Not Without You

two

Aria

The car isn't mine. It's a rental from a company. I didn't even rent the car — my agent, Isabella did. It's a high-end vehicle, one that suits a professional hockey player like myself.

But right now, as I hear the old engine of that knobby dark blue truck drive away, it makes me feel disgusted with myself.

I stare bitterly at the car as I comb through the unanswered questions that are building behind my lips, ready to break and flood the area around me like a dam. As if that would make a difference — the rain hasn't let up in Whistler for several days now, an odd weather routine despite the town's decent proximity to the Pacific Ocean. I'm surprised the town hasn't flooded yet.

Knowing that I'm wasting time, standing out in the rain, I climb back into the car and turn on the ignition, a fresh wave of rain-scented heat blowing against my chilled skin. A shiver runs down my spine, which is ridiculous because it's the end of June — I shouldn't be cold. But, like a lot of my conscious thoughts have been since I came around the corner and nearly hit that boy, that thought is in the back of my mind. I can't stop thinking about the questions I wanted to ask him.

What's with your eyes? Where are you from? How did the accident happen?  Are you okay?

I blink away the sudden swell of threatening tears, but a few manage to escape. With delayed movement, I wipe away my tears, the coldness of my fingertips stinging my face and smudging my mascara.

I hadn't meant to nearly kill someone today, but that's probably what everyone says when they do collide with an innocent pedestrian crossing the road. The truth is, my mind had been elsewhere when I was driving. After a long and intense training session with the team's personal trainer and the heavyweight of living up to my father's legacy riding on my shoulders, my mind was anywhere on the road. I know it's wrong of me to nurture the roots of an excuse — I should have been focusing on the road — but I can't help it. Being a woman in the hockey world is tough shit. Unlike my dad, when he was captain of Calgary Flames and had every opportunity to display his skills and participate in important events, this is my only opportunity. At the Winter Olympics, playing for Canada's women's team.

Ever since I was scouted, it's been hard for me to adapt. Not in regards to the training — that I can handle. It's the attention from the people around me, from the media that I'm having difficulties with. I know I have skill, that I have potential to be one of the best players in women's history, but the pressure has an impact on me. Analysts are expecting me, the daughter of Luke Madden, to wrack up the points and help lead Canada to gold. People on the streets tell me they're looking forward to seeing me in action come February.

I've responded with what they want to hear; telling them how excited I am to be representing my country, to be on the hunt for gold, to contribute to the team. What I haven't told them is how terrified I am of failing. Of failing the Madden name and my country. My name is well-known throughout Canada and the hockey world. My father is a legend. My little brother has just been drafted by the Winnipeg Jets. And now here I am, Aria Madden, going through an intensive routine of training and dieting this summer to make sure I'm in tip-top shape for the upcoming season and then, in time, the Olympics.