I wanted to tell him he had nothing to worry about. If anything, the guys would hug him until he couldn’t breathe.
But in his shoes, maybe I wouldn’t want to face the team, the fans, or—God forbid—the cameras. Maybe he still needed some time to get his head around things.
I reached across the space between us and touched his arm. “No one’s going to pressure you, okay? But when you’re ready, everyone will be happy to see you.”
He looked at me through his lashes, and he let a tiny smile come to life. “Thanks. It… That really means a lot. Just, um… Tell them I appreciate the support? And that I’ll come to a game soon?”
“I will. I promise.”
CHAPTER 23
AVERY
The hardest part of this whole player assistance program thing was being away from my teammates.
Peyton came by a lot, and we texted. I texted with some the guys, too. They kept asking me to come to practice and hang out, or come to a game, or go golfing, but I just… couldn’t Even facing Peyton was hard, and he’d seen me at my absolute worst. The other guys hadn’t, and I didn’t want them to. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to look any of them in the eye when I was done with the program and back on the ice. That was a bridge I’d cross when I came to it. Right now, I was too damn embarrassed to see anyone except that stubborn son of a bitch who kept coming over. Which I appreciated. Even if I sometimes wished he wouldn’t.
The program itself was less terrible than I’d convinced myself it would be. The therapists were great, and as much as I didn’t like the idea of sitting in a room and making myself vulnerable with someone, itwasdoing me some good.
It helped that I’d managed to avoid the group therapy sessions. I’d told the people in charge that, with my highprofile, I wasn’t comfortable opening those wounds in front of other people. No matter how confidential they were on paper, I just wouldn’t be able to relax knowing someone elsecouldrepeat something I’d said.
After my second solo session with Shannon, the grief counselor and the therapist I saw most often, I’d admitted the deeper truth: “I’m having a hard enough time saying any of this out loud. The thought of doing it in front of a room full of people—even four or five people—makes me literally sick to my stomach.”
I’d cringed, fully expecting Shannon to shake her head apologetically and tell me that I really did need to do it, high profile be damned.
Instead, she’d given a subtle nod and told me, “If a form of therapy gives you that much anxiety, then it’s probably going to hinder your recovery more than it’ll help it. If you decide later that you feel comfortable with it, that’s something we can revisit down the road.”
I’d actually wavered a little, caught off guard by the comment but also by the alien sense of relief that followed. I’d piled so damn much on my own shoulders—so much more than I’d realized—that I wasn’t used to what it felt like when someone else took some of that weight off.
So… no group sessions, and no guilt over avoiding them.
I also saw a substance abuse counselor three times a week. He was confident that I probably wouldn’t relapse with the drinking. Given the totality of circumstances, he didn’t think alcohol would be a serious problem for me going forward. Yes, I’d been self-medicating from the grief and trauma, but even as I’d begun the painful prospect of unpacking all that, I hadn’t felt compelled to drink.
“We’ll still approach this as an addiction,” he’d assured me. “It can be an insidious thing. Someone who’s usedopioids after an injury can become addicted even after they’re not in pain anymore. The same can happen after using alcohol to numb emotional pain following a traumatic experience. So we’ll take this as seriously as we would a well-established, long term addiction, and you’ll always have access to any of us should you relapse or think you’re going to. But I’m confident.”
“What happens if I do relapse?”
He’d offered a gentle smile. “Honestly? Most people do at some point. We do everything we can to avoid that, of course, but the reality is that it’s very common. It’s not a failure of the person or of the rehab—it’s just a setback that we can work through.”
“So… like when an injury is healing, and then I push too hard and hurt myself again?”
“Exactly. There’s no shame in it. We’ll do everything we can to help you, and we’ll give you all the tools we can to prevent a relapse. But if it happens, then all isn’t lost.”
As determined as I was to never relapse, I appreciated that.
“Does this mean I can’t drink at all?” I’d asked another day. “Like, socially?”
“We’ll figure that out over time. Some people do find they’re able to drink socially without relapsing. Others…” He’d shaken his head. “For some, they can’t control the compulsion tokeepdrinking or to get drunk, and it’s too destructive for them. I’ve also had some patients who found the process of quitting to be so miserable that just thinking about having to go through it again makes them abstain.”
Something told me that last one would be me. The withdrawal had been relatively mild compared to the dire warnings they’d given me, but it hadn’t been a picnic. As much as I’d enjoyed drinking with the guys, I couldn’t eventhink about having a drink right now without imagining that miserable handful of days.
Maybe I’d just be better off not drinking. Especially since the only time I really missed it was when the grief was hitting hard, like during a particularly intense therapy session or when I was trying to sleep. If the only time I wanted to drink were the times I needed to self-medicate… yeah, maybe avoiding it altogether wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
Today was one of those days when a drink sounded good. Probably because my therapy session was scratching closer and closer to the bone. The thought of stepping behind closed doors, opening up a bottle, and falling the hell apart was more appealing than it should’ve been.
Shannon studied me for a long moment. “I’d like to know your thoughts about something I’ve been noticing during our interactions.”
“That I’m a trainwreck?” I asked dryly.
