I think about how to answer that.
"Things I'm not ready to talk about yet," I say. "I want to be honest with you about that. The reasons I'm a mess are mine. I just don't know how to separatethatfromthisanymore. Whether I'm being treated badly, or whether I'm being treated just as badly as I should be."
"You can be both miserableandmistaken about why."
I look at her then. She's looking back at me, hazel eyes serious in the dim light, and she hasn't moved away.
"You're not being treated as you should be," she says. "I want you tohearme say that, even if you can't believe it yet. Whatever you did, whoever you hurt—you were forgiven. You said it yourself. The people you hurt let it go. The only person still holding it against you is you. And I don't—" She stops. Breathes. "I don't think you get to keep punishing yourself for something the people you hurt have already let go of. That's not fairness; that's another way of staying stuck."
It hits me harder than I'm ready for, and I have to look away again.
"I know," I manage. "I know you're right. I just don't know how to put it down."
"Maybe you don't put it down all at once. Maybe you put it down five minutes at a time."
"That soundsexhausting."
"It is."
"You sound like you know."
She doesn't answer that. I don't push. It’s an answer on its own—there's something in her too, something underneath, and tonight isn't the night for it. We're not ready to give each other everything. But we just gave each other a piece, both of us, and I can feel it sitting between us in the dim nursery air like a third presence.
"I'll tell you the rest someday," I say. "The Pinewood stuff. You should know who you're—" I almost say living with. I almost say taking care of. I don't know what the right word is. "Who I am. The whole thing. Not tonight."
"Whenever you're ready."
"Yeah."
I let my head fall back against the wall. Harper makes a small, contented noise. The nightlight throws soft shadows across the carpet.
"Thank you," I say.
"For what?"
"For not asking."
She's quiet for a moment. Then, "I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. And if you didn't, asking wouldn't make me a person you trusted. It would just make me a person who pushed before you were ready."
I don't have a reply for that. I don't think there is one. I just turn my head against the wall and look at her, and she looks back, and neither of us says anything for a long time.
"What about the coach?" she asks eventually. Pulling us back to safer ground. I'm grateful for it.
"Coach Wilson is weak. He sees what's happening and won't do anything about it. It’s easier to let Reaper run the team than risk causing problems in the locker room. Team unity matters more than one player being miserable, right?" The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. "He pulled me aside once last November and asked if everything was okay. I said yes becausewhat else was I supposed to say? He just nodded and walked away, relieved he didn't have to deal with it."
"During practice, Reaper gets physical," I continue, because now that I've started talking, I can't stop. "Checks that are harder than necessary. Cross-checks to the back when the coaches aren't looking. Little things that add up day after day. And I just take it because what else can I do? If I fight back, I'm the problem. If I complain to Coach, I'm soft. So I keep my head down and hope eventually he'll get bored and move on to torturing someone else."
"Tyler." Nora's voice is soft but firm. "That's not okay. That's workplace harassment."
"That's hockey," I repeat. "This shit happens all the time in locker rooms. You deal with it, or you don't make it in this league."
"You shouldn't have to deal with it."
"Yeah, well." I look at her again, and she's watching me with an expression that isn't pity. It's anger, I realize. Anger on my behalf. "I dread going to practice. I dread going to games. I dread every second I have to spend with this team, and training camp is two weeks of that. Day after day, where I get to be reminded that my teammates think I'm worthless."
My voice breaks on the last word, and I have to look away. Two weeks of walking back into that locker room. Some days will be longer than others, and some will be fine, but every single one of them will be spent somewhere I stopped wanting to be a long time ago. That's the part I can't get past.
"I'm sorry," Nora says quietly. "That sounds awful."