“I don’t want to be his physio anymore.”
Ward’s jaw tightens. “You’re definitely not his physio anymore.” His eyes meet mine, and I see fury and regret. “I’m so sorry, Hazel. McKinnon is benched until this is resolved. I need to think more about his future with the team.” His throat works. “What can we do to support you? Whatever resources you need, they’re available.”
I shake my head, letting a breath out of my tight lungs. Ward’s concerned reaction is already calming me. “I’m okay. Thank you for taking it seriously.”
“Of course. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’ll back you up.” His brow furrows harder and he shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, again.”
“I know.” I give Ward a tight smile, squeezing Rory’s hand. “Thanks.”
In the hall outside, Rory puts his hands on my shoulders to stop me and searches my eyes.
“You okay?”
I nod, mouth twisting. “I wish the whole thing hadn’t happened, and talking to Ward wasn’t fun, but I’m glad we did.”
“Me, too.” He pulls me into his chest and gives me a tight, warm hug, pressing his mouth to my temple. “I’m proud of you.”
“Why?” I lean my head against his sculpted chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“You did the hard thing.”
I hum. “Thank you for coming with me.”
He makes a scoffing noise. “That’s what we do for each other, Hartley.”
The warm-up skate starts soon, so Rory heads down to the arena and I return to our suite, thinking about another hard thing I’ve been putting off. I flick the fireplace on in the living room and sink onto the couch, staring out the windows at the snow-covered mountains surrounding the ski resort.
My mom and I haven’t addressed things since we spoke before the charity event and I lost my cool with her. My parents phoned on Christmas, but Rory and I were on speakerphone with them, Pippa, and Jamie, so the conversation was about easy topics.
Before I change my mind, I’m dialing.
“Hi, honey,” my mom answers.
“Hey.”
“You must be at the League Classic by now.”
“Yeah.” On the suite’s patio, a bird hops around before flying off.
Keep being a safe place for her to land, Pippa said.
Everyone’s journey moves at a different pace, my mentor said during our first meeting.
“I’m really sorry about what I said,” I tell my mom, my throat feeling tight. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard, and you’re right. You can feel however you want about yourself.”
“No, Hazel—” She cuts herself off, pausing. I can practically see her pained, uncomfortable expression on the other end. “I didn’t realize it had that effect on you. I forget, you know, that just because you aren’t little anymore doesn’t mean you don’t absorb what I say like a sponge.” She sighs. “I never want you to feel bad about yourself or think you’re anything less than beautiful.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I really don’t feel that way.”
“Good.”
There’s a beat of silence between us, and for the first time, I feel like I haven’t failed her. I left space for her to feel what she’s feeling and I’m not making her feel like shit about it.
“If someone wanted to feel differently about themselves,” she starts, a note of reluctance in her voice. “What, um, or where would they start?”
Emotion rises in me and I blink it away. “Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “an easy way to start would be to only say positive things about myself. When I think I look good, I say it out loud.” I laugh to myself. “Even if I’m alone in my apartment.”
My mom chuckles.
“And maybe I’d keep a journal, and every time a negative feeling about myself or my body comes up, I’d tell my journal about it. I’d write down what triggered that feeling—what I was watching on TV, what I was reading or thinking about that made me feel like I wasn’t enough, so I can find a pattern.”
She listens in silence.
“And maybe after a month or two of that, I’d make a list of all the things I secretly want to do but feel like I can’t, and why. Clothes I want to wear, places I want to visit, activities I want to try.”
I picture my mom dancing. Not at twenty, but now, in her fifties. Strong and tall and happy and beautiful.