It meant I might have someone to talk to besides him.
Without them, he was the only place my thoughts could go. He was the only version of reality I’d hear. There was nothing to challenge him, nothing to compete for my attention.
Anything that pulled me away from him had always felt like a threat.
And that was the part I hadn’t fully seen before.
If I had friends who were too close, someone else might notice that he wasn’t the Prince Charming everyone thought he was.
And worse—
I might notice it, too.
Blood On My Hands
Shane
Present
A week into November, the season had my full attention.
Almost, anyway.
It was hard to let go of Ariana, and I realized I likely didn’t have the strength to actually do it entirely. But I did have the respect for her to leave her alone when she asked me to — and she had. Point blank.
She wanted me to stay away from Sweet Dreams unless she specifically asked for something. She warned me not to bring up the Sunday we’d spent together, even when all I’d tried to do was apologize. Basically, she’d stayed away from me, muttering excuses to leave the room whenever I entered it.
It ground on me like pumice stone.
I wanted to apologize. I wanted to have the chance to explain. But then I’d ask myself… explain what? Was I actually sorry for asking about her happiness?
No.
But Iwassorry for upsetting her.
I was sorry for how I’d left her.
I was sorry I’d stayed away.
I was a sorry piece of shit, basically, but she didn’t want to hear it. And I couldn’t blame her.
So, like I always did, I threw myself into hockey.
It was easy to do. The season was fully underway, my schedule packed with travel and practices and games. Currently, I was at the arena well after hours, which wasn’t anything new. When everyone else had gone home — players, trainers, PR, even the janitorial staff — I stayed, eyes glued to the monitor in my office as I reviewed video from our last game.
Tonight, it was Ben Sandin who had my attention.
Daddy P’s hip had been acting up again — just enough to pull him from the last couple of games, which didn’t sit right with me. I knew the hip was tender, but not tender enough for this. He was doing the PT, staying on his regimen, taking what the docs gave him… and still gritting through pain he couldn’t explain.
And so, Sandin had become less of a backup and more of a routine player for us.
I watched him guard the net on the screen, replaying the moment he missed a block I’d seen him stop a thousand times — in practices, in scrimmages, in the AHL, even here in The Show. It was muscle memory for him. A layup. A routine save.
But he didn’t make it.
I slowed the playback, rewinding and pausing as the puck flew in. I watched his eyes track it, watched him drop into the crease and slide his leg out perfectly.
And still… he missed. He didn’t slide wide enough, the puck slipping past the blade of his skate and right into the net.
