As we moved on to lighter subjects, as our breakfast came and we chatted about the upcoming game, it was all still there in the back of my mind. It was like watching someone play when I knew the trainers were begging him to take it easy on an old injury—when I knew it was only a matter of time before something gave, or until a hard check or an unfortunately aimed puck made their worst fears come true. It was painfully obvious what was going to happen, and there was nothing anyone could do except cringe while we watched him barrel toward the inevitable.
The best I could do right now was be his friend and teammate. Be someone who was safe instead of adversarial.
And hope like hell he asked me or anyone else for help before it was too late.
Things were better after we had that talk. Our teammates picked up on the changed vibe between us just like they’d picked up on the tension, and by the time we were at the next day’s morning skate, everything seemed close to normal. The team breakfast was as full of chatter and chirping as usual. Avery was his usual self at the table, on the bus, and on the ice.
To any casual observer, nothing had ever been amiss.
I didn’t feel good about it, though. For all he’d assured me those two nights were isolated incidents, it was only a matter of time before it happened a third time. I knew it. I couldfeelit. I’d known it since we’d had that conversation on the plane, and every day that went by only made me more certain that the inevitable was coming.
No matter how much I pretended not to notice them, the signs that he was drinking were still there.
The first game after our talk was a grind, but that had less to do with interpersonal differences and more to do with Buffalo being pissed off about losing two nights ago. We were, despite the bump in the road thanks to Avery and me, still flying high from stomping Boston into the ground, and Buffalo was determined to knock us down a peg. The game ended in a 4-3 overtime loss. Not ideal, but a point was a point.
We’d gone home after that. Several of the guys were going to dinner at a steakhouse in Wexford, and they invited me along. Baddy and Eminem had both seemed surprised when Avery didn’t join us, and then they’d gotten worried. Like… really worried.
Baddy had nervously excused himself to step outside and call him.
“I think they all have a little PTSD,” Laramie had whispered to me. Gesturing at Ziggy, he’d added, “He told me the night Erlandsson died, he was supposed to have dinner with them. Didn’t show up, didn’t answer his phone… and then his wife called.”
“Oh, shit,” I breathed. “Yeah I think that would mess me up, too.”
Laramie nodded solemnly. And now that he mentioned it, the only guys who seemed on edge—fidgeting in theirchairs and flicking their gazes in the direction Baddy had gone—were the ones who’d been with Pittsburgh when their captain had died. Trews, Laramie, and I were all new acquisitions.
Conversation at the table was subdued, especially for a bunch of hockey players, until a few minutes later when Baddy returned. He was chuckling, which instantly put the whole group at ease even before he said, “He’s good. Dumbass just fell asleep and forgot.”
That had everyone laughing, and the relief was palpable. Nothing was wrong. Avery was fine. We’d see him at practice tomorrow.
Everyone at the table was relaxed and chill after that except for me. It was entirely possible hehadgone home, fallen asleep, and forgotten about dinner plans.
The problem was that it wasalsopossible he’d been drinking.
When he showed up to practice the next morning with faintly red eyes and that telltale miserable expression of someone fighting off a hangover…
Shit. This wasn’t good.
There were other incidents, too. Some subtler than others.
Like three nights later after we’d finished our postgame media availability. One of the things about hockey was that it had a lot of very specific and strong odors. It was always easy to pick out anyone who was new to a hockey locker room—from partners to reporters—because the faces they made when they hit that wall of funk were hilarious. The rest of us were used to it because it came with the territory and it permeated everything. It was just part of hockey.
When adifferentsmell joined the mix, though, even if it was relatively faint, it could rise above the miasma simplybecause it was unusual. Like that one reporter who’d always come into our locker room in Detroit wearing some kind of cologne that made my eyes water whenever he stood too close to me. Or that time one of my teammates was playing his thousandth game, and he had a bouquet of flowers to give his wife during the pregame ceremony—I had no idea what kind of flowers they were, only that the smell permeated the room and lingered for hours after.
On this particular night, as I was heading out of the showers, I passed Avery on his way out, and the scent—even though it wasn’t terribly strong—stopped me dead in my tracks.
Alcohol.
I shook myself and continued into the showers. Maybe it was aftershave or something? Rubbing alcohol? He couldn’t possibly be drinking here. Was he actually sneaking booze with him into the shower so he could drink without anyone noticing?
Or am I just projecting because that’s exactly what Richards did?
That must’ve been it. It had to be.
But then I joined my teammates in the players’ lounge for food, and as I walked past him with my loaded plate… there it was again. We all ate and carried on and talked about the game and an upcoming game, and everything seemed normal.
Was I the only one who noticed?
And was I just imagining things?
