“I coach hockey.”
I looked over at him, not realizing that I’d zoned out to look around us.
“Some of the schools around here don’t go back until after Labor Day, so I’m busy with camps right now. Otherwise, I help out during the school year too, but it’s mostly a lot of early mornings and weekend games.”
“Wow. That’s . . . amazing.”
My mother would never approve of him. A coach for little kids. He’d be a complete loser because he wasn’t running a multimillion-dollar business, according to her.
“How did you get into hockey?”
We pulled into a small parking lot, and as he turned off the engine, he casually said, “I used to play for the Chicago Ravens.”
“What?” My jaw dropped. A professional hockey player? I looked at him, stunned. He was still so young, but something must’ve happened. “Did you stop because of an injury?”
There was a long pause, and the realization hit me that I might’ve overstepped. I quickly covered my mouth with my hand. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. That was rude. I just?—”
“Charlie, you don’t need to apologize... ever. Not with me.”
My cheeks flushed as embarrassment washed over me. I hadn’t meant to make it awkward.
He gave me a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah, I used to play professionally.” He got out and opened the truck, revealing a couple of grocery store plastic bags.
He reached into one of the grocery bags, rummaging around for a moment. I turned over my shoulder to see what he was doing, curious. He pulled out two cans of sparkling water and held them up with a small, almost hesitant smile.
“I’m an alcoholic.”
12
austin
I hadn’t meant to word vomit, but the words came out before I could soften them. I expected her to react, maybe to get uncomfortable or shift in her seat. I half expected her to run and get as far away from me as possible.
Instead, she shook her head slightly, her expression calm, and stayed right there.
It was clear she hadn’t Googled me and didn’t know the backstory.
“I’m an alcoholic,” I repeated, trying to keep my voice even. “I got caught up in drugs and drinking while I was playing. It got bad, really bad. When I realized I was risking my life, I quit and went to rehab.”
There was no judgment in her eyes, only a quiet understanding. Without a word, she undid her seat belt and got out of the car, grabbing the other grocery bag from her side.
She stood there for a moment, then looked at me. “Wanna walk and talk?”
I nodded, grabbed the bag from her, and guided her toward the lake. It wasn’t secluded but far enough that the lake wasn’t polluted by the noises of the road or people in the parking lot. I’d also gotten a blanket from the trunk.
“Wha—”
“I got married in the middle of my addiction but had no idea what I was doing.” I spoke in such a low voice that I wasn’t sure if she heard me. “I thought everything was fine. I went to rehab, came back, got to play again, but it was all downhill from there. I learned that I needed to go to rehab again because I wanted it. I wanted to get better, to feel more like myself.”
“And did you?”
I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. I spent a year in an intensive rehab program in Malibu and then the rest in a sober living house. This technically is my first year on my own in... a long time.”
I waited, bracing myself for the inevitable judgment or criticism, for her to tell me how I should’ve handled things differently. That’s what everyone else in my life had done. They told me I should’ve been smarter, stronger, or that I should’ve quit before it got so bad.
“How do you feel?”
“Oh, how do I feel about being sober? Well, it’s not exactly a party. It sucked, and it still sucks sometimes.”
