6. Pope
Chapter 6
Pope
Sometimes I go to bed fine and wake up drowning in darkness.
Other times, I can feel myself slipping as the days pass. It’s slow. Steady. It’s worse . There’s a hope that lingers. Like maybe if I just claw my way through it, if I fight hard enough, think positively enough, I can keep from going under. And sometimes I can. Sometimes I stay suspended in a place of not-good-not-bad , a place of free fall, until things are good again. It’s rare, but it happens just enough to keep that stupid hope alive.
I’m slipping today.
I’ve been slipping for the past few days, if I’m being honest.
Ever since that goddamn interview.
There’s an itch under my skin. I don’t know if I want to crawl under my blankets and hide or toss my head back and scream until my throat bleeds. Obviously, I do neither.
What I do do is fuck up my drills. I miss every single practice goal. I struggle to crack jokes and laugh with the guys.
And I feel Hayden watching me the whole time. Watching me more than ever. Studying me. Even when I’m certain he can’t possibly have his eyes on me, I feel them anyway.
I try convincing myself it’s in my head, but it can’t be. I catch him doing it too many times. Day after day, the man is watching me. Why? Did he see the interview from the first game? Has he looked into my past? What the fuck is his problem?
I want to storm into the AT room the minute practice is over to tell him that I’m sick of his attention. If I was in a cartoon, I’d have steam coming out of my ears and nose. Instead, I take a long shower, forcing myself to breathe through all of the feelings clashing inside of me. I dig my fingernails into the tile wall until I worry they’ll break, desperate to hold on to something .
Anything .
Just a little longer and maybe it’ll pass. Just a little longer and maybe I’ll make it through this round unscathed.
“Pope.”
I don’t look away from the tile, but I turn my chin to give Jules my attention. “Yeah?”
“You coming, man? You’re my ride.”
“Right. Yeah.” I peel my hands off the tile, finger by finger. I feel my mind slip a little further the moment I lose contact. “I’m coming.”
It’s seven. I always eat breakfast at seven. I’m not hungry, but I eat. Eggs. Wheat toast. Cottage cheese. Fruit. Vitamins. Gatorade. Protein shake.
Jules drives us to our last practice before we fly to Colorado. We talk about our two games this weekend. He laughs. I laugh.
God, I’m so fucking tired .
But hockey is my beacon. I follow my routine. I hit the ice. I sink into muscle memory and habits. Coach yells at me to focus. To get my head out of my ass. I blink at him. Nod. Apologize. Fuck up again.
I excuse myself to the bathroom with another apology. I splash water on my face. I look in the mirror. I tell myself, “You’re real. You’re alive. Get it the fuck together.” I watch my lips form the words. I hear them. It’s progress, I think.
I sneak into my duffel and chug a caffeine drink that’s terrible for me. They always make me crash hard, and I think sometimes they make me even worse mentally after they’re out of my system, but they usually give me a boost first. That’s all I need to get through practice. Then I can crash on the plane to Colorado and sleep all of the effects off in the hotel room tonight.
The drink has my skin buzzing by the time I’m on the ice again. It’s not necessarily a pleasant feeling, but it’s better than being numb, and when the puck is passed to me next, I finally hit my mark.
“Pope!” Jules barks just before someone reaches out and violently shakes my body. I roll onto my back with a groan, a vague sense of wrongness swimming to the surface as I try to wake up.
“Fuck, man.” He drops on the edge of my bed and gives me a bewildered look. “I thought maybe you fucking died. Don’t do that to me.”
I frown at him. “What?”
“You were out cold. Jesus. Have you been sleeping this entire fucking time?”
“I—” I pause to think, trying to piece memories together. I had felt myself crashing hard after yesterday’s practice, barely managing to stumble onto the plane before falling asleep. He had practically dragged me into our shared hotel room before telling me he was heading out with the guys before curfew. I don’t even remember responding to him before going under again. That couldn’t have been that long ago, though, right?
“Been sleeping since I got here,” I tell him.
