him closer," he said, before leaning in to whisper to me, "he gets rough in other ways too." He winked at me, before crossing his legs and placing his hands on his knees.

      I rolled my eyes at him as the lights went down, the intro music starting. I never understood why sports events always started with some sort of alarm, like some type of emergency was happening. I watched as everyone started to cheer, a spotlight hitting the middle of the ice. The players started to skate out onto the ice, one by one, as they were introduced by the announcer. Miles was screaming with everyone else and I stood up, examining all the pads and gear each of them had on.

     "Ladies and gentlemen, please remain standing for the National Anthem, sung by our own April Myers!"

     Once the game started, Miles was on his feet back and forth, rooting for Garrett (#20) and other players occasionally who he had no idea who they were. But he was saving himself, making sure he was covering himself if he was ever asked why he was there.

     Multiple guys slammed into the wall, trying to get to the puck, pushing each other out of the way. The wall would seemingly bend and creak, as if it were going to break, making me push myself back in my seat. Miles would laugh at me every time, knowing that I was nervous.

     There were nearly 4 minutes left in the 2nd period before a fight broke out, both players ripping off their gloves and throwing their sticks onto the ice. The player from our team was on top of the other one, his fists flying before we couldn't see them anymore, other players and referees trying to break them apart. I noticed that I was standing up now, listening to everyone in the crowd cheering, some booing. I looked over at Miles, who was laughing. #6 was the guy fighting. It wasn't Garrett, so, why was he laughing?

     The two broke up, our player being escorted to the penalty box, his helmet now off his head and laying behind on the ice.

     "That was a good one!" Miles said, leaning over and shouting to me over the rest of the crowd.

     I continued to watch this person in the penalty box as he took a Nike water bottle and squirted the water into his mouth, half of it dripping down chin onto his jersey. There was a small stream of blood coming down the left side of his face, stemming from his eyebrow.

     "That guy got him good!" Miles said, seeing exactly what I was seeing. I nodded my head, still watching this person, wondering what they would do about that when he got back into the game.

     "The other guy has it worse though," Miles said, pointing to the guy in the other penalty box, holding his head back with cotton in his nose, the blood starting to show through at the edges. I shook my head, cursing myself for the excitement and adrenaline I was feeling from the fight.

     As the game continued, I sat back down, propping myself up with my elbows on my knees, wringing my hands together. Miles was watching for Garrett, occasionally looking over at me and laughing, knowing I was enjoying the game.

     I looked over to Miles, trying to hold back a smile and pretending like I didn't care about the game, when I noticed #6 looking in our direction. His eyebrow was still bloody, but someone had put a butterfly closure on the cut, keeping it closed for the time being. His hair was sweaty, clumping together at the front, almost in front of his eyes.

     "Gavin Clarke," Miles said, looking over to me.

     I broke my gaze from the player, looking over at Miles, "what?"

     "Number 6, in the box," he said, looking back out at the ice. "His name is Gavin Clarke. He's good."

     I glanced back over at "the box," #6 still looking over at me before turning away when I made eye contact with him again. I kept looking at him, seeing him standing up, putting his helmet and gloves back on, looking up at the clock in the middle of the arena. He moved his head side to side, seemingly cracking his neck. He motioned to the coach across the rink from him, another player sliding into where the rest of the players were.

     One of the rink staff opened the door to the penalty box, letting #6 out onto the ice. He pushed down on his helmet again, his hands looking like the Hulk's in those gloves, turning his head to look back at me before going out onto the ice and into the game again.