Page 8 of Your Love

Position: Goaltender

Years played: 13

GPA: 4.2

Strengths: Unmatched physical prowess. Imposing size. Lightning-fast speed. Impeccable skating ability. Unwavering focus. The ability to see the game from all angles, anticipating moves before they happen.

Weaknesses: Sarcasm and interacting with people.

What would your teammates say about you? It depends on who you ask. Some would say I’m quiet and that I like to observe and listen rather than speak, which is true. Others describe me as serious, always deep in thought and contemplation, which is only partially true. “Pensive” is a word that has been used by teachers. People who know me well would say I’m protective.

Are you willing to make the commitment to the Mavericks? If not, would I be spending my Sunday evening filling out this stupid questionnaire?

Tell me about a situation that changed your life. You’re out of luck there. The one thing that shaped my life the most is the one thing I refuse to talk about. If you like, I can make up a story about how I found an injured bird in a nest when I was nine, nursed it back to health, and it changed the course of my life.

Isit back in my chair and look over my smart-ass answers to the questions Coach Dupree gave me, and with a sigh, I crumble it up and toss it on the trash can beside my desk. I never intended to take this seriously, so it’s a good thing I grabbed an extra copy as I struggle to suppress my irritation. The coach only implemented this questionnaire last year, which is lucky for Delacour and Tazman since they were already on the team. Taz, in particular, probably would have failed, given that I’m pretty sure he’s a sociopath.

This whole thing is a formality since everyone already knows who I am. I’ve been working out with the Mavs for months now, but I still have to complete this stupid task by tomorrow afternoon.

I despise having to answer questions about my identity, strengths, and weaknesses. Why do college admission essays and job interviews insist on asking the same questions? Does anyone actually admit to their deepest flaws? As it turns out, one of my most significant flaws is not wanting to acknowledge that they exist.

Ironic.

Still, I can answer some stuff about my personality, but I’m not about to talk about the most defining moment of my life. Which one was it? When I started playing hockey? Losing my virginity? Or something far more profound—something that’s burrowed into every facet of who I am.

I’ve had my fair share of experiences at eighteen years old, but one stands out above the rest. It’s a story I’m not eager to tell, let alone write an essay about. As much as I try to push it away, it remains a part of who I am, forever etched into my identity. That doesn’t mean I talk about it. Not with my parents. Not with my friends. Not with a therapist.

I’ll make something up—something generic like the one I used for my college admissions essay. That bird story I just created isn’t half-bad, so maybe I’ll do something along those lines.

Speaking of college, the pressure to decide on where I’m going is beginning to weigh on me. I applied to a few prestigious universities at my dad’s urging, and surprisingly, I was admitted. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m not interested in going to some snobby Ivy-league college. It’s not me. It’s also hella unrealistic. I don’t know when my dad decided we have the money for something like that because we definitely don’t.

Don’t get me wrong. We’re not destitute or anything. We have an excellent life and a lovely home. What we don’t have is an extra eighteen thousand dollars per year. Realistically, I wouldn’t be able to attend most of these schools unless it’s on a hockey scholarship. Playing for the Mavericks, even for a few months before graduation, increases my chances of getting one. So, essentially, I need to fill out this paperwork that I don’t want to do in order to earn a spot on the team, receive a scholarship, and go to a college I don’t want to attend.

Now I’m in a spiral. I take a deep breath and click my desk lamp off as I hear a slight knock on my door.

“Come in, Pais,” I whisper gently as I open the door to my bedroom. She must have had a nightmare, judging by the scared look on her face and the way she’s trembling.

True enough, she steps inside, her tiny feet shuffling across the carpet. She’s wearing her favorite flannel nightgown with little kittens printed all over it and clutching tightly onto her raggedy old baby blanket.

“Did you have a bad dream?” I ask, kneeling to her level.

She nods silently, her bottom lip trembling. “Do you want to sleep in here tonight?” I offer, knowing that sometimes all she needs is to feel safe and secure in my presence.

She nods again, the relief visible in her expression as she hops onto my bed and crawls under the blankets.

“Are you more comfortable now?” I ask, leaning in closer.

She nods, her eyes locked on mine. “Can you find your voice again for me?”

A flicker of panic crosses her face before she turns it into an incredulous expression as if I’m delusional for asking. I ask her often, and it’s also the same reaction. No one has heard my sister speak since the accident. She rewards us occasionally with a small giggle or grunt, but she hasn’t uttered an actual word in years.

She used to be a lively and curious kid, always asking the same questions repeatedly, to the point of annoyance. Then, her voice was silenced. The doctors assure us that she’s still capable of speaking and will when she decides to. We’re urged to continue to be patient and understanding, but sometimes, it’s hard not to feel frustrated at the lack of progress. Despite it all, I refuse to give up on Paisley.

I tuck her under the fluffy comforter and wrap her in soft blankets, cocooning her like a tiny human burrito. I brush the tangled strands of hair out of her face, revealing tear-stained cheeks, which I wipe off with my thumb. “Everything is fine, Pais,” I reassure her. “Get some sleep.”

With a click, I turn the desk lamp back on, filling the room with a warm yellow glow. I know she finds comfort in the light, as it helps to keep the darkness at bay and ward off the memories that keep her trapped in silence and fear.

I lower myself into the once-plush armchair nestled in the corner of the room; my eyes fixated on her petite form. Paisley adds another layer of complexity to this already daunting college decision. She has my parents, grandparents, and a team of medical professionals who all adore her. But it’s me she prefers above all others. Maybe it’s the bond forged from the trauma we shared, or our connection would have existed regardless. I’m not entirely sure.