“Dude.” He’s back to looking concerned. It’s a strange look on the usually happy-go-lucky man. “It’s been, like, eighteen fucking hours.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“I went home with someone from the bar and just snuck back in. Brosy, we have to leave for our pre-game skate in twenty minutes.”
I jolt upright, swallowing a groan as my body protests. Everything aches, my muscles stiff from being still for so long. I’m thirsty as fuck, too. And my head is pounding. “You should’a came back sooner, asshole.”
“I didn’t know you were in here sleeping like a fucking vampire!” he says in exasperation. “Why the fuck did you sleep so long, eh? Are you sick or something?”
“Maybe,” I mumble, rubbing at my neck. My mind is starting to settle now that I’m fully awake. It feels… steady. Not great, but definitely not bad. Maybe I can turn this day around and make it good. I could really use a good day.
“Well, get ’er moving or I’m leaving your ass here.” He wrinkles his nose. “And I’d probably shower, dude. You reek.”
I flip him off, but then I catch a whiff of myself and can’t argue. No one deserves to have to smell that today.
After miraculously managing to shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed in time, I grab my carry bag and head into the hall to meet Jules. He earns the title of roommate of the year when he hands me a bottle of Gatorade and a breakfast burrito, before shoving a protein shake into the pocket of my sweatpants. “Don’t go dying on me, asshole. You’re the best player we have.”
I chuckle, fumbling with my breakfast as I try to take a bite of the burrito. “Thanks for the concern. I’ll do my best.”
His concern actually is kind of nice. I’ve been missing the camaraderie I had with the guys back in juniors and college. I miss that team feeling. That family feeling. It makes it even harder to be struggling with the shit inside my mind without that support system in place. Coming here after thinking I’d have a spot on the Devils—where I already made friends those first days and managed to secure an invite to live at Ryan fucking Cossa’s house—sort of took the energy out of me. I didn’t have the desire to make friends. I just wanted to keep my head down and get through each day.
As friends go though, Jules is a good one to have, it seems. Not a bad way to start.
Maybe this day really is going to be a good one.
Jules’s concern loses its pleasantness the moment we run into Hayden in the line for the bus that’ll take us all to the arena.
“Yo, Hayden!” Jules calls, grabbing the man’s attention that wasn’t on me for once. “This is perfect. Do you have any cold medicine or anything? Pope is sick.”
I internally wince as Hayden’s piercing gaze snaps to me, worry immediately weaving through his expression. “You’re sick?”
“It’s noth—”
“He slept from when he got off the bus last night to about twenty minutes ago,” Jules explains. “He’s clearly coming down with something. We need him if we have any hope of beating Colorado.”
Hayden nods slowly, his eyes never leaving me. “Why don’t you come with me when we get to the arena? I’ll get you something before the game starts.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. When he just arches a brow at me, I add, “I was tired. This level of gameplay is taking a lot out of me, I guess. Seriously, I’m okay.”
“Just let him help, brosy,” Jules argues, looking at me like I’m crazy. “Who wants to feel sick?”
I run a hand down my face, realizing I’ve seriously fucked myself this time. The last thing I want is to take some cold medicine I don’t even need and end up doubling my brain fog and exhaustion. Especially since I’m finally starting to feel a little better today. But if they’re convinced I’m sick, it’s safer than them finding out the truth, isn’t it?
“Just come see me if you change your mind,” Hayden says, giving me a look like he’s sympathizing with me. It knots my stomach. I don’t want him to sympathize. I just want him to leave me the fuck alone. “Have a good game.”
I devote myself to doing just that, refusing to let my mind spin or my skin crawl or my exhaustion sink in. At least, for the first period.
By the second, I’m crumbling.
By the third, I’m benched.
We lose. It might be in my head, but it feels like all of the guys are looking at me. Judging me. Blaming me. Two games in a row now, I’ve completely flopped and let them down. I have a feeling tomorrow won’t be any better either. It makes my stomach ache with shame. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not when the exhaustion starts to overcome that feeling.
