Fighting against Gravity: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 3)

by Isabella Cassazza

  What a pain in the ass it was to keep the blades on my skates in perfect condition. Funny how you tend to complain about things, but when they’re no longer there you miss them.

  One thing’s for sure, I won’t have to check the sharpness of my skates before a game ever again.

  A deep, heart-wrenching sob breaks free from my chest. Funny since I didn’t think I was still capable of crying. The wall I carefully built around my heart over the past months is no match for the pent-up emotions inside of me.

  I haven’t cried a single time since the accident. Now all these unshed tears leave my eyes at once without giving me the chance to hold back a single one of them. Another strangled sob leaves my body as more tears flood my vision.

  I cry my heart out because all the hard work I put in day after day will never be rewarded now.

  I sob while my body shakes uncontrollably because I can never be the hockey player I always wanted to be.

  I grieve because I will never be able to watch a hockey game without thinking about what happened to me. Even that joy has been taken away from me.

  And I weep because I will never be able to play a single game of the sport I love with all my heart, ever again.

  Tears blur my vision while snot drops down from my nose and threatens to trickle over my lips. I wipe it away in an angry gesture with one hand while the other one drags farther over the floor, unable to hold the little weight I put on it.

  More glass pierces my skin, but the pain is no match to the one that’s tearing my heart apart.

  I grab a handful of the pieces around me and press my fist together until the sharp material pierces my skin.

  When I drop the glass on the floor, blood runs down my hands. But it isn’t enough to numb the pain in my heart.

  More tears rain down on my hands and trickle down on the crystals around me.

  I stare at the bloodstained glass and shiver. When your life comes crashing down around you, you do crazy things.

  My forehead sinks on the floor and I shiver again when my skin meets the ice-cold surface. What once felt cool and soothing, turns my veins into clots now.

  I lift my head. Blood oozes out of the wounds on my hands. Then my eyes fall to the bigger one on my wrist where I lose more blood by the minute.

  I stare at the open wound. For minutes. For seconds. I don’t know how long. Time doesn’t matter anymore. Time… I gasp.

  I don’t want to die. I want to live. I don’t want to leave this world.

  Bundling every last ounce of energy left in my body, I push myself up with shaking arms and crawl forward over the glass-covered floor.

  Pain sears through my veins, in my wrists and in my hands. I ignore it. Where the hell is my phone? Think, Michael! The last time I had it in my hand, I was sitting on the couch. Reaching the phone becomes my sole focus. I push myself forward, using energy I didn’t think I had left inside me.

  Fear holds my heart in an iron fist. Fear like I’ve never known before. Death is looming over me. It’s an emptiness that can’t be reversed, an abyss I have to keep away from.

  Like a baby, I crawl around the corner to the living area. You can do this, I hear my first coach say. You have to.

  Failure isn’t an option. I can’t do this to my mom. I can’t leave her without an explanation. What would she think of me if our last encounter was the one where I told her to leave me the hell alone?

  I’m ashamed of myself. I should never have treated her that way. My mom made sure I could follow my dream and could concentrate solely on hockey. And so did my dad. I owe them everything and what have I given them back other than money? Money they didn’t even want?

  My parents have been there for me no matter what, encouraging me to follow my heart and live my dream. I want to tell both again how much I love them. And how much I appreciated their support during all these years.

  I need a second chance. I might not deserve it. I might waste it again. But this can’t be the end. This is not how I want to be remembered. This is not what I deserve. This is not what all the people that have ever supported me deserve.

  Having my career come to an early and unexpected end felt like I’ve let every single one of them down. My parents have watched every single game I played no matter the time difference. They rooted for me no matter how bad my performance and told me how proud they were of me.

  My dream was their dream. But instead of accepting their support after the accident I pushed them away and hurt their feelings. I’m a bastard. I don’t even know if I can redeem myself if given the chance. I swallow.

  I’ll have a lot of apologizing to do if I get my second chance. And I will.

  My parents will understand and forgive me. They always have. Their love does not depend on me winning a championship. Mom and Dad always made that clear. But I was too much of a coward to open up to them after my career-ending injury.

  I want to scream in agony so badly right now. It isn’t an option. I need every ounce of energy left inside me to reach the couch.

  Come on, darling, my mom’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

  I believe in you, my dad adds.

  I sob again. But I refuse to give in to the urge to collapse on the floor and close my eyes.

  More tears trickle through my closed eyelids.

  Come on, darling, I hear my mom say again. I push once more and groan with the effort it takes to keep moving.

  My vision is overrun by massive thunderclouds. Yet, I push myself forward.

  My biceps scream and quiver, but giving up is not an option. It never was. I was lost, but I have a purpose now. I know what I have to do. More than ever before.

  Don’t quit, Michael, I hear Coach Benning yell at me. He didn’t call me to his office often, but when he did, I knew I was in big trouble.

  While my vision blurs even more, the room spins around me and black dots dance in front of my eyes.

  I blink rapidly. Is that the edge of the couch or is it the table? I need it to be the goddamn couch. I drop my head on the floor and fish around for the phone with one arm.

