Because Avery seemed perfectly sober and coherent. He was laughing and chirping with the guys, but there was nothing unusual about him.
Nothing except that faint smell.
That might not have even been alcohol.
But I was pretty sure it was.
To anyone else on the team, to the fans, to the media, Avery seemed perfectly okay. Everyone had moved on from that night in the hotel bar, and Avery and I didn’t speak of theothernight in theotherhotel bar. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.
But Averywasn’tokay. I could feel it to my core, and I couldn’t make myself believe it was just because I’d watched two people drown in bottles before him. The signs were there. He was doing everything he could to hide it—everything he could to pretend he was back to normal despite the jersey hanging in the rafters above our home ice—but I could see it. I could feel it. I could smell it.
He wasgoingto crash and burn sooner or later.
And I had no idea what any of us could do to stop him.
CHAPTER 19
AVERY
I held it together—or at least kept it out of sight—until January 14.
We had a game that night, and I both loved and hated PR for the tribute they did for Leif’s birthday. It was an emotional night for all of us, and it didn’t help that Rachel—now visibly pregnant—was there with the kids.
It was amazing, and it was exactly what Leif deserved, and I was glad to see the family.
But holy shit. Putting on the happy, professional face, being the captain, being a hockey player, being me—that had all been exhausting already. That night, it was like our home opener all over again. Too much emotion. Too much hurt.
Worse, we were in a four-game losing streak, and even our efforts to play well on Leif’s birthday couldn’t stop us from extending that to five.
Afterward, I didn’t fall apart in the locker room. I kept my media smile firmly in place, and I didn’t let my voice shake through my postgame interviews. Not even when they asked about life after Leif. I’d gone through themotions of showering, getting dressed, eating with my teammates, and signing autographs on the way out of the parking garage, and I’d stayed smiling and stoic the whole time. Anyone got a photo or a video of me, they’d see nothing but the usual Avery Caldwell.
Then I drove home on autopilot and poured booze down my throat until I didn’t feel anything anymore.
Practice the next morning… yeah, that didn’t happen.
My alarm went off like usual, but by then, I’d already been up for fifteen minutes, heaving my guts out and wondering if my skull was going to explode. God knew if Coach Tabakov bought my excuse about being sick, or if he saw right through to how hungover and fucked up I was after last night. He didn’t give me any grief over the phone, though. I’d probably hear about it tomorrow.
Honestly? I couldn’t bring myself to care. I felt too awful to give a shit about anything.
Sitting back against my bathroom wall, I let the cold marble cool my throbbing head while I waited to see if my stomach was done punishing me. I’d been doing so damn good lately. Games, interviews, just… existing—everyone, including Peyton, had been acting like everything was normal with me, so I’d obviously been keeping the cracks hidden. I was damn good at hiding the red in my eyes whenever I came to a practice or joined my team for breakfast in a hotel. I knew how much I could drink in front of my teammates before they’d worry—less these days, thanks to Peyton making them all scared I was drinking too much—and then I’d retreat to my room and drink some more by myself. I knewexactlyhow drunk I could get to numb myself for the night and still pass for functional the next day.
But last night…
Last night, I hadn’t cared, and now I was paying for it.And I didn’t care all that much about that, either. The only thing I could bring myself to care about right now was how much my head hurt and how much I desperately wanted to be numb and distracted. Once this hangover was gone, I was heading back into a bottle and I wasn’t sorry.
Not just a bottle, though. Not this time. Getting drunk and oblivious like I had last night wasn’t going to be enough this time.
Tonight, I wanted to be so drunk that I was oblivious to everything except a hot man banging me senseless. I didn’t even care if the sex was good. I just wanted to get dicked down until I was trembling and aching in all the right places and numb as hell in all the others. I hadn’t had sex in months—not since before all this pain started—and now I wanted it.
A club. I’d hit up a club, get good and fucked up, and then get, well, good and fucked.
Would I be able to practice tomorrow morning? Eh. That sounded like tomorrow’s problem.
I went upstairs, showered, and started putting myself together for a night out. It felt weird, getting ready to go clubbing, and not just because I hadn’t set foot in a club in ages. There was no tingle of excitement. No anticipation of a fun night out and maybe an even more fun hookup. It reminded me of heading to the emergency room with an injury—just trying to get there and get this over with before the pain got the best of me.
I took an Uber into downtown Pittsburgh, and I had the driver drop me off a couple of blocks over from the club. I was out and everybody knew it, and hockey players didn’t get recognized as much as football players and A-listers, but I still felt weird about my driver letting me out in front of agay nightclub. Did it make sense? Hell, did anything in my world make sense these days?
Eh. Whatever.
