Chapter 18 Noah
Eighteen
Noah
Sometimes, I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
Or maybe the sky would rip apart and drown me out. Or maybe a car passing by would have failed brakes and ram right into me.
Anything that would end my misery, that would free me of this continuous torment of having to live with the shadows and burdens of my past.
Free me from the memories that keep hounding, keep me awake at night, and if I do end up sleeping from exhaustion, they jolt me right back up.
I did manage to find some sleep last night, mostly from how sore my muscles were, brain too tired even to process, let alone dive into all the reasons why the world’s a better place without me.
Yesterday, the team had the day off to rest and get ready for today’s game, giving our bodies some time to fight like hell on the ice when it mattered. I did that for about five minutes, and then my ass was off the couch like it was on fire.
Before, I had Ezra to keep me off the ledge, to keep me company, but now he has Kaeli to spend every waking moment with. I’m happy for him, happy that he has found the love of his life when I don’t even know how that feels.
No company means no distractions, and that’s hazardous for me, especially on days when I want to reach for the end of the bottle and stay in bed.
For a quick second, I considered meeting Andie. She has a calming effect on me without even realizing it. But just as quickly, I dispel the foolish idea.
I don’t like myself on my dark days, not with the constant cloud of gloominess hanging over my head. I don’t want to dampen Andie’s energy. It’s best that I stay away from her when I’m a walking zombie.
So, left with no alternative, I decided to tire myself to the bones to try and block out the noises. I cleaned my apartment, cooked meals that could feed the entire team, and restocked the pantry.
When that wasn’t enough, I decided to head into my home gym and spent a few hours there, sweating my ass off, and picking weights and running on the treadmill until my muscles screamed at me right along with the music.
By the time I left the gym, it was around ten at night. After a shower, which now continues to haunt me with Andie’s delectable moans, I dropped on the bed face down and succumbed to the darkness.
For a few hours, everything was quiet, but then the playback started, cruelly snatching whatever little peace I had found.
In my nightmares, I’m helpless, weak, unable to protect myself as the cold seeps into my body. It’s probably from the ground.
But I slept on a bed?
Where am I?
A hand touches my shoulder, and something pricks my neck. The voices that keep terrorizing me, even when I’m an adult, follow.
It’s dark and cold, and I’m alone and also not.
I look around, trying to figure out where I am. My eyes fall on a mirror, and I walk toward it. I don’t recognize the figure looking back at me.
No, wait.
I do.
It’s me.
Younger me.
What is happening?
My eyes dart back to the child in the mirror. Shock paralyzes me when I see blood seeping into his clothes, sullying his skin.
My skin.
I’m bleeding.
Cold, rough, and cruel hands touch my back again.
No!
Stay away!
I think I shout. I can’t be sure.
Because the next second, my eyes wrench open. I stay motionless, still disoriented from my dream, and bring my hand into my sight, twisting and turning.
It’s clean.
I’m not a child.
I’m an adult.
I’m not on the floor.
I’m in my bed, in the same position that I slept in—face down.
I’m alone with no voices to be heard except for my harsh breathing. When the reality of me being far away from my hell and safe at my penthouse registers, I exhale a sharp, shuddering breath.
Squeezing my eyes shut as I press the heel of my palm into them, I turn on my back, reeling from the aftermath of the night terror. Sweat sticks to my body like second skin, and my heart races as if being chased by ghosts—maybe because it is.
I think of anything else. I think of hockey and today’s game. Put my focus into repeating the game plan for today over and over again in my mind. My thoughts eventually drift to the woman with a vibrant smile, soulful eyes, and curves in all the right places.
Andie’s thoughts and how I spent the last time we were together eating her cunt and then eating at Molly’s with her.
It reminds me of the conversation we had about those fucking friends of hers who were supposed to be with her till the end of time, not ditch her the moment it got tough. She must’ve been so lonely and scared.
I know that feeling all too well. I resent that she does too.
Because Andie Moore deserves all the good things and the right people in her life. The one thing I’m sure of in this life is that I’m none of those—neither right nor good.
I shouldn’t even be spending time with her. But honestly, I’m too weak and too far gone to stay away. I’ll take whatever crumbs she’s willing to throw at me, even though she shouldn’t.
A good man would warn her.
I never claimed to be one.
The buzzing of my phone breaks my selfish spiral, my eyes fluttering awake, the blurriness receding as the ceiling comes into view. Thinking that it must be my alarm, I let the phone ring until it silences itself.
But then it rings again, and my brows furrow. Who would call me this early? It’s not even five in the morning if that wasn’t my alarm.
My joints protest when I turn and sit up, stretching my hand to get my phone. Yeah, maybe punishing myself and running myself into the ground might not have been my best idea. But by now, my body is too accustomed to pain that half the time it doesn’t even register.
The shadows that receded a bit by thinking of Andie, barrel back with full force when the name on my screen glares at me, taunting me, reminding me of a time in my life I’d rather forget.
My body freezes, the phantom ache in my neck and other places resurges with a brutal echo of the past. I don’t have to touch my skin to know that it’s all in my head and that my scars are healed, no blood and no pain.
