Page 109 of Hard to Handle

Fuck. And yet, they’ve stuck by me.

Nothing showed me that more clearly than all the punches of encouragement they’ve thrown at me since I first stood up in the locker room and congratulated them last week. Is that the difference tonight? That I can celebrate? That I can believe I played a good game and led my team well?

The dynamic, the comradery, the whole of us. That’s something I should feel guilty about. Shit. That’s a hard pill to swallow.

Katz yells something else, but I miss it, no doubt distracted by my thoughts, the alcohol, and the noise level of the bar. “What?” I ask just as Maysen runs to our table.

A long, drawn-out, “Fuck yeah! We made the playoffs, baby,” is yelled into the room as he slides two shot glasses our way. “Shots!”

I laugh with him. I drink with them. But the whole time I keep thinking about what Katz said and wonder why I played differently tonight.

But deep down, I know.

The weight was still there on the ice, just not as heavy as before.

The guilt was still there that I’m moving to the playoffs, I’m shaking champagne bottles in the locker room and not Jonah, but I could start to see around it.

The resentment of my dad’s text was softened by the one right below it from Dekker.

Numerous changes in such a short time, but Christ, it feels so much better. I feel so much better. And that showed in my game. And in how I relate to my team. The emotions—sadness, guilt, anger, pain—are still there, but they’re not as . . . loud. Consuming. After being bottled up for sixteen years, they feel lighter somehow. The change feels sudden, but I know it’s been gradual . . . and because of one person.

One person who saw and believed in me.

I shove up out of my seat.

“Holy shit, you okay, dude?” Katz slurs as he looks my way, his eyes half-closed, and a stack of empties on the table between us. “You sprung up like you got a rocket in your ass.”

“I’m good.” I stumble when I walk. “I’m . . . I’ve gotta go.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” His laugh carries over the noise and some of the guys turn their heads our way. “Don’t lose this guy we had tonight. He—you—were fucking awesome.”

I laugh and hold my middle finger over my head.

“Why you leaving?” Finch shouts as I walk past another table of teammates.

“Things. Gotta do things,” I say, but it has nothing to do with things.

And everything to do with someone else I want to celebrate with.

This time, when I knock on her door at one in the morning, there’s a need there, but it’s different.

This time, it’s because I want to share in something with somebody.

This time, it’s because I want her near.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

DEKKER

WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR, I’m not exactly sure which Hunter Maddox I’m going to get. The knock alone at one in the morning was unexpected, but the sight of him even more so.

“Hi,” I say. I don’t fight the grin that comes at the sight of him all disheveled and glassy-eyed or the surge of emotions that hits me seeing him on my doorstep on a night that’s obviously momentous for him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m drunk.” He shrugs, and it throws him off balance so he sways.

“So I noticed.” I lean against the half-open door and hate that the sheepish grin on his face has me gripping the handle instead of pulling him into a hug I so desperately want.

“We won.” Such a simple statement, but the emotion in his face is so pure, so relieved that it tugs on my heartstrings. It gives me hope that some of the words I said to him helped bridge the divide between his self-imprisonment and his eventual freedom.