Granted they were missing two of their top six to injuries, had lost their star left winger and one of their tandem goalies to free agency,andthere was a nasty stomach bug running through their locker room, so they weren’t exactly playing at their normal caliber.
Still, a win was a win, a shutout was a shutout, and beating Boston was always sweet, so… bottoms up.
Of course, I could’ve done without getting my ass knocked around. I was still hurting from that in places nobody wanted to be hurting, and my teammates didn’t even give me shit about it. There was a little grumbling about how the other guy should’ve taken a penalty, but that was it. Maybe the refs hadn’t seen it. Maybe they just didn’t think it should be illegal to hit a guy between the legs with a stick. I didn’t know. I hadn’t really been paying attention tomuch of anything in the minutes after that except how bad it hurt and how close I’d been to puking.
In the locker room, Evan had assured me there was no shame in sitting the rest of the game. I wasn’t injured per se, but I didn’t imagine anyone would’ve judged me if I’d said,“Fuck this, I’m going to go ice my balls for the next few hours.”
That was still an option now. The dull ache below my belt was unpleasant to say the least, and the queasiness hadn’t fully abandoned ship. Fortunately, I knew that would ease up on its own.Unfortunately, I knew that from experience.
Despite the relentless ache and nausea, I sipped a Coke in the bar with my teammates. I was too wired after the game to go to sleep, and I enjoyed the camaraderie, especially after a win.
“C’mon, Halls,” Eminem said. “At least let us buy you a drink. Feels like we owe you after you took one of the team.”
Half the guys at the table squirmed uncomfortably—probably sympathy pain.
“I’m good.” I raised my Coke. “You guys can buy on a night when I feel like getting trashed.”
“Usually I’d say it’s a one-time deal.” Eminem shook his head. “But if I took one to the nuts like that, I’d expect all you assholes to buy me drinksanddinner for the rest of the season. So… deal.”
There were some grunts and nods.
“Is that all it takes to get free food out of you guys?” I grinned. “Well, damn. It’s almost worth it.”
That got some laughs. And some more squirming.
Right then, a server came by to check on us, and a few people ordered another round.
Including Avery.
The glass in his hand wasn’t even empty yet, but the way he gestured with it as he and the server exchanged a few words, he was definitely ordering another.
Wasn’t that like his third or fourth?
It’s none of your business, Peyton. Ignore it.
But then my dad’s voice said,“Hold the line, Peyton.”
Fuck my life.
I’d been too young to notice the signs of my mom’s drinking—or, well, too young to realize what they’d meant—but they were so obvious in hindsight.
It was during my second season as a pro that I’d seen those signs again in someone else. Richards had been as slick as my mom about dismissing hangover symptoms as allergies or a difficult night sleeping. Like her, he’d gaslit people around him into believing,“No, I’m still working on the same beer you saw me drinking an hour ago,”when it was actually his fourth or fifth. The times they did drink to excess in front of people, they still insisted it wasn’t a problem. Mom had been “working nonstop for weeks on end” and“just needed to cut loose for once.”Richards had scoffed that“you’d be getting this shitfaced too if your ex-wife just told you she’s going for full custody.”
I’d accepted everything they’d said right up until they’d hit rock bottom. Dad had told Mom it was either rehab or divorce. Richards had spiraled down and down and down as his messy divorce progressed, and after his ex-wife had been granted full custody, he’d wound up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning.
Mom had eventually recovered, and she’d even stayed married to my dad. Richards’s story had gone from bad to worse. The team had given him much the same ultimatum my dad had given my mom—player assistance program or a terminated contract—and he’d responded by getting a DUI.After his contract was summarily terminated, he wrapped his car around a lamppost. He’d survived, but any hope of ever playing hockey again was dashed thanks to his injuries, and then came the painkiller addiction.
I had no idea how or where he was now.
And every time I thought of him, I was almost overcome with guilt. Could I have stepped in sooner? Could I have noticedsomethingand toldsomeoneand maybe gotten him help before things had gotten so far out of hand? I’d had more therapy to cope with that guilt than I’d had to deal with my mom’s alcoholism, and that was saying something.
Now here I was, sitting across from a man who was waving the same flags Mom and Richards had waved, and I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what if anything I was supposed to do.
As surreptitiously as I could, I studied Avery. Was I just jumping the gun because I knew he had areasonto dive into a bottle? Was everything about him and his drinking perfectly normal, but I was edgy because of my past experiences and because I knew he was grieving?
What the hell do I do?
As the server came back and placed the glass in front of Avery, my stomach somersaulted. It wasn’t like I’d never been around hockey players getting drunk. Hell, I’d done it myself plenty of times, especially when we had a light schedule the next day, though I wasn’t above showing up hungover-but-functional to practice.