The screen goes black when I don’t answer, my phone still in my hand as the floor grounds me, reminds me I’m here, and I’m okay. That they are far away from me.
That assurance lasts for only a second as the screen lights up again, flashing Dad’s name with an incoming call.
Henry Miller does that whenever he needs something from me.
Any other time, I might’ve answered, but today I need to be one hundred percent between the pipes to hold down the fort.
It’s the playoffs, and I can’t afford to slack off, not when we are so close to making it, not when we’re playing our Division Semifinals.
Henry and whatever he has to say will only distract me from my goal, and it’s not the kind of distraction I need.
I silence the phone and let it ring a couple more times before he finally gets the message and stops calling.
I could’ve declined it, but in his twisted brain, he’d have seen it as a challenge and would’ve kept calling me. It’s better to let his calls go to voicemail.
Determined to keep my head on straight and focus on the game ahead, I take a quick shower, grab my duffel, cap, and car keys, and head out to the arena for a quick practice before the game tonight.
* * *
The day bleeds into night, and I find myself staring down the Toronto players as we head into the final period.
My breaths fog the visor, the sound of the crowd turning into a static buzz, as I put all of my awareness and strength into blocking their shots.
Toronto is playing dirty; they’re desperate to win. Totally reasonable, but what’s not reasonable is ramming my guys into the boards, sliding their sticks between my team’s blades with the intention to give them an injury that might end their career.
With each period, they’ve been getting too cocky, too reckless, and too annoying for me to keep my mounting anger in check.
I hold on to it, hold on to the rage simmering under my skin and expelling it the right way by stopping each of their shots and rebounds. But even a non-violent guy like me has his limit, and that’s tested the moment the puck for the final period drops.
Their dirty fucking play starts once again when the puck rims around the boards behind my net.
I track it automatically, shoulders tight, stick angled to cut off the wraparound lane.
Their winger crashes the corner harder than necessary, driving our defenseman, Levi, into the glass with a bone-rattling hit.
I glance up the ice through the cage of my mask to see the puck squirting loose to the slot.
“Shot!” someone yells, as my team tries their damnest to get the puck into their possession.
A slap shot explodes off the blade, and I drop into the butterfly instinctively—pads flaring, chest square, leaving no space to reach inside. The puck hammers into my blocker and ricochets straight down into the crease.
Rebound.
That’s when the true chaos ensues.
I see it before it happens.
Their center barrels in like a freight train, stick swinging wildly for the loose puck. Instead of jamming it toward the net, he plows straight into me. Hard.
His shoulder slams into my chest protector and sends me sprawling backward into the goal frame. My mask snaps sideways. The net jolts off its pegs.
Then the cocky bastard does something he shouldn’t.
While I’m down in the blue paint, he shoves the blade of his stick into my ribs and jabs again, trying to dig the puck out from under my pads.
Pain flares in my body.
For a split second, the arena goes dead silent in my ear—even the buzzing stops.
And then all hell breaks fucking loose.
“No one touches my goalie!” Ezra’s voice reaches from somewhere behind the douchebag.
I barely have time to get back up when Seb launches himself across the crease like a heat-seeking missile. When I finally do get back to my feet, a drop of sweat falling over my lashes, it’s to see the gloves dropping.
Ezra is not far behind as he fists the front of their center’s jersey and yanks him backward, far from me, shoving Seb back and handling it on his own. Ezra’s face screams murder, and a lesser person would really be afraid for their life.
Seb grabs the guy who stuck his stick between his blades in the last period, and Levi punches the guy who slammed him into the boards.
On the ice, every player has grabbed one from the other team as they erupt into a fight. Sticks clatter across the ice, gloves scatter like dead birds. Bodies slam into the boards and the ice, the referees’ whistles falling on dead ears.
It’s a full line brawl, and the crowd is eating it the fuck up as they shake the arena with their screams, hands tapping the plexiglass.
I catch my breath, the pain still flaring as I take in the chaos. Our captain is in the middle of it now, shoving their center backward while shouting something I can’t hear.
The referees try to frantically control the herd on the ice, but my team is not having it. Because there’s an unwritten rule in ice hockey.
A sacred one.
You can hit anyone on the ice.
But you do not touch the fucking goalie.
Having had enough of the chaos, the linesmen jump into the pile to separate bodies. Once Ezra has been forcefully separated from their center, he skates to me and taps my pads with his stick. “You good?”
I nod once behind the mask, noting his still tight expressions. For me. He’s angry for me. Seeing him having my back so fiercely gives way to the ever-present guilt of being with his sister behind his back.
I’m the worst fucking best friend.
Unable to look at him, my gaze darts across the ice to see their center being hauled toward the penalty box, jersey half ripped off his shoulder.
Judging by the way my entire team is glaring at him, the next shift is going to be uglier.
We play the next round and snag the win, the team celebrating in the locker room. Their faces split into vicious and proud grins.
I still feel the prick of the guilt churning in my stomach when I look at Ezra and the trust shining in his eyes.
The bastard that I am, even that doesn’t make me want to give Andie up.