Brenna

With consistent therapy appointments and the help of a nutritionist, things have improved immensely.

At least, that's what I like to think.

There are still moments where I catch myself. Sometimes, I obsess over the calories in a granola bar. Other days, I tell myself I'll work extra hard at the gym to burn calories. Sometimes, I need a friend to tell me otherwise and guide me a in different direction. And there's nothing wrong with that because I'm still learning how to cope with this. Every day, you learn something new about yourself. No matter what, there's always room for improvement.

As part of a coping mechanism, I've laid out a strict schedule with my therapist and nutritionist. Having my weeks planned out is part of who I am. Things like hockey practices and games, school, and work hours are already set in stone. This gives me an opportunity to pencil in other activities, like spin class or a date with Shea, therefore allowing me to feel like I have control of my life.

It also brings awareness. Awareness about causing another potential burnout. Being too hard on yourself is never a good thing. Yes, we can always learn and improve, but it's never good when self-doubt becomes toxic.

That's the advice I repeat after every counselling appointment, and it continues to reverberate through my mind as I park my vehicle and enter the house. Uncle Aiden's sleek black SUV is parked just in front of our lawn, so it's no surprise when I hear him chatting with Mom. Their voices echo through the hallway as I kick off my muddy shoes and hang my light coat. I sling my vegan leather messenger bag over my shoulder and saunter into the kitchen, where I'm welcomed by the smell of basil and garlic.

Upon entering, I notice condensation fogs the windows. It's coming from the pot of water boiling on the stove. Next to it is a pot of simmering spaghetti sauce. The oven is on, and from the light inside, I can see a tin-foil-wrapped loaf of garlic bread.

My stomach rumbles. I rest a hand on it, telling it to shut up. Dinner won't be for at least another half an hour. Why? Because that's what time our guests are arriving: Shea, Chelsea, Hunter and his family, and the rest of Uncle Aiden's family. Mom thought it would be a good idea to get together with everyone before playoffs start because our schedules will be too busy soon.

"Brenna," Mom smiles. "How was your appointment?"

I remove my messenger bag and rest it atop the counter, extracting my phone. Taking a page from Shea's books, I shrug. "The usual. Nothing new to report."

That's a small lie. My biological father has been bothering me. That was the focus of today's appointment, and my counsellor helped me figure out the answer. I've been putting too much pressure on myself to meet him. With half of his genes in my body, every thought related to him has made me feel like it's my obligation to meet him, despite him being invisible for most of my life.

It's not my obligation. I realize that now. And if Randy Jameson ever wants to meet me, we will do our exchange under my conditions. When I'm ready.

I'm not ready to meet him yet. Prior to meeting him, I want to have a clear focus on and understanding of my mental health. Plus, playoffs are starting soon. Graduation will follow. These are obstacles I want to eliminate before trying to build a new relationship. If he's willing to sober up and get better, that is. As terrible as I feel about my father being an addict, enabling him is the last thing I want to do.

Uncle Aiden snorts. "Bullshit."

I pin him with a glare. "I'm not lying."

"Brenna," he laughs. "I've been your coach since you were learning how to skate. Deciphering when you or Tucker is lying is too easy." He pauses for a moment, frowning. "Anyone on that team, actually. You've been a solid bunch since then. However, if you're not ready to talk about it, then you don't need to. Right?"

At the end of his sentence, he's starting at Mom.

Mom picks up her oven mitts and sighs, turning to grab the garlic bread from the oven. She mutters some incoherent curse words before turning back to us. With a serrated knife, she cuts the garlic bread into thick slices after removing the tin-foil. "Your uncle is correct, Brenna. I'm sorry."

I shrug again. "No harm, no foul. I know you're worried about me. But, Mom?"

She glances at me.

"You don't need to worry about me. I'm okay."

Mom flashes me a genuine smile. "I know."

Climbing onto the stool beside Uncle Aiden, I rest my chin on my fist. "There was something I wanted to discuss, though."

Mom raises her eyebrows, forgetting about the garlic bread. From the corner of my eye, I see Uncle Aiden looking at me. His brown gaze is intense, and it makes me a little nervous. Discussing my father is a touchy subject for all of us. I'm not the only person who's been through a rough patch. It devastated Mom when her ex-boyfriend chose drugs over her and me. Uncle Aiden watched his brother deteriorate.

After inhaling the basil and garlic permeating the air one more time, I dive into the discussion I had with my therapist. There isn't much to say aside from the topics we discussed and how the session went. However, my tongue becomes tied when I have to say my father's name.

"I, uh, don't want to meet Randy yet. Not until school's over. Until after graduation. My mental health matters more, and I, uh, want to feel completely stable again before I try anything so... emotional."

Silence, save for the boiling salted water behind Mom, embraces us. I tap my foot against the rung it's resting on. My gaze flicks back and forth between them. Silence is not what I was expecting. I thought they'd have more to say. It worries me. Have I offended them?

I shake my head.

No.

