I’d done one of the intermission interviews. Before the game, Falon had interviewed me as well, since we’d been playing New York, one of our longstanding rivals. There’d been fans outside after the morning skate and again bravingthe cold outside the hotel tonight, and I’d smiled for all of them as I’d signed autographs, taken selfies, and chatted with them about hockey. During our flight, I’d handily beaten both Eminem and Peyton at rummy, then joined in cheering on Baddy and Ziggy as they’d played Mario Kart on the charter jet’s big screen.
It was all a perfectly normal part of the regular season, but I was absolutely drained. I had been all season, and that had only gotten worse since Thanksgiving at Baddy’s house almost three weeks ago.
Closing my eyes, I rubbed my forehead with the heels of my hands. I’d spent that whole day putting on a show. I’d spent every day since putting on another one. That day, it had been“easygoing, celebratory Avery who doesn’t die a little inside every time he looks at his best friend’s kids or widow.”Every goddamned day after, it had been“relaxed but focused Avery who’s dialed in on this morning’s practice,”followed by“happy and fun Avery who’s keeping morale up and spirits high because losing one game doesn’t mean we’ll lose the next one.”
Then we’d had an intense homestand of nearly back-to-back games, and now I was alone in this hotel room, and for a little while at least, I could finally fucking breathe.
Well, I wasallowedto breathe anyway. I wasn’t so sure how capable I was.
Suck it up, Calds. Have a drink, go to sleep, and be the captain you’re supposed to be.
Ugh. All of that sounded like a lot of work.
The drink part sounded pretty good, though, so I pushed myself up off the bed. I didn’t dare touch the minibar; I’d indulge sometimes, but I didn’t want to do it often enough to catch the travel coordinator’s notice. Instead, I took my shaving kit out of my suitcase and dug around tofind two plain plastic bottles that looked like they contained shampoo or something.
I unscrewed the cap on one, and my mouth watered. The plastic didn’t do much for the taste, but I wasn’t in this for the flavor. I just wanted to throw back what amounted to two shots of good, strong bourbon.
I made a face as it went down, almost gagging on the plasticky taste combined with the burn of the alcohol. Maybe I needed to get some glass bottles to take with me. But… no. Those would be too obvious if someone searched my bag. The opaque blue bottles with“shampoo”and“conditioner”written in Sharpie wouldn’t pique anyone’s interest the way a glass bottle full of suspiciously dark liquid would.
I’d just have to live with the taste.
It wasn’t enough to give me more than a very, very mild buzz, even with the remnants of my in-flight drinks still keeping my head light. Hopefully it would be enough to let me sleep, though, because I couldn’t risk having any more than this. Not when I had to be at the team breakfast at oh-fuck-thirty, and not when I had to skate a couple of hours later.
This would have to be enough.
I went through the motions of getting ready for bed, then climbed under the covers.
Tomorrow, I’d practice with the team. After that, I’d go golfing with Eminem, Ziggy, and Baddy. The weather was promising, and getting out there for eighteen holes would be good for me. It always was.
Tonight, I would sleep. If nothing else, being this exhausted would knock my ass out, and maybe I’d even get lucky and not dream.
Tomorrow, I’d be Avery Caldwell, captain of thePittsburgh Whiskey Rebels. I’d golf with my friends. I’d play hockey with my team.
Maybe everyone would believe I was okay.
Maybe even me.
That scream.
That heart-wrenching scream.
Lying there in the dark, drenched in sweat and breathing hard as the dream slowly faded, my ears still rang with that awful sound. My chest still hurt, that impossible mix of being cavernously empty because my heart had just been torn out and feeling like it was about to explode from all those excruciating emotions.
Some part of me tried to reassure myself it had been just a dream, but the worst part was… ithadn’tbeen just a dream.
Tonight, sure. Tonight, I hadn’t been there in that waiting room. Tonight, I hadn’t listened to a doctor calmly and professionally tell everyone our lives would never be the same.
Tonight, I hadn’t heard Rachel scream like her soul had just been ripped out of her body.
But all that had been real. And every damn night, it happened again and again.
It would get better eventually, right? Farther away?
Maybe.
But not tonight.
Golfing out here with the guys had sounded like an amazing idea. Just the change of pace I needed to jar me out of the funk I was working so hard to keep out of everyone’s sight. There were few things that couldn’t be helped by a little fresh air—even when it was cold—and some shit-talking over eighteen holes.