And then I see what’s waiting for me in my stall and it all just gets so much worse. It’s a smoothie in a shaker cup, condensation on the sides and a sticky note on the lid. The writing is loopy and slightly slanted. Drink this. It’ll help.
Help with what? The fake cold? Or the depression?
I’m too terrified to find out.
I stuff it in my bag until we get back to the hotel, but the knowledge that it’s there is too much to ignore. I sit on the bed with it on the table beside me, staring at the way it’s starting to separate into layers as it warms. Jules frowns at me when he sits on his bed and sees my stare down with the smoothie. “What’s that?”
“A message,” I grumble. “Possibly.”
“O…kay.” He tilts his head as if looking at the smoothie from a different angle will help him understand. “What’s it saying?”
“No fucking idea.”
He grunts. “You know you’re weird, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, distracted by the colors of the smoothie. Should I have tasted it to see the ingredients? What would they tell me? Orange would mean cold remedy, right? Or does Vitamin C help depression too?
“Are you going to drink it, at least?” he asks.
“It’s warm now.”
“Why’d you let it get warm?”
“Because I’m trying to figure out the message,” I say, trying not to let my voice reflect my exasperation.
Jules hums thoughtfully. He rests his elbows on his thighs and leans forward to inspect the smoothie. “Should we take notes?”
“What would we write down?”
“I don’t know. It’s greenish. Maybe that’s some sort of clue?” Before I can respond, he follows his first question up with a second. “Who gave it to you? A hot barista or something? Oh, maybe you have to drink it and her number is at the bottom!”
I can’t help but smile at his excitement, even as the back of my mind starts going into panic mode. I can’t tell him it’s from Hayden or he’ll want to know why I think Hayden is sending me a message. The last thing I need is another person catching onto the fact that I have a secret.
“I’m not drinking it,” I decide to say, not confirming or denying the barista theory. “But I’ll pour it out and check.”
He follows me to the bathroom, giddy with excitement. I roll my eyes at him before pouring the smoothie down the sink. When nothing appears, he takes the cup from me and rinses it out so the inside is back to clear. There’s obviously still nothing to find. He frowns. “Well, that was anticlimactic.”
“Sorry.”
He grunts, handing me the dripping cup. “Next time, just be straight forward and ask her for her number, eh? Women like it when you take initiative.”
Maybe he has a point. Hayden isn’t a woman—and I don’t want his damn number—but maybe I just need to make up a reasonable excuse for why I’ve been off lately, give it to him, then politely ask him to leave me the fuck alone.
Jules is already walking away as I mumble, “That just might work.”
It’s always harder when you play two nights in a row. Having barely slept last night doesn’t help matters. I’m exhausted and paranoid and my skin is all itchy again.
Jules naps before the game, but I just lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, analyzing the way Hayden watched me again this morning. The plan is to tell him to back off after the game, but what if he doesn’t listen? Or what if he uses the request as another clue to figure out my secret? What if he tells Coach something is up?
It’s paranoia. I know that. But just like my depression doesn’t give two fucks if I have a valid reason to feel sad, my anxiety doesn’t give two fucks about logic.
By the time we’re entering the dressing room to get ready, I’m a live-wire.
When Jules sits on the bench beside me and chews his protein bar with his mouth open, I almost slam his face into his stall. When I can’t find my tape for my stick, I want to tear the dressing room apart until all that’s left is destruction. When Kirkland asks what has my panties in a twist, I turn my back and grit my teeth to keep from barking at him to shut the fuck up.
Coach comes in, giving us his final talk before leaving us to get our heads in the zone. I look away, intending to return my focus to my stick, but my gaze snags on someone just a few feet from where Coach was standing.
Hayden .
He’s watching me again.
Three minutes into the game, I snap.
Some asshole shoves Kirkland into the boards, a dirty hit that isn’t called, and I fucking lose it. The asshole is only halfway to his feet, having fallen over after the hit. I’ve got my gloves off before I even reach him, grabbing his jersey and helping him upright so I can land the first punch right on his mouth. He makes a satisfying sound before his gloves are off and his hands are clawing at my neck and face. I scrabble with him, my knuckles connecting with his jaw in a hit so hard my hand bursts with pain. I welcome the hurt, welcome the chaos, welcome the thrum of adrenaline in my veins that makes me feel alive.
