Tears are streaming down my eyes as I point the remote at the TV to turn it off. There’s a little over two minutes left of the game but there’s no sense watching anymore.
The Cold Fury are getting ready to win their second Stanley Cup. They’re up by four goals and Vancouver pulled their goalie. It’s pretty much sealed up. I linger a moment longer, just so I can get another look at Van. He’s currently on the bench, but his line will be taking the ice soon. When he steps out there with his team, I smile at the TV through my tears and then turn it off. I can’t be happier for the team—my brothers, Van—that they won. But I don’t think I can bear to watch that smiling celebration on the ice as they carry the Cup around.
The final series went seven games as predicted. They lost the two last week in Vancouver when the article about Van came out, not that that was what caused the losses. Vancouver is just a damn good team, and with home advantage, they beat us.
But they only beat us by one goal each game. When they played us in Raleigh, we beat them each time by several goals. Thus, when just a week after the article came out and the Cold Fury was back in Raleigh for game seven—the championship game—I was confident we’d win.
My parents begged me to fly to Raleigh with them to attend the game, but I just couldn’t. I’d been back home in Quebec City for days now and I felt safe and secure there. It was the best place for me where I could distance myself from everything that was Van.
When he walked out of the hotel room last week, offering to let me keep the room and enjoy the game, I’d wanted to toss my shoe and hit him in the back of his head as he left. The door was barely closed and I sprang into action.
Shower. Clothing. Packed bags. Quick text to Lucas and Max that I was leaving.
Then I was gone.
Changed my flight and took the next available one back to Raleigh.
There, I worked efficiently. Did some laundry, repacked my bags, and went to sleep. The next morning, I drove to Lulu’s and gave my immediate resignation. Collecting my last paycheck, I then drove straight to the airport and booked a flight home. By that afternoon, Mom and Dad were opening up the front door and welcoming me home and into their arms.
That first night, I just wanted to be left alone. The Cold Fury was playing the second Vancouver game, but I went to my room and slept. I was exhausted from the cross-country travels and mentally frayed from Van pushing me away. Part of me wonders if I did a disservice by not fighting harder, but something inside of me told me that he had to figure this out himself. Until he did that, I wasn’t sticking around.
The next morning, both of my parents were waiting in the kitchen for me with coffee, pastries, and looks that were both worried and determined. They were going to find out what caused their daughter to come running back home.
So I told them everything and I didn’t hold back on anything but the actual sex details. But I did make it clear that I was the pursuer. The aggressor. That it wasn’t anything but casual, but then my feelings got caught up. I told them what I knew about Van’s history, since it was all out in the open now, and last, I told them how he pushed me away day before yesterday.
My mom cooed all over me, and my dad cursed in French, and since I was fluent in it, I knew that he had some nefarious plan to string Van up by the balls.
But then it was over. They were aware of my heartbreak and that I really just wanted to hang at home for a while and figure things out. That day, I went out and started applying for jobs. Until I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had to start making some money to pay my parents back. I also needed to pay Lucas for the car he bought me, which was sitting back in Raleigh. Perhaps he could sell it, and I didn’t need it here with such great public transportation.
So here I was watching game seven by myself. Mom and Dad had gone to Raleigh to be there for their sons’ victory. They tried their hardest to get me to come, but I refused. I knew Lucas and Max would understand, but I just couldn’t be there…close to Van. As far as I was concerned, being in the same state with him was too close.
Pushing up from the couch, I pick up my empty glass of water from the coffee table and take it into the kitchen. This house used to be so loud and bustling with activity, given the fact there were three boys and one girl running around. Now it’s eerily quiet as I’m the only occupant, and yeah, for a sociable girl like me, I’m fucking lonely as hell right now.
With a regretful sigh for many things—most of which would be ever getting involved with a man like Van I knew could probably break me bad—I head into my bathroom. I run a hot bath, add a lavender bath bomb, and then strip my clothes off. I pile my hair on top of my head, step in, and prepare to just relax. I’m hoping the lavender will destress me enough that I can at least get a solid night’s sleep. Those have been hard to come by, not only because of Van pretty much pushing me away, but the worry I’ve had constantly over how he’s handling things.
I’ve been stalking social media and news outlets, reading every single comment people are making on the article Vernicki released, as well as some follow-up articles by other news organizations. Van has made no comment, although the Cold Fury made a statement on his behalf.
At a press conference after game four, the day after the article was released, Brian Brannon specifically addressed it to reporters. He said, “Van Turner is an integral part of this team. He’s part of our family. He’s loyal, dedicated, and genuine. Any attempts to compare him to a man he barely knows can be nothing other than a sleazy attempt to boost ratings. Van has this team’s full support and we are very much looking forward to watching him in action to help us win the Stanley Cup.”
God, I thought that was so sweet. Lucas and Max both confirmed to me through a few calls and texts that the team was rallying around him. Almost everyone reached out to him either with a text, a call, or simply a slap on the back with a heartfelt, “Hang in there, buddy.” He was finally getting what he lacked all those years ago. Validation from peers that he’s a good person and what his father did has no bearing on the man he is today.
I also know Van is doing reasonably well because Etta has been in contact with me. I didn’t say goodbye to her when I left Vancouver and that pained me a little. But honestly, if Van didn’t want something with me, there was no sense in continuing a relationship with Etta. Besides, I was so pissed at Van I could only think about getting the hell out of there.
