When Dan’s face appeared on my screen, I breathed an actual sigh of relief.
“Thanks for talking with me,” I said. “I really need a sounding board right now.”
“Yeah?” He was in a hotel room, judging by the dull landscape painting above the plain headboard. “What’s going on?”
“The short version?” I let my head fall back against the couch cushion. “Avery and I fixed our bullshit and we got together, and now I’m pretty sure I fucked it up.”
Dan blinked. “Oh. Uh. How did you fuck it up?”
I gave him the rundown of how Avery and I had ended up together in the first place.
“So you guys got together after you helped him into rehab,” he said.
I nodded.
“Wow.” Dan pushed out a breath. “That’s heavy.”
“I know. And now I think I fucked it all up, but… I have no idea how to fix it.” I almost choked on the words as I added, “Especially since he won’t talk to me.”
“It’s only been, what, a few hours, though, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe he needs a little time to cool off.” He laughed softly. “You know, like we both did after that one really awful fight we had?”
I breathed a laugh, too. “God, that was a shitshow.”
“It was. But we got through it. And we were long-distance—we could’ve ghosted each other and been done with it.” He offered a slight shrug. “You and Avery will have to be in the same room sooner or later.”
I winced at the memory of the painfully awkwardlocker room vibe this morning. “I’d kind of rather fix this before we’re stuck together around the team.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you.”
“Any thoughts?” I asked. “Because I have no idea how to fix this.”
“Well…” He was quiet for a moment, gaze unfocused. I didn’t press; sometimes he did that when he was trying to gather his thoughts. Finally, he looked at me through the camera again. “The reason you’re worried about him not really loving you? I think that has less to do with him and more to do with you. Specifically, your past.”
I straightened. “What?”
“Listen, don’t take this the wrong way…” He inclined his head a little. “But it sounds like your man isn’t the only one with some baggage. Dude, I knew even before you told me about your mom that you and alcohol had a weird history.”
“You did?”
“Well, yeah. You’re not as subtle about it as you think.” He must’ve seen the questions in my expression, because he continued, “You’re fine for a beer or two, but you get twitchy when people start drinking heavily. I don’t think other people notice, but I do—it’s like you’re just kind of uncomfortable, you know? Especially around people who get really fucked up. And when someone gets smashed enough they need a responsible adult to keep them out of trouble, that responsible adult isalwaysyou.”
Heat rose in my face. I wanted to snap back that he didn’t know what he was talking about, but… he kind of had a point. Hanging out with hockey players meant a certain amount of drinking, and I was okay with that. Once someone crossed into shitfaced territory, though—once they needed a babysitter—I exited party mode and became the guy who scraped people up, got them water, got them home.
I shifted on the couch. “You don’t think I should do that?”
“I didn’t say that,” he said softly. “You’re just the first to jump up and babysit the really drunk guys. The more people around you drink, the less you do. It’s not a flaw, Peyton. None of it is. But the more I saw you in action, the more it became pretty obvious you’re not real comfortable with all of it. Because as soon as that shit starts happening, you stop having a good time.”
I definitely couldn’t argue with that.
“I’m not saying there’s something wrong with you,” he went on. “But the shit with your mom—that’s trauma, man.”
I jumped. “It is?”
“Of course it is. And maybe that’s something you need to deal with. Like… with some help.”
