Page 3 of The Goalie in Room 1

Looked like the cons won tonight. Thank God.

Pressing my hands against the mattress, I dragged myself upward until I rested against the upholstered headboard. There would be no more rest for the wicked tonight. Not without the meds that still called to me from their bottles. Glancing at them, I cursed, pulled open the nightstand drawer, swiped my hand over the surface, knocking the bottles into the waiting abyss, and slammed it shut.

I grabbed my phone, opened the shopping app, and pressed buy on the item I put in the cart days ago, when the call toward those amber cylinders needled me as it did now. I refused to give in to the craving.

I wanted to be pain-free.

I wanted to go back in time to when I loved my life. To when I greeted each day happy, excited, and ready to conquer the world.

Those fucking bottles weren’t going to get me there.

The evil they contained, while necessary, also held the promise of devastation the likes of which my current situation had nothing on. I knew that all too well.

I could do this. My life had been about control and discipline for as long as I could remember.

Since the night a police officer carried me half-starved out of darkness and into the light.

Since I laced up my first pair of skates.

Since I stepped into the net.

Since I stopped my first puck.

My phone dropped to the blankets, and I replaced it with a game controller. The television hanging above the dresser came to life, and I shut off my brain, losing myself in the animated worlds on the screen.

A message popped up on the screen.

NoMercyGiven

Can’t sleep?

I sighed at the gamer tag. The kid should be asleep. He had a game later. I responded, reminding him of that fact as if he didn’t know.

NoRefunds

You should be sleeping. Nashville’s star rook needs his rest.

Almost immediately, my phone vibrated in the blankets. Shaking my head, I grappled to find it, switching the call to speakerphone as soon as it connected.

The caller’s voice echoed in the room before I could manage a hello. “I have a coach, a mom, a dad, and a Daddy who all nag me about my diet and sleep schedule. I don’t need my friends to do it too, big brother.”

Big brother. Fuck, it had been ages since Aiden Mercer first called me big brother. Years, in fact. Twelve, if my shitty-ass math skills were to be believed.

“Considering you’re calling me in the middle of the night and online⁠—”

“Shut up,” he said before falling silent. “How’s the rehab going?”

Even though I knew what he meant, I turned to look at the nightstand as the bottles in the drawer shoved themselves to the front of my mind.

“Fine.”

“I can pass for straight more convincing than that ‘Fine’ can for the truth,” he said with a laugh.

My eyes burned from rolling so hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m queer, kinky as fuck, and proudly out to all of the NHL, thanks to kissing my college coach on the ice after my first NHL win. As if you didn’t know this shit already. You’re not fucking fine.”

I swallowed. The NHL was growing more inclusive, or so they’d like the world to believe. Those of us in the room knew there was a long way to go. Nashville at least, as far as Aiden said, wasn’t homophobic. I rubbed my eyes.