By the time I’d landed in Raleigh that night, there was a text from Etta. Van must have given her my number.
Checking to make sure you’re okay. Van is worried. He said all your stuff is gone.
Yeah, well what the fuck did he expect? Me to hang around like a little puppy because he generously offered me the room?
But I wasn’t mad at Etta, so my text back was nice and reassuring. I’m fine. Please tell Van not to worry.
I thought that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t. Her next text set me back on my heels. He made a mistake and he knows it. I know my boy and he’s regretting his words.
I couldn’t help the swift reply. He told you that specifically?
Her reply was not as quick, and I could read the chagrin in the tone. Well…no. But I know him. I can see it on his face.
I wanted to tell her that was probably a million other stressors she was seeing in his expression, but it was mostly because of the news article. I wasn’t even a blip on Van’s radar, I was sure.
I wrote her back a longer text just telling her I appreciated her concern but that I was fine and was giving Van the exact space he needed. I also made it clear that I was moving on and not looking back. I told Van it was now or never.
He chose never.
I am indeed moving on.
So here I sit, alone in my parents’ house in Quebec while my family is celebrating a Stanley Cup win.
It fucking sucks, and thus I’m going to soak away my problems in the tub.
Just as I settle down into the steaming, fragrant water and lean my head back, my phone chimes the arrival of a text.
I look at it across the bathroom, sitting on the vanity where I’d left it. That text could be from any number of people, and most likely from one of my parents about the Cold Fury winning the Cup. I expect right about now they are still having each team member skate it around the ice, and a sharp pang of regret robs me of my breath that I’m not there celebrating. My hurt over Van pushing me away caused me to turn my back on my brothers, and that’s not cool. Sure, they were all understanding when I told them I didn’t want to come, but that doesn’t lessen my guilt or my sadness that I won’t have that memory with Lucas. I at least shared last year’s win with Max.
The tears spring to my eyes as the true repercussions of my selfishness hit me hard. I cut myself out of sharing in a perhaps once-in-a-lifetime event for my family: my two brothers winning the Stanley Cup together.
Tears pour down my face as I silently curse Van for driving me away, although I know this was my solid choice to stay here and be alone.
Another chime, another text. I refuse to get out of my tub to look.
Instead, I continue to cry because I miss my family, I’m overwhelmed with guilt I’m not there with them, and I fucking miss Van more than anything else. I let the tears pour down my face, and they come easily, as it’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to really let go.
Tears turn into sobs and I finally bury my hands in my face, hoping it will stop soon enough.
Another chime, but I don’t care who it is. Nothing I’ll receive will make me feel any better about my situation right now.
Eventually, my crying abates. I’ve never been a big crier, but I’ll admit it can be cathartic. The water cools and I reluctantly step out of the tub, slipping into a warm terry robe.
I nab my phone from the vanity and look at my texts, seeing a series of three of them from Van. My heartbeat skitters out of control, as he hasn’t reached out to me once, and now it looks like he’s sent me three texts within minutes of him winning the Stanley Cup.
My hand shakes as I see more accurately that he’s sent me three videos. I click on the first one, and as soon as I realize what I’m seeing, my hand goes over my mouth to stifle another tiny sob as I start crying again.
It’s of Max hoisting the Stanley Cup and skating it around the ice. Van must be taking the video with his own phone.
Tears of happiness slide down my cheeks as Max brings the Cup down to kiss it before skating it up to Lucas. Lucas takes it from his brother, raises it above his head, and skates around the ice as well with a big cheesy grin on his face. If I looked in the mirror, I bet my grin would look just like his.
The video ends when Lucas hands the Cup off to another player.
I tap on the next text, which is also a video. A small whimper of happiness and regret pops out of my mouth as I watch Van now on video taking his turn with the Cup. My eyes drink in every detail as he skates with it raised high, and I see the light shining in his eyes, the unrestrained smile of triumph and happiness, and the absolute peace in his expression.
I know I have every right to be pissed at this man, but how can I right in this moment when he’s reached the pinnacle of success? He reached it despite the shitstorm he faced this week with that news article about him and Arco.
All of the regret and guilt seem to evaporate as I allow myself to get swept up in the joy of this moment. I let myself be happy for my brothers and Van, but I refuse to acknowledge the fact that Van is making some type of overture by sending me videos of my brothers. He knew how important that would be to me since I wasn’t there, although he could have no clue I turned the TV off, so this was just extra special.
When the video of Van ends, I look to his last text, and it’s just a few words. I really wish you were here with us. I regret the words I said, or otherwise you would be here with us to celebrate tonight. That’s all on me.
My tears suddenly dry up as I read his message over and over again. It can’t be any more vague as to what he really wants. He wishes I was there, but is that just because they won the Cup or because he misses me? He regrets what he said. But is that because he truly didn’t mean to push me away? Or because he kept me from celebrating with my family?
I keep waiting for more, but nothing is forthcoming. I imagine the celebration on the ice, followed by pictures and interviews, will be taking up Van’s time for a while.
I walk into my bedroom and lie down on my bed, watching the videos a few more times so I can draw on the good feelings they evoke.
I then send separate texts to Lucas and Max congratulating them, as well as one to my mom.
The entire time, I debate about what to say to Van, but eventually, I choose not to respond.
It’s either now—when you need me the most in your life—or not fucking ever.
Then it’s not fucking ever.
Van’s the one who told me to move on, so I moved on.