Heal the Heart

26.

Our days were set into a routine. Most nights I spent with Beck at his place. Mornings I woke him up and forced him to go to his classes. His grades were good, and I had no doubt he'd do well in the upcoming end terms, but it felt nice not having to eat lunch alone and I wanted to spend more time with him. Especially now that he'd started going for practice.

He didn't get the all clear to play yet, but he attended practice sessions every evening, watching from the sidelines. He wasn't allowed to go on the ice either. Skates or not. Hockey meant sticks and pucks, collisions and bumps, and any inadvertent injury had the potential to reverse his recovery. So, he sat on the bench and watched, calling out improvements and formation changes.

I continued helping him with his therapy. But I knew I wouldn't be of much use soon. Almost three months had passed since I first saw him in the consultation room. Beck had made tremendous progress, so much that he'd even surprised Dr Nazmi when she visited one day. He had stood on one leg on a balance ball and was tossing a tennis ball back and forth with another patient, laughing and radiating his liveliness in all directions. I had ceased sending daily reports. There weren't any reports to send. He didn't show any signs of discomfort or pain and rarely complained of unease after his sessions.

There was no one more ecstatic than me. Beck would take the ice again. Sooner than any of us expected. Sooner than even he expected. He would finally escape from the dark, stormy clouds that followed him like a shadow. But that also meant we wouldn't be able to spend as much time together. There would be distance. His priorities would change.

No matter.

We would take it day by day. Week by week. There was something here. I was sure of it.

Eventually, Dr Nazmi cleared Beck for a gentle skate.

He'd almost passed out when she agreed. No coercion. No repeated pleading. Nothing. He asked, and she said okay. Of course, there were conditions and strict instructions following her okay, but Beck didn't care. He was allowed to fly again.

He had invited me to the rink that evening. He said he wanted me there. Wanted me to watch and witness what our hard work had brought about.

I arrived a little later than expected and ran to the rink. I passed the hallways, which were plastered with gigantic framed pictures of alumni. All action shots and bad ass poses. There was a large glass casing overflowing with cups that could've been as tall and heavy as me, along with more framed pictures of past teams. Some colour, some monochromatic. I slowed down to a walk, sweeping over each photograph like I was a star struck tourist. At the end of the hallway, there were two big wooden boards that had the names of the captains and the assistant captains of each year carved into it. From the corner of my eye, at the almost end of the assistant captain's list, I caught a name. Isaac Zeagler.

Isaac?

And suddenly the spacious hallway turned claustrophobic. If this was the same Isaac I was thinking about, then he'd done something. He was also a hockey player. He was on the same team as Beck. That meant he'd hurt Beck on a deeper level than I'd initially figured. This bastard had hurt my Beck badly enough for him to doubt himself. His worth.

Nausea crawled up my throat, and I resumed my run, going straight for the training wing.

I'd expected whistles, grunts and a boisterous coach yelling out instructions and curses alike for all players. Instead, I found a quiet arena. Everyone—still in gear—was huddled in the stands. The rink was empty, save for the two goals at each end. Someone hopped over the boards and his skates crashed against the ice in one loud, thunderous roar.

Beck took the ice alone as all his teammates whooped and cheered from the side. He was like a bird taking flight for the first time after a broken wing. He first skated a slow circle around the net, then he sped up, skates moving so fast I couldn't even follow. Joy filled him in bursts, then relief, then tears. He skated like a blur, like a streak of lightning, from goal to goal, his skates carving his legacy deep into the ice. He took tight turns, performed switches and crossovers with ease.