“Mom?”I whisper, and it takes a second, but her head lifts off the mattress beside my foot.
Her big brown eyes find mine, and they flood with tears.“Baby.”Rose Richard stands and walks to the top of my bed to gently cup the side of my face.
“Don’t cry.”
She sniffs and nods, but tears trickle down her cheeks.“How are you feeling?”
“Horrible,” I grunt and fight the lump swelling in my throat.“I’m sorry.I don’t know what happened.”
“Yeah.”She fights a frown.“Just concentrate on healing for now, okay?We need you to get better, and then we can… deal with the rest.”
“What’s the rest?”I ask, and she rubs my cheek with her thumb.“Mom?What did I do?”
“You’re an alcoholic.”The voice comes from the corner of the room.The lump in the chair was, of course, my father Luc Richard.Two-time Stanley Cup champion, three-time Norris trophy winner, and all-around best dad ever.And he’s looking at me with concern and also… heartbreak.Fuck.“You’re an alcoholic who needs help.Real help.Not just your family and friends trying to get you to rein it in.We’re done with that.It didn’t work.Your coach has you on IR, and the league has announced you’re entering the Player Assistance Program, Theo.So just relax.Heal up.There’ll be a lot of time to deal with the consequences of your actions later.”
“Consequences?”I hate that word.“Can I play still?”
My mom looks away.“I’m going to get a nurse to check on you.”
She leaves the room.My dad stays, still in the corner, not coming close enough so I can read his expression.But I do see his shoulders slump.“Dad… will I play again?”
He never forced me to play hockey.He never pushed.I wanted it.It was difficult, and the pressure of being his son was ever-present from everyone but him.And it didn’t matter—I wanted to play.I still want it.I don’t know who I am without it.
“I don’t think hockey is important anymore, Theo,” Dad says firmly and folds his arms over his chest.“It may never be again, and that’s okay.We just need you better.You need to want to get better this time.For real.Because you will die.I can tell you that.Ibelievethat.If you don’t get help.Take it seriously.Try.You will die from this, Theo.And your mother… she may not survive it either.I know I won’t.So… heal.Your bones and then… everything else.Please.”
He chokes up and turns to the window, rubbing his eyes with his hand.Fear and regret wrap around me like a blanket.A weighted one I don’t think I will ever shake off.
Chapter1
Theo
May…
At five o’clock in the morning, I get out of bed.It’s an acceptable hour.Well, it doesn’t make Thelma, the night attendant, lift her eyebrows when I venture into the gym.I’ve left my room at other hours to work out—like two in the morning, four in the morning, and eleven thirty at night—and those times all got me the raised eyebrows.Five seems to be accepted.Breakfast starts at six-thirty, so Thelma probably assumes I’m getting it in before the day of therapy sessions begins.
I flash her a brief smile as I pass the desk, and she looks up from her Stephen King novel.“Morning, Theo.”
“Morning, Thelma.”
“Abs day or leg day?Cardio?”
“Arms,” I say.“They aren’t where they should be.”
She frowns.“You’re a lot better than when you got here.”
She’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel better.When I checked into rehab, I was still in a cast on the left side and a sling on the right.I had to have an attendant help dress me and wash me, which was humbling to say the least.Now I have really good range in my right, but I still can’t lift it all the way above my head.My left bicep is visibly leaner than my right, but not by much.The scar tissue bugs the shit out of me, making even the most basic workouts painful.But I keep trying because… what else is there to do?And getting my body back, like this colossal life spiral never happened, is the only hope I have of moving on.Emotionally, I may never heal, though, and I accept that.My stupidity… my disease… has done irreparable damage to my life, my career, and my family.
The gym is empty, which is normal, and I shut off my brain and go through my workout like a robot.An hour later, I’m sweating, and my left arm is killing me.I do fifteen minutes of sprinting on the treadmill and then head back to my room to shower.I pass Dr.Caulfield in the hall.“Last day.How you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Ready?”
“No.But good with not being ready,” I admit, and he gives me a reassuring smile.
“That’s okay.That’s good.Embrace the uncertainty,” he says.“We’ll talk at our last one-on-one.”
I nod and slip into my room.The treatment facility has been worth every penny.And it’s been a lot of pennies.But I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in three entire months, and I haven’twantedto drink in two months.The first month was rough, and I would have downed a bottle of cough syrup for the alcohol if someone let me.After that month, which was peppered with surgeries and physical rehab, I went into a treatment facility.Now, the first time since I stole a beer at fourteen from a family barbecue, I don’t want to touch the stuff.Ever again.
