Their best guess about his fainting spell in the locker room was that it was stress-related. There was a mental health screening, which he muddled his way through. By the time he was cleared to return home, with instructions on how to care for his knee, Boston had won the Cup, and a hockey season that had started so promisingly for Drew had now ended with the joy of a bad knee.
The next day, he called his manager, Estelle Hoffman. She was an eccentric, chain-smoking woman with a strong Boston accent, round glasses, and hair that was always pulled into a ponytail so tight that her skin was as taut as a drum.
“I need to get out of town for a bit,” he told her. He was in his townhome in Back Bay, drinking a smoothie he’d made that morning. He wore nothing but his knee brace—he liked walking around naked in his house—and had showered earlier. His skin was still drying. He was tall and very muscular, with boulder shoulders, round pecs, and a heavy, muscular ass. His heart-shaped face was strong and symmetrical, with round cheekbones and Cupid’s-bow lips. He’d already shaved his playoff beard, and his face looked almost boyish, with his dark curly hair and his round eyes. It was a stark contrast to his thick muscles.
“What do you mean bya bit?” Estelle asked in her gravelly Boston brogue.
“Probably most of the summer,” he said.
“Is this because of the injury? It happens to everyone at some point, Drew.”
“It’s not that.”
“You still won the game.”
“Yeah, without me. Despite me.”
Estelle sighed, and Drew knew that she was worried about him.
She didn’t know about the heartbreak situation with Quentin Hartley. He didn’t want to tell her. That would be a long conversation he didn’t have time for.
“There’s some personal stuff I need to go away to think about,” he said. “And I want to go someplace I won’t be crowded.”
He could almost hear the gears spinning in Estelle’s mind. He liked Estelle. She was a good friend—more a friend than a manager, really.
“I assume you don’t want to go back to New Hampshire,” she said, not phrasing it like a question. She knew the status of his relationship with his parents.
“Right,” he confirmed.
“Are you going to take a trip abroad? I’m sure we could find a nice resort on some island where you could hide away. I know you like Greece. It’s been a minute since you’ve gone there, or the Bahamas.”
He shook his head, though she couldn’t see him. “Not this time,” he said. The thought of losing himself on a golden beach while wearing a tiny bathing suit usually appealed to him. Not today.
“Wow,” Estelle said. She must’ve sensed how bad things were if he didn’t want to go to a beach and drink. “Whatareyou thinking?”
“Someplace quiet, different from where I normally go. A place where I can exercise and think and not worry about other people bothering me. I’d like to see the sun and be in nature.”
“I have an idea,” Estelle said. She coughed, hacked, and then said, “Michigan.”
“Michigan,” he repeated.
“Yes, Michigan. Great place. Ever been?”
“No.” He stretched his tight muscles and went to stand by his living room windows, looking out at the street below. The trees that lined his street showed the pale green of early summer. Across the street, a mother, or perhaps a nanny, pushed a double stroller.
“Too bad,” Estelle said. “I think we can fix that. Have you heard of Orion, Michigan?”
“Nope,” he said. A pair of joggers—shirtless men in tiny shorts—ran past his window. He wondered if they were friends or a couple. He felt sorry for himself and then shook his head at the useless emotion.
“There’s a hockey summer camp there,” she said. “You donated funds for a remodel there, five years ago.”
“I did?”
“Indeed, you did. We set it up through your charitable foundation.”
“How nice of me.” Estelle handled most of his investments and charitable donations.
“Orion is a lovely beachside town in northern Michigan. It sounds like the perfect place for what you’re looking for. They might recognize you there, but I’m sure they’d just be grateful for what you’ve done for their camp. It would give you some time away, but would also get you some good PR, and it would be a good excuse for why you’re not in Boston, or not out on a yacht somewhere.”
