you’re so good together—record-breaking-ly good together. the dream duo, surpassing all others, they don’t got nothing on us, yeah, jack? you and me, we’ll take the whole world on and win— and you fall in love with him, how can you not? you fall in love with the amazing hockey, the stunning teamwork, his big blue eyes and soft canadian-french accent. but the pills rip you away from him, and it’s heart-wrenching, it’s awful, you’re drowning, but it reminds you that even though you love him, so much, the rest of the world doesn’t know, can’t know, and you need to keep going, you need to keep playing without him, but. you’ll win a stanley cup. sure, he’s shut you out of his life, ignored your desperate calls and fervent voicemails and multitude of texts (please, jack, just call me back? please? your dad won’t pick up, your mom hasn’t responded in ages, please, i just need to know you’re okay), but you’ll win a stanley cup and show him i’m good enough for you to love me back, i am, please let me back in, please, i’m dying without you—
and the first time you visit him, you realize it’s a mistake as soon as you see him. those eyes, they’re too bitter. that voice, it’s too harsh. you get it. it’s too soon—you’ve accidentally forced him to see all that he couldn’t become. so you’ll give him time, more time, all the time he needs as long as he’ll get some sense into himself and take you back—but the second time’s no better, and this time you don’t get it. why does he stay here when you could be together again? the dream duo again? you snap, you can’t help it, you’ve loved him for so long, you’ve waited for him for so long and he doesn’t can’t won’t love you back—but you can take a hint. you leave. every part of you is screaming to stay, we want him, so badly, to make him see straight, but you leave.
(the next morning, you’re aching to call him, to apologize and plead, but)
and despite the years of keeping it a secret (no, shh, not here, we can’t, my dad, the press, my dad, the press—) of hiding it from others, no matter how good the hockey was, how good the sex was, how good you were together (or maybe it was poison all along, wrecking you both from the inside out, self-destruction that hurt so good, maybe you just couldn’t see it through the haze of love, or maybe he didn’t love you at all) no matter how much it hurt to pretend like you’d never kissed him before, felt that skin on yours, felt those lips on your thighs, those hands on your— it didn’t matter, you could love him any time, once he was ready, once he was ready—you were willing to wait for him, to be with him, to love him again
but he joins another team, all the way across the country. fine. he keeps you shut out of his life. fine. he doesn’t want you anymore. fine—you figure, if you tell it to yourself enough times, it’ll come true. fine. he finds someone new when he knows you haven’t—that tiny blond baker, what’s he got that you haven’t? you love him more, you’ve waited for him longer. he kisses him on national television, in front of hundreds of thousands of eyes, and your heart absolutely fucking stops when you see it, and finally, finally, finally, you see what’s going on. you know what it means, and you’re drowning, now. it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s so not fucking fair-–
he had the capacity to love you back. he could’ve loved you just as much as you loved him—more, even. yeah, he could’ve.
but he chose not to.
because you weren’t good enough.