We crash into the goal, Knut shouting something angry in Norwegian at us. The refs descend, as do a few guys in purple. I’m yanked away from the asshole as I spit venomous words I don’t even mean. For fuck’s sake, I don’t even know the asshole’s name. I just know that the darkness inside of me was either going to take me or him, and I chose him.
I’m shoved toward the bench by Jules and Kirkland, but Coach is already pointing at the sin bin. I can’t hear the ref’s determination through the roar of my blood and the crowd, but it’s helpfully up on the Jumbotron when I take my seat and look up. A misconduct for inciting and a fighting major. Fifteen fucking minutes. Shit.
At least the other guy has five minutes. Still, a ten minute power play is a bitch. Coach is going to have my ass for that. The whole team probably will.
I bang my head back against the glass of the box, ignoring the fans that are banging their hands on the other side.
“Stop that!” someone barks. I look up to find Hayden standing in front of me, his bag over his shoulder and an ice pack in his hand. “Trying to add a concussion to your night?”
“I’d rather a concussion than you,” I grumble, too exhausted now to play games with him.
“See, the problem with that is that a concussion would get you more of me, not less.” He slaps the ice pack down on my right hand where it rests on my thigh, ignoring my wince from it hitting my abused knuckles.
I look away from him, making eye contact with a box attendant who hands me a towel and points a finger at their nose. I give them a nod in thanks and bring it to my face. Sure enough, it starts soaking up blood I hadn’t even noticed was spilling.
Hayden’s eyes are intense when I make the mistake of looking at him again. I try to tell myself to look away, but my brain doesn’t listen. It’s officially over me and my bullshit tonight. It’s exhausted and wants to go home. If I won’t listen, neither will it.
When Hayden takes the towel from me, I just sit there and allow it. He tips my chin up and to the side, then the other side, his eyes focusing on my nose. I allow that too. My skin feels hotter wherever he touches it, almost electric, but that makes sense. It’s fucking freezing in the arena and his hands are warm.
“Well, it doesn’t look broken.” He meets my eyes. “Can you breathe through both nostrils?”
“Yeah.”
He hands me a fresh towel, still watching me with that calculating look he seems so fond of. There’s blood in my mouth, so I spit it on the floor between my skates before bringing the towel to my nose. I look out at the ice, pretending he’s not inches away, studying me.
“Does anything else hurt?” he asks.
“No.” I track the puck on the ice, trying not to wince as I notice how much my team is struggling out there. They’re not even a man down yet, the guy to my left having a minute remaining on his penalty. “I’m fine.”
“ Fine ,” Hayden repeats, sounding almost angry. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard you use that word since I met you?”
I snap my gaze back to him, something rolling in my stomach. “You been spying on me?”
His expression immediately floods with guilt. I had a feeling he was, I’d caught him enough times and he’d admitted to knowing about my night skates, but knowing for sure is so much worse. What has he learned?
“Pope—”
“Stop watching me,” I growl before he can finish. “Stop analyzing me. Whatever your game is, just fucking stop .”
“I’m doing my job .”
“Your job is done,” I tell him. “I’m handled. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
He doesn’t leave or look away, his eyes locked with mine. I refuse to back down, staring right back. It isn’t until the buzzer goes off to our left, indicating that the guy I fought is free to go back on the ice, that he finally looks away. It should feel like a win, but it doesn’t.
All I feel is empty.
“Is he good?” Assistant Coach Jeffries asks, sticking his head in to look at Hayden.
Hayden gives him a tight smile. “Yeah. Once his penalty is over, he’s cleared.” He looks over at me before adding. “He’s fine .”
It’s a lie. I’m far from fine.
We both know that now.
I hate him for figuring it out. For being dangerously close to the rest of my truth.
I hate him for looking like he’s not going to give up until he discovers it all.