Even if I have offended them, I don't care. Meeting my biological father under proper conditions is a big step. A step I need to be ready for, and I refuse to apologize for making a decision that will benefit me. After everything that's happened, it's time to put myself first in situations like these.

Uncle Aiden clears his throat. "That's a decision I wish I would've made years ago."

I'm unsure of what he means.

Thankfully, he elaborates. "Putting yourself first prevents you from enabling an addict. Watching my brother fall down the rabbit hole was devastating and bad for my mental health. Had I been strong enough to consider how his addiction was affecting me, perhaps a better road to recovery would've been an option for him. Resources, bad ones, wouldn't have been available to him. Such as the money I gave him. The decision you've made is very mature, Brenna. I'm proud. And so is your mother."

Nodding, I flash him a sympathetic smile. When I turn to Mom, I see she's crying. It toys with my heartstring. The last thing I want to do is cry, but I can't stop myself. Rushing over to Mom, I throw my arms around her and pull her in for a hug.

"Thanks for everything," I say.

She rests her hand on the small of my back. "You're welcome, sweetie."

I tighten the hug one last time before pulling away. Then I dab at my tears. Mom's response is loaded. She's doing more than accepting my thanks. She's telling me she'll do anything for me if it means me being happy.

A bright smile curves across her lips. "Then we'll put this topic to rest until the right time. You just let us know, Brenna, and we will make it happen."

I expel another deep breath. More weight has been lifted from my shoulders. With every session that passes, I feel better about myself. Like the fog has lifted and my mind is clear. Right now, everything feels straightforward. Simple. It's a tone of living I enjoy. One I want to continue to nurture. 

Just then, I see movement from the corner of my eye.

I watch as Shea enters the kitchen. He's holding a cherry pie and a small tub of vanilla bean ice cream. Plastic wrap covers the pie, and the crust looks a little deformed, but it'll be delicious. One thing I've learned about Shea is that he can bake—and he's really damn good at it. I bet he spiced the filling with a little lime juice and cayenne pepper.

But the pie isn't what I'm focused on. It's Chelsea. She's hiding behind Shea, clutching his thigh as they loiter around the entrance to the kitchen. Her blonde hair acts as a curtain around her pink cheeks. Her posture is tense, too.

Shea expels a deep breath, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "We knocked and rang the doorbell a few times before we let ourselves in. I hope that's okay."

Mom wipes her hands on her apron and scurries over to Shea, taking the pie and ice cream from him. "Of course it is, Shea. I'm sorry we didn't hear the doorbell."

He shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugging.

Yeah, I've been spending too much time with him.

"No big deal," he says. "Not like it's negative ten outside or anything." He gives Chelsea a nudge. "Right, Chels?"

Her round eyes find mine as she nods. Her expression doesn't change.

I flash her a sympathetic smile. Poor kid. She gets nervous around people she's never met, which is understandable. So, to make her more comfortable, I kneel before her and say, "Do you know who that man is?"

I gesture to my uncle.

She shakes her head.

"That's my coach. He's the one who helped teach me to skate, shoot the puck, take a slap-shot—play hockey in general. And you know what?"

Chelsea steps out from behind Shea, her long blonde hair swaying. "What?"

"He could teach you, too."

Her dark-brown eyes light up, becoming as big as saucers. She steps around Shea. "Really?!"

"Uh-huh," I nod. Then I glance at my uncle. "Isn't that right, Uncle Aiden?"

"Can we?" Chelsea asks, sending him a pouty look. "I know Brenna has extra hockey sticks and a net for the driveway. We played hockey together last weekend! Me, Shea, and Brenna!"

Uncle Aiden groans as he stands and then heads for the exit. He pauses and gives my shoulder a squeeze. "You owe me, kid. I'm getting too old for this."

I stifle a giggle.

Shea snorts. "I'll join you. Maybe pick up a few things."

"Fuck no," my uncle teases. "You'll use that against us in the playoffs." He gives Shea a playful nudge. "Just kidding, Smith. We need someone to play goalie."

Shea's posture stiffens. "KJ's better suited for that."

I press a hand over my mouth. Shea despises playing goalie. He thinks the position is too stationary for him. In that respect, he has a point. If your team is dominating in the offensive zone, there isn't much for the goalie to do. In no way am I trying to discredit goalies across the globe. And nor is Shea. Goalies are amazing and brave, and teams would be insufficient without them. Shea just wants in on the action 24/7, and I feel the same way.

Uncle Aiden squints, searching the kitchen. "Funny that he's not here."

"Fuck," Shea mutters. He runs a hand through his hair. "Fine. I'll come."

Mom and I watch as they exit the kitchen, following an exuberant Chelsea down the hallway. There's some thumping and incoherent mumbling as they pull on their shoes. Then we hear the door closing.

As soon as they're gone, Mom expels a deep sigh.

I shoot her a questionable look.

"Every time I see that kid, I understand why you like him. Makes it difficult to dislike him."

I can't fight the silly grin on my face.

Because while I like this better version of Shea, I also like who I am now. We've made each other better people, and no matter what decision we make after graduating from high school, I'll always be glad to have him in my life.