In. Out.
Adrian
The noise in the arena is deafening. It’s the first game of the playoffs on home ice, and the crowd is a frantic sea of yellow and black. I splurged on the tickets for tonight; we always do a game, but never a playoff game, never on home ice, and never this close to the action. It’s been a bucket list item for both of us and with my new job and first real paycheck, I figure I owe it to the man who supported and encouraged me through everything.
Leaning across the seat, I need to yell for him to hear me over the crowd.
“This is insane, right?”
He spins in his chair to face me before replying, “What?”
I laugh and shrug him off—we can chat between periods.
The buzzer sounds, and the faceoff results in the Bruins with the puck. The crowd is lethal when the first goal sails into the net, the guy next to my dad grabbing his shoulders and shaking him back and forth.
This is the best.
When the period ends, I suggest we grab some beers and hot dogs and make our way to the concession stand. We talk about the game, and when we are outside the seated area, I take the opportunity to comment again.
“Insane in there, eh, Dad?”
He laughs, rubbing his hand across his chest.
“The guys next to us are insane; I think he gave me a concussion, shaking me around.”
“I didn’t realize how different the energy would be here. It’s unbelievable.”
We order our drinks and food and head back to our seats. By the time we get there, the arena will be quieter, and we will be able to carry on a conversation at a reasonable volume instead of screaming at each other.
“When you gonna bring a girl to this shit?” He asks.
“Dad, I have no interest in bringing a girl to this shit. It’s our thing, and I look forward to it every year. Plus, a girl would complain the whole time.”
Since school finished, he’s been on my case about getting a girlfriend, reminding me every chance he gets that he wants a granddaughter, and I’ll be the one to give it to him. However, I’m twenty years old, and a wife and kids aren’t remotely something I am interested in.
He continues to laugh, shaking his head, and his hand returns to his chest. That’s the third or fourth time he’s rubbed his chest.
“Are you alright?” I ask him, my brows pushing together with concern.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. The beer and greasy food gave me some indigestion, but I’m fine.” He replies before continuing, “You know, it’s your responsibility as a man to show your woman new things, to introduce her to things she’s never seen or tried, and to ensure she knows exactly where she’s supposed to be.”
He sets his half-eaten hot dog down on the floor, motioning that he’s done with it. The conversation is so serious for such an arena—a loud, packed NHL playoff game. I haven’t had a girlfriend since Claire…I haven’t thought about her in years.
I am lost in thought for too long, and before I know it, we are entering the third period, and my beer is bone dry.
“Dad, I’m gonna get another beer—you want one?”
He shakes his head at me without taking his eyes off the ice, and I rise and jog to the concession, which is blissfully empty of any other customers. Smart people got a beer before the period started, and I’m jogging back down to our seats within a few minutes. As I near our section, something is off—the arena is silent—and it stops me in my tracks as I scan the seats and ice to figure out what’s happening; even the players are still, all staring toward the lower part of our section.
The crowd is all on their feet, whispering to each other, and I am so confused.
What the fuck is going on?
When I arrive at our row, I see someone in weird clothes, no jersey, no beer, leaning over, and I…
Where is my dad?
I reach the guy that’s seated beside us and grab his arm, spinning him to face me.
“Where’s my dad?”
His face is somber, and he shifts nervously. He’s obviously drunk and doesn’t know what’s happening, so I shove him away and push forward. The closer I get to the person in weird clothes, the quieter it gets, and I see shoes on the ground.
My dad has those shoes.
I grab for the person in strange clothes, shake him, and he yells at me to get back. A voice screams, “Where is my dad?” but it can’t be my voice, right? I don’t recognize that voice. That voice is cracking and breaking, and it sounds like a kid, but that’s not how I sound. Right?
The ground rushes up, and I’m on my ass on cold pavement.
“I can’t find my dad…” The voice says.
Stretcher.
Ambulance.
Sirens.
Silence.
◆◆◆
My heart pounds painfully in my chest, and I claw at it before I realize that I was dreaming. Sitting up and leaning against the wall, I rub the center of my chest, where the pain lingers.
God damn, that hurts.
I’m not sure if it hurt from the dream, from the pain of losing my best friend that night, from the pain of being so fucking helpless and useless—he’d shown signs of something being wrong all night, I asked him if he was okay, but I didn’t know what I was seeing. I did nothing. I lost control when the shit hit the fan, and I tried to pull the medic off of him because I couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and I panicked. I panicked while he died.
I stand up from the bed; I start to pace the room, those words repeating in my head again and again.
I panicked while he died.
My stomach twists.
I panicked while he died.
My breath hitches.
I panicked .
He died.
SLAM
My fist connects with the wall. The sound rips through the quiet, a sickening crunch of drywall giving way. Pain shoots up my knuckles like a live wire, sharp and burning. It radiates to my elbow before settling deep in my wrist. The plaster cracks and creates a design that looks like shattered ice.
It does nothing to ease the pain in my chest.
That rushing feeling hits me again. My legs give out, and suddenly I’m on my ass, chest heaving, sweat cooling too fast against my skin. My pulse pounds in my ears, erratic, uneven—like my heart is trying to claw its way out of my fucking ribs. I cradle my busted hand in my lap, blood throbbing beneath my knuckles, swelling already setting in. My other hand rubs over my chest, desperate to knead the ache away.
Am I having a heart attack?
I move back against the bed, pressing my fist to my chest. My ribs feel like they are caving in. Like my body is still fighting a battle it’s already lost.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Check the signs. Arm? Fine. Stomach? Fine. No dizziness, no tingling. If I can calm the fuck down, my breathing will be fine. But my heart—my heart fucking hurts.
Not surprising. It’s hurt since that night.
If I hadn’t gone for another beer, if I hadn’t dragged him to Boston for that game, if I…
Stop.
I reach up and spin my alarm clock: 4:15 a.m. I might as well get dressed and head to work early since there’s not a chance in hell I’ll get back to sleep tonight. Even if I could, the threat of returning to that nightmare is too great. I can’t go back there.
I push myself up from the floor. My limbs feel like lead—slow, sluggish, uncooperative. Every muscle protests as I drag myself toward the small bathroom. The reflection that greets me is rough; thick stubble coats my face, and the bags under my eyes relay how little sleep I’ve had in the last ten years. I don’t know where to start, so I keep rubbing that space on my chest, willing the pain that’s been there since that night to go away.
I create a mental checklist and work through each thing.
· Take a shower
· Shave your face
· Have breakfast
· Prepare a lunch
· Brew a coffee
As I rub my chest to the point where a new pain emerges, I’m 99% sure I’ve rubbed the spot raw. By 5:15 a.m., I walk into the station, and everyone is still asleep. I turn on the TV and ease myself onto the couch, my hand throbbing, waiting for the world to wake up. The quiet draws me back to Lex—her defiance, her stubbornness, her fire. The way she refused to break. Would my dad have liked her? Would he have told me to make sure she knows her place and to teach her how to be my woman?
He would have hated her tattoos, that’s for sure, but I think he would have appreciated her fire. He always got a kick out of people who put me in my place, and she certainly tries to do that. I grab my phone and check the feed, and she is sleeping peacefully, wrapped in a duvet with her cat tucked under her arm.
I lock the screen and make a commitment to give myself time to focus on my busy period at work—I am still too new to this particular hall to fuck around.
My hand returns to my chest, again rubbing the sore, raw spot. I tell myself to create space. To let her prove she can listen. To give myself time to breathe, to remember who the hell I was before she sank her claws into me. But I already know the truth—she’s under my skin. And by next weekend, I’ll be right back where I started.