One minute you're at the top of your game, and the next, you receive a hit that knocks your skates out from underneath you.
Still reeling after an unexpected loss, Ryan Nyberg not only finds himself back in his beachside hometown of Neptune Bay, bu...
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Sleeping with Sloane was something I'd imagined plenty of times. A handful when I'd been a horny teenager and countless times since I'd rolled into town just over a month ago. The fantasy, however, was nowhere as good as the real thing, because damn, was the real thing amazing.
And while I would've loved nothing more the next morning than to be able to laze around her house and have multiple repeats of the night before, we both had responsibilities. I had to pick up Bowen from my parents right after breakfast and Sloane spent the morning with her father before heading into work.
It wasn't the ideal set up, but we made it work. Quite well, I might add.
As the days passed, we definitely had to be clever about sneaking in some time together. Locking the door to my bedroom after Bowen went to sleep and trying our best to stay silent. Using the shower late at night to drown out the sounds we made as we came together. Sneaking into the garage for a quickie when Bowen was out back playing with Scout. There was nothing I wasn't game for, and seeing as Sloane seemed to be on the same wavelength when the two of us scored a minute alone, we took whatever we could get.
On the opposite end of the new experience spectrum, however, was therapy. After having got a positive reaction from my mom when I'd brought up the idea of Bowen and I going to therapy to work through the grief of losing Liam and Thea, I'd also floated the idea past Sloane, getting an overwhelmingly encouraging response.
So, I'd booked two preliminary sessions with a therapist in the next town over, and while I'd been hopeful going in, the experience had truly been eye opening in terms of how much talking to a professional helped in processing my emotions. And it wasn't even that I let out all my innermost thoughts. I didn't. It was the way the woman had described loss as something not to push to the side or fully get over, but as something that became a part of the person you were. It was about never letting the memory of them go, even if it faded with time.
Sitting there, listening to her pull happy memories out of Bowen regarding his parents—ones that I hadn't been a part of or knew little about—gave me a sense of relief. A solace that it was okay to foster these memories with him and talk about them, because it was about remembering and cherishing, not forgetting.
After just two sessions I already felt lighter and more at ease, despite knowing I had a long way to go, and before even leaving the office after the second appointment I had booked us in twice weekly until the end of August, when I would have to return to Boston and report to training camp.
If I reported to training camp. That decision was still to be determined.
When we returned home early that afternoon, I made Bowen a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with apple slices on the side for lunch—something he'd apparently been craving the entire thirty-minute drive home—while I whipped myself up a plate of eggs, sausage, and toast, trying to stay as up to par as I could with the diet I stuck to during the season.
