I swallowed. “And when he came back—did things change? With him and the team?”
“No. He was still Hayes. Same as ever. Some of the guys who were closer to him than me, they’d check in on him more. Make sure he was doing all right. But otherwise, it was no different than if he’d been out with an injury.”
God, I wanted to believe that would happen this time, too. I understood that mental health was as important as physical health, but not everyone applied that in practice.
I squirmed a little as I pulled onto the freeway. “There are definitely some fans who aren’t happy about it.”
“You’ve reading social media comments again, haven’t you?”
“Against my better judgment, yeah.”
“Fuck ’em,” he growled. “They’re keyboard warriors. Haven’t you seen the way they talk about all of us?” He scoffed and I glanced his way in time to catch him rolling his eyes. “Remember all the crap they say about Ziggy? And come on, these are the same assholes who criticized Matt Conley for being off his game last year during the Cup final, evenafterthey found out he’d been playing through a core muscle injury, a broken finger, and two fractured ribs.”
I grunted in agreement, because, well, he did have a point. Every year, it came out that some players had knuckled through incredibly painful injuries during the postseason. And every year, there were jackasses on social media who’d call them “soft” or “weak” because their play had suffered. I knew they were full of shit then. Why was I listening to them now?
“Is it stupid that I’m afraid I’ll get booed once the fans see me again?”
“It’s not stupid,” he said. “But I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”
I glanced at him again. “Yeah?”
Peyton gave my forearm a squeeze. “You’ll see.”
At the arena, we parked in the players’ lot and headed inside. All the anxiety and uncertainty wound itself into a tight ball of bullshit in the pit of my stomach, but I mostly ignored it. I’d seen some of my teammates yesterday, but not all of them. None of the staff or coaches, either. Definitely none of the fans.
Nervous? Me? Yeah, just a little.
Still, I stayed in step with Peyton as we headed for thelocker room. In the hallway just outside the door, Falon, our team’s reporter, did a double take when she saw me.
“Calds? Oh my God!” Her high heels clomped on the concrete as she trotted across the hall to hug me. “It’s so good to see you!”
I smiled, hugging her back. “It’s good to be here.”
Even if I’m a nervous fucking mess.
Drawing back, she locked eyes with me. “You know, the fans would love to hear from you.” Gesturing over her shoulder to where her cameraman was arranging his gear, she added, “Any chance you’d be interested in a quick interview?”
I gulped. “Um.”
“It’s okay if not,” she said quickly. “But I think everyone will love to see you. There’s so many rumors swirling, I think this will put some of them to bed.”
“Rumors?” My spine straightened, and I glanced back and forth between her and Peyton as panic surged up in me. “What kind of rumors?”
“People speculate,” she said. “When they hear player assistance program, they assume the worst.”
I groaned. “Of course they do.”
“Not like that,” Peyton said gently. “She means they’re worried. So many players disappear from sight when they go into the program, so no one knows if they’re getting better or if they’re in really bad shape, like, physically.”
I swallowed. Truthfully, I couldn’t argue with that; I’d worried and speculated about other players who’d gone into the program. The way they abruptly vanished, sometimes not even posting on social media for months, left us all concerned about just how bad their situation might be. Sure, there was gossip and judgment, too, because peoplecould be assholes and God knew men’s mental health was badly stigmatized.
But hockey was a tightknit community. We looked after our own. For every judgmental asshole, there were ten more quietly waiting for some kind of update so they could breathe again, knowing the player would be okay.
I’d been one of the guys who worried, and not because I thought someone was a loser or a trainwreck. I’d never thought someone was weak or a wuss because he struggled with mental health problems and/or addiction.
Was it really such a stretch to imagine people had the same concerns about me?
“Okay,” I whispered. “Yeah, I… I can do an interview.”