  My elbow hits the coffee table, but I don’t feel the pain.

  I blink again. More black dots appear in front of my eyes.

  The phone should be somewhere around the armrest. It has to be. There. My fingers find the cold, hard glass that even though it was my downfall before, is now my survival.

  Through a haze, I watch the screen illuminate. All isn’t lost. I clumsily enter what I hope are the correct three digits and push the call button.

  “911. What is your emergency?” a man’s voice rings in my ears.

  I sniffle. Never in my life did I think another human’s voice would make me so happy.

  I swallow. I try to form words. No sound leaves my mouth.

  I force my lips open and shut. Still nothing. Panic threatens to overtake me.

  He can’t hang up. I have to tell him where I am.

  “Hello? 911. What is your emergency?” The man’s voice sounds from far away now.

  I form four words. At least I think I do.

  “Help. I need help.”

  Part 2

  Chapter 5

  Michael

  Two months later

  “Hurry up, Michael. Your appointment with Dr. Winter is at ten and you need to eat something before you leave.”

  I drop my head. My mom treating me as if I was ten years old again isn’t how I imagined my second chance at life. But I’ll never hurt her again, not after seeing her tear-stained face when I woke up after… my second accident.

  Being given a second chance and making use of it are more miles apart than the North from the South Pole. I want to live again and make my parents proud. Though I haven’t figured out how.

  “Michael? Are you awake?” Her voice rises in volume with every word.

  “Yes, Mom. I’ll be down in a minute.” I reach for the cane and push myself in a standing position with a grunt.

  “I made butter tarts.” She place
s a plate in front of me once I managed to climb down the stairs and plop down on one of the chairs. My daily workout. Up and down the stairs in my childhood home.

  Why didn’t my parents move into a bigger house when I offered to buy one closer to Toronto for them? They still insist there are too many memories attached to the old house and the big city life isn’t for them.

  At least not many people can see me here. The neighbors are still the same from when I grew up and most of the kids I went to school with have moved away. It’s a good thing I don’t have to face my old classmates. I never went to any of the reunions in the past years. Now I certainly don’t want to meet them anymore.

  None of them understood my drive to become the best. They thought me a dreamer and an arrogant bastard. I still think it’s better to be an arrogant bastard than to settle for normal.

  What kind of irony is it that I have to now? A cripple doesn’t have much of a choice. At the moment I’d gladly take normality. But even that is out of reach for me.

  I drop my gaze to the two golden tarts on the plate. I wish I could muster more enthusiasm for what growing up was my favorite dish. I’m sure it tastes the same as it did when I was ten years old. But my taste buds are as numb as the rest of me. My mom could serve me paper and I wouldn’t know the difference.

  “Thank you, Mom.” I force the corners of my mouth up as much as possible and show my teeth. It’s my best effort. I seem to have lost the ability to smile for real.

  Smiling requires an emotion that I don’t have inside me anymore.

  Happiness is a foreign concept for me these days. Still, I lift up a tart and take a bite under my mom’s watchful eyes. At least I can make her day.

  “Are they good?”

  I nod and take a second bite with my mouth still full of the first so I don’t have to answer.

  My mom’s smile is worth the struggle. I never want her to worry about me again and yet I know she does. Right now my only purpose in life is to convince her that I’m fine. I fail miserably. How could I convince her if I can’t convince myself that I’ll ever be okay again?

  I haven’t finished the second tart when two fresh ones land on my plate. This has to stop. I can’t do cardio and all the food is threatening my hard-earned six-pack. Somehow, I still do care about the muscles in my center and upper body. If I want to improve my chances of ever getting laid again, I better not end up with a beer belly. Not that I’m in the mood for sex. But still….

  “I’ll eat them in the car, can you put them in a container?” I meet my mom’s gaze for a second.

  “Of course, honey.” She turns around and rummages in a drawer, giving me time to get up from the chair without her eyes on me. I wobble a little but manage to catch myself before she turns around and presents me with a plastic box.

  “Thanks.”

  She smiles as she places the container in my free hand. “I’ll open the door for you. Dad is already outside. You need to leave right away if you want to be on time. You don’t want to lose time with Dr. Winter.” She smiles even more and heads for the door.

  I sigh and drag behind. I dread the appointments with my therapist. So does Dr. Winter, judging from the looks she gives me. Only for my mom’s sake, I’ll endure another hour with the shrink.

  Mom waves us goodbye once I’m seated to her satisfaction in the passenger seat. Dad starts the car, and we pull on the street.

  The moment we’re around the corner, I tap on the plastic box in my lap. “These are for you, Dad.”

  He grins. “Thanks. Your mom doesn’t make them for me anymore, says they are bad for my heart.” He winks.

  I put on another fake smile. “She’s right, but we can’t let them go to waste.”

  He chuckles. “We sure can’t. It’ll be our secret.”

  “My lips are sealed.” I press my eyelids on one eye together but fail to muster the smile and the twinkle in the eyes that normally go with a wink.

  My dad turns his attention back to the street as we drive in silence to Toronto while I stare outside without seeing anything. At some point, I close my eyes to avoid my dad’s attempts to get a conversation going.

