Chapter 1
Its days like these when I'm really glad I play hockey for a living.
I'm still wet from the shower, the rapidly cooling water rolling down my skin, and I stand in front of the mirror over the sink, wiping carefully at the bruise around my eye. The skin is disgustingly yellow, a faded reminder of how badly I played, how poorly I defended, how horribly I worked in front of him. In another two days, the swelling will be gone and only the memory of the blow will remain, but maybe it will be enough to make me play better.
Maybe he won't do it again. Maybe if I stop a few two-on-ones. Maybe if I tie up a few forwards. Maybe if I smash someone against the boards. Maybe if I block enough shots.
Maybe if I play better, then he won't hit me again.
I step back from the mirror, still watching my reflection, wincing when the scars on my stomach come into view. He hates those scars. He says they're ugly, repulsive. The scars are the reason we don't make love anymore. He takes me from behind so he doesn't have to look at them, and he whispers in my ear all of the reasons I'm not allowed release.
The scars.
The imperfections.
I quickly wipe a stray tear from my cheek, cursing at myself. Crying. I can't cry. Crying is a weakness that I can't afford.
I am already so very weak.
I hear him getting ready to leave for practice, and I realize I will have to face him again. I wrap a towel around my hips and walk back towards my bedroom, dressing as fast as I can, hoping not to disturb his preparations.
I glance in the mirror as I pass it, the glaring yellow around my eye shining like a beacon, telling everyone how scarred I am. Its a symbol of my poor play, a punishment for not being good enough. At least this way, I don't have to explain the bruises. I don't have to tell everyone that I deserve them for being imperfect.
Because this way, only Johan knows how weak I really am.
