By the time I dropped onto the bench in the locker room after the final buzzer, I was exhausted. Some of that was just getting back into the swing of playing in the regular season; the first few games were always a little bit of a rude awakening no matter how conditioned I was.
Some of it, though, was definitely the emotional start to the night.
I would never be used to seeing Leif’s number up there in the rafters. Not now. Not this soon. Not when he hadn’t retired in all the glory he’d deserved.
The club had done right by him, though, and they’dhonored Leif. The fans had cheered for him, and I had no doubt there’d been a lot of tears up there in the stands.
And we’d won. On Leif’s night, with his widow and children in the building, we’d crushed Houston 4-1, and it felt absolutely incredible.
Was this closure? Somethinglikeclosure? I didn’t know. In some ways, the ceremony had left me ragged, but in others, it had soothed me in ways I couldn’t explain, but had desperately needed soothing. In the end, I’d composed myself enough to play hockey.
My teammates had, too.
After sixty minutes of hockey, I was as tired as if I’d just played a grueling seven-game series. I was trembling as I stripped off my gear. Physically and emotionally, I was completely wrung out. I’d held it together all goddamned night, making myself stay strong for everyoneincludingmyself. I’d succeeded. I’d stayed together. Maybe that meant I was finally done falling apart at the slightest provocation. Was this what it felt like when grief started to lift? Was it too much to hope that after just a few weeks, I might start feeling better instead of worse?
I thought so… right up until Coach’s postgame speech. It was a lot of the usual, but then came his closing words:
“You boys did good out there,” he said. “You did the fans proud. You did me proud.” His voice cracked as he added, “You did Early’s memory proud.”
And fuck me, but the dam broke.
CHAPTER 6
PEYTON
I had to give the team staff credit—they made damn sure no cameras got anywherenearthe locker room.
The one that was in here—the team’s reporter and crew—had seemed intent to keep filming, but a low growl of, “Turn thatoff” made them think twice. Right now, Coach was having a very terse one-way conversation with them, and I suspected it had a vibe of “If I see this footage on any screen or device, there will be hell to pay.”
Good. Get ’em, Coach.
The team’s reporter, Falon, was nodding along and not arguing. She’d seemed like good people, and my teammates all liked her, so I had a feeling she wasn’t pushing back.
The reporters who were still out in the hallway didn’t sound pleased as Glen, our PR director, explained to them that media availability was going to be delayed. After all, they had to get these interviews on the air ASAP.
Laramie and I exchanged glances, nodded, and got up.
“Hey, Glen?” I gestured at Laramie. “We can talk to them out in the hallway. If that’ll pacify them until…” I pointed over my shoulder at our teammates.
Glen glanced past me, then nodded sharply and shooed us out into the hall, mumbling, “I owe you boys,” before shutting the door behind us.
I didn’t relish facing the media under the best of circumstances. Surrounded by lenses, microphones, and annoyed reporters in a hallway crammed with equipment boxes? Not fun at all.
But it took the pressure off Glen and our teammates, and I couldn’t lie—it got me away from the absolutely heartbreaking sight and sound of Avery collapsing under his grief.
That was seared into my mind anyway. The way he’d buried his face in his hands and leaned forward, trembling all over as the sobs wracked his whole body—helpless didn’t even describe how I’d felt in that moment. Eminem and Baddy, sitting on either side of him, had been doing their best to comfort him. One of the assistant coaches had joined in. I had no idea what they’d been saying or if any of it was working—was there anything someonecoulddo to stop that kind of emotional break?
There’d been nothing I could do because I didn’t have that bond with him. There were a lot of shoulders better suited to holding him up than mine.
So, I did the one thing within my power—I gave the media something to do besides circle him like camera-wielding vultures.
“How has this team been in the wake of losing their captain?” a reporter asked me as casually as if she were asking if we liked our new jerseys.
Calling on every second of media-training I’d ever had, I kept my expression neutral and met her gaze. “It’s been hard for them. Teammates—we get really close, you know? We’re family. Just having someone get traded away or signsomewhere else in free agency can be hard. It’s been tough for those of us whodidn’tknow Early. What those guys are going through?” I gestured at the closed door behind me. “I can’t even imagine.”
Laramie picked up the thread. “It’s always hard when you lose someone, especially a member of your core. When they retire or if they leave—it’s an adjustment. You feel kinda…” He furrowed his brow.
“Untethered?” I offered.