  How long can I go on without going stir crazy? I know I need to find a new purpose in my life, I just don’t know how to find one. If only I could turn back time….

  Forty minutes later we pull into the parking lot in front of the massive office tower where Dr. Winter shares an office with an actual doctor.

  I shiver each time I step inside and the smell of hand sanitizer hits my nostrils. The stuff will be forever connected with hopelessness and despair. At least for me.

  I shake away the unwelcome memories of my last time in a hospital.

  “Are you cold?” You know your life lies in pieces in front of you when your dad asks typical mom questions.

  “I’m good. It’s time to go inside.” I don’t even attempt my fake smile this time.

  “I’ll open the door for you.” Dad is out of the car before I can say something. One would think I’m a toddler again.

  “Look, that’s Michael King,” a boy yells from across the street and points his finger at me when I’m halfway out of the car.

  I clutch the cane in my hand until my knuckles are paper white. Other than my parents and my therapist, I haven’t had to face anyone since I left Boston and arrived in Canada. I don’t want anyone to see what I’ve become. Gossip is the last thing I need.

  Dr. Winter forbid me to Google myself or any articles related to me and as much as I ignore her other advice, I stuck to this one.

  Not that I expect to find more than one paragraph about “Crazy Michael King” after the nonexistent interest in my person after my career-ending injury. Though I might be wrong and “Hockey star on suicide mission” makes for a better headline. But since I avoid the sports channels like the plague and couldn’t care less about my email and social media accounts, I don’t know if that’s what I would find either.

  Crazy how I didn’t think I could survive a single hour without checking my Instagram a few months ago. Look at me now, I haven’t been on the internet since I arrived at my parents’ house. One would think they live somewhere up in the Klondike rather than on the outskirts of a buzzing city.

  I’m snatched out of my thoughts when the boy pulls on his father’s arm and runs in my direction.

  “Can we take a picture?” He comes to an abrupt halt in front of me.

  I stare at him but remain frozen while the father positions his phone and tells the boy to smile. The whole encounter is over in less than a minute, but the effect on me will be long-lasting. The safety of my childhood home has just been compromised. I thought no one would recognize me with my beard. That’s why I kept the itchy hair in my face. It was all for nothing.

  “Michael.” My dad places his hand on my lower back. I blink twice. “Michael are you all right?”

  I nod, not trusting my voice right now. Swaying a little, I take a step forward and mumble something under my breath that may or may not resemble “Need to get inside.” Then I shuffle forward and leave my dad standing where he is. He has the tarts and his newspaper for entertainment while I sit in silence before the shrink for the next hour.

  Like a robot, I step in the elevator and enter Dr. Winter’s office on the third floor. Her assistant leads me to the room with the obligatory couch and the millions of books on the shelf across from me, whose spines I’ve studied more intently than anything else during my weekly shrink session.

  “Hello, Michael. How are you today?” Dr. Winter enters the room only a minute later with a bright smile on her face and takes the seat across from me.

  I open my mouth to give her my automatic reply. I’m good. What else would I be? Sarcasm end. Instead, I close my mouth and open it again. But no words leave my mouth.

  Today isn’t like any other day. I’m still shaken from the encounter with the boy. This time it was just a child. What if I were to run into adult hockey fans from opposing teams the next
time we’re here? Chirping is part of the hockey culture and I’ve grown a thick skin over the years. But I’m not my former self anymore and I need people making fun of me even less than gossip.

  “It’s all right to be overwhelmed, Michael. No one expects you to figure out your new life in the time it takes to snap your fingers. You’re doing great.” Dr. Winter’s voice cuts through the many thoughts flooding my brain.

  “I want to go back to Boston.” The words leave my mouth before I can think about them.

  Dr. Winter’s eyebrows shoot up. Then she nods. “You need to finish the last chapter before you can begin the next one, don’t you?”

  I shrug. I wouldn’t have said it like that. But she’s right. As much as I want to flee Canada after what happened in the parking lot, I need closure. I need to go back and….

  I don’t know what I’ll do in Boston. I just know I need to leave my hometown—on the next available flight.

  Dr. Winter sits up straighter and looks me in the eyes. “Michael, I know you said you weren’t ready, but before you go back to Boston… I think we should talk about the day of your second accident—”

  “You mean the day I nearly and, I swear, unintentionally killed myself.” I hold her gaze while I say for the first time what everyone around me is thinking.

  Her eyes open even wider. “Yes, that’s the day I’m referring to. I think—”

  “I’m still not ready to talk about what happened.” I zoom in on the book spine behind her with one eye.

  She folds her hands in her lap and looks down at them before she bends forward at her hip. “Michael, look at me. Today is the first time that you’re willing to talk to me. I want to be honest with you. My plan was to tell you today that my kind of therapy doesn’t seem to work with you and suggest you find another therapist. I would have helped you, but—”

  “I don’t want another therapist.” I might not have opened up to her, but I don’t want to start over with another shrink either. I appreciate that Dr. Winter didn’t push me when I wasn’t ready to talk.