“Why?”
“Can’t your Dad come over without a reason?”
A puff of air filters from my mouth. “Dad, we both know why you’re coming over.”
He’s standing on my doorstep a few minutes later with a truckload of wood. “I guess I can’t say no.”
“Nope. And we need to build two toddler swings for my patio. I don’t want to hear fighting. It’s my turn.”
He smiles to himself.
“Okay, I’ll open the gate to the back.”
We work on them for a few hours and now all we need to do is pick out a stain color.
“Thanks Dad. How did you know what I needed?”
“I didn’t. But we’re a lot alike and using my hands has always been good therapy. When your mom passed away, I built two sheds, an in-ground trampoline and the big swing on the patio.”
TUESDAY:
I sand the wood, making it as smooth as Annika’s legs.
WEDNESDAY:
I apply the first coat of the stain, covering up the knots and imperfections, reminding me of the stain on Annika’s heart. How she carefully crafted an armor to stop the pain.
THURSDAY:
Before we leave on the team plane for Louisville, I apply the last coat of stain, unable to get Annika out of my mind.
She reached out, and I want to be with her, but I can’t be with someone who doesn’t trust me. So where does that leave me?
I need her. Love her.
FRIDAY
It doesn’t make sense on paper. The noise is constant—music humming and filtering through your ears, the chatter of the media, the pulse of a city gearing up for game day with your season on the line.
My phone buzzes every few minutes with updates, messages, and expectations. My teammates are everywhereenjoying the city. Most of my family is here except for Dad, he’ll fly in tomorrow. Noelle’s covering the game so one of Matt’s best friends is watching all the kids.
And yet, it’s too quiet where it matters, in my head and heart.
Because she’s not here.
Because I walked away.
Because I don’t know if me needing time to process was the right thing to do or say.
I’m accusing her of not helping her teammates but I’m doing the same to her, by not being there for her.
I sit on a golden throw at the end of my bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the carpet pattern. Annika’s face plays on a loop in my head and I can’t seem to shut it off.
The look of devastation on her face and the way she didn’t hold back once she broke wide open and started telling the full story.
Replaying it in my mind, maybe she shoved those memories away to survive. Yeah, I looked up how some people deal with trauma. Just block it out. Compartmentalize it.
And the part I can’t shake is she’s trying now.