Harts

thirteen

Day by day, the people of Hart's sift through the rummage. 

Cracked porches. Slumping roofs. Splintered fences. Some of it can't be saved. The damage—too great—has already been done. There's no choice but to rebuild from the ground up. 

Or so it seems. 

Day by day, the town comes together. The people of Harts choose instead to hold every jagged piece up to the sunlight and accept that this, too, is part of the town. Their home. Their mighty black speck by the sea.

The only thing that can help him is time. 

That's what everyone told Kyle after the injury, as if it was the panacea for all of his problems—only time was something he didn't have. Doctors? Plenty. Patience? None. For the past three years, all of his time has revolved around conditioning and practices and games. When it no longer did, he didn't know what to do with it. With himself. Slept it all away, he reckons. 

Months have passed. It hasn't gotten any easier.

Twice a week, Kyle visits the physiotherapy clinic and teeters on a rectangle of blue foam to work on his balance. Some days, the sun is too bright and the ground slips out from under him and his skull feels like it will crack open if he shakes his head any harder when Tess asks him if they should drop by the rink.

"You should cheer on your team," she insists.

He grimaces. More so at the pain shooting across his temples than her suggestion, but he manages to grunt, "When you're playing, you can barely hear anyone on the sidelines." 

Although, no matter how noisy the stands get, he can always pick up on his dad's clapping—and the lack thereof—after he scores a goal. But the Lions are busy to care about the sidelines, and he knows that the only cheering that really matters happens on the ice. Hockey is much more than a simple game.

Besides, he's traded in his jersey for swim trunks, and the ice for chlorinated water.

"For someone who spends all his time in the pool, you sure don't swim much," Tess remarks as she slips into his lane.

"Just following your lead," he replies. The response is an angry splash of water. He flashes a lazy smile. "Swimming's not my sport. What can I say?"

His smile falters though. Is he that easy to read?  The pool had seemed like a good place to hide. Down the hall, the team is probably bumping shoulders after they've had a late night of drinking without him. He knows he'll have to turn down any invitation to join the next round—if they even invite him, that is—and Moretti isn't the guy who turns down invitations. 

He doesn't want to be that guy.

Besides, he's taken a liking to watching the water ripple and still and ripple in the blue stretch between him and Tess. In here, the clambering of hockey sticks fades into background noise and his pulse slows. He can see why she swims.