“I think Vegas is in the same boat,” the other announcer adds, and I close my eyes because I know what’s coming.“Losing Richard was a big blow.”
“Not like they had a choice there.Can he even still play?His injuries were nearly catastrophic,” the other guy replies.“And no one is going to spend three mil a year on a risk that big.If Richard wants to keep playing, he can do it in Europe and then maybe in a year, if he stays on track there, an NHL team will consider him a safer bet.”
I turn off the TV and sigh.He may be right, but I’m not going to Europe.I don’t feel solid enough in my sobriety to disrupt my lifethatmuch.I need familiarity at the moment, which is why I’ve been renting an Airbnb in Portland, Maine.It’s familiar.I want to play hockey, but I can’t risk my sobriety.So… I’m here, renting ice on my own and running drills and considering reaching out to farm teams to see if anyone will have me, or at the very least let me practice with them.
I reach for my phone again, but I ignore the text and doom-scroll Instagram instead.And that’s when I see the podcast bros.I fucking hate this particular podcast.A bunch of pretty boys who failed at hockey and now make a living making snide comments and jokes about guys who did make it.So why do I let the video clip play without scrolling?Because I see my cousin Grady Garrison’s name in the caption.They wrote, “How will Garrison and Casco handle the homophobia?”
“Look,” the guy with the skinny, angular face and accountant haircut says, “I’m not saying it’s right because of course it’s not, but hockey has fostered a don’t-ask-don’t-tell culture when it comes to being gay.And now, they’ve told.There have been videos all summer of fans burning their Casco and Garrison jerseys.There’s a petition online to have them traded or waived.How do you handle that pressure?It’s gotta be tough.”
“First of all, it’s important to note that the petition only has a couple hundred idiots who signed it,” the dude with unkempt bleached hair adds.“And people have been burning jerseys for lots of stupid reasons over the years.If I were Grady Garrison or Landon Casco, I would use the hate as fuel.And that includes the hate toward Theo Richard for outing them in the first place.”
I suck in a breath.
“We don’t know if there’s hate there,” the third podcaster in this trio pipes in.“I mean, aren’t Garrison and Richard related or something?Garrison said in an interview right after it happened, one of the only times he’s addressed it, that his only concern was that Theo get healthy.”
“Oh, trust me, assholes, thereishate,” I mutter and close Instagram, which I watch through a burner account I called PuckingLoser000.There is hate.I hate myself so much for what I did that sometimes it keeps me up at night.
It’s one thing to get wrecked and decide to climb up on my roof to “chill” and then fall off of it and break my bones and ruin my career.But it’s another thing to do it while live-streaming on Instagram because I wanted to show everyone the stars and ramble on like I was some kind of Shitfaced Yoda, giving slurred advice on how to handle pressure, which I clearly wasn’t handling.And then, in that rambling, I reference how proud I was that my cousin Grady could handle anything that came his way, like being traded all the time, fighting for a starting position every season as a goalie, and being a step-parent to his partner Landon’s baby.
Yeah.I just threw all that personal private information up on an Instagram live seconds before I lost my footing and fell two stories, crashing into the backyard and narrowly missing being impaled on a patio umbrella.Thank God I had woken my neighbors, and they saw it happen.They called 9-1-1 immediately, and so did a bunch of people watching it on Instagram, apparently.
I look at my arm now, because I’m still in a tank top from my early morning visit to the gym.The scar is fucking gnarly.I was given this gel stuff to help it heal faster and fade better, but I didn’t use it.I want to have the constant reminder of how badly I fucked up everything.I don’t deserve to forget.
My phone alerts me to another text.Grady’s name flashes across my screen again, and my chest constricts painfully.I look at it because he doesn’t deserve to be ignored.
GRADY
Answer me, T.Come on.
The text I was ignoring was Grady asking if we could meet up and talk.Before I can muster up the courage and the words to respond, he texts me again.
GRADY
We just finished practice and I’m still downtown.I know where you live.Are you home?
Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.
GRADY
I also know you’re reading this so answer.Don’t make this worse when I’m trying to make it better.
I close my eyes and exhale.Then I inhale slowly, deeply, clench my jaw, and respond.It’s time.Whether I like it or not—and I really fucking don’t like it.
THEO
Yeah.I’m home.Standard Baking Company?
GRADY
Yeah.Good.Ten Minutes?
THEO
See you there.
I get off the couch and walk into the bathroom.My hands are shaking so much I drop my phone trying to put it on the vanity.It doesn’t crack, thankfully.I bend to pick it up and immediately get dizzy.My stomach lurches as a wave of nausea crashes over me.I don’t make it to the toilet and end up puking up my recently consumed protein shake into the shower because it’s closer and the door is open.
Ten minutes later, I’m still on the bathroom floor, but I’ve got control of my breathing, and I’m not puking, so it’s progress.I find my phone on the floor and text Grady again.
