Chapter 9 #2
She looks at me. “What did you think this was about? I wear the jersey, I support…you play. If you’re not going to be able to keep up your end of the deal, then I can’t do this. If you don’t play, there’s no benefit for me in keeping up with this relationship.”
The words land harder than I expect. Not because I want her, but because even she can see the truth: I’m worth nothing if I’m not on the ice. Not even her time.
I drag a hand over my mouth, struggling to bite back a laugh.
I can’t believe this. She’s breaking up with me, breaking our agreement.
Me. Declan Murphy. I’ve never once had a woman walk away early.
Not in my life. They’re always the ones who cling too long.
And here comes one to end it first…and early to boot.
Laughter escapes anyway and she looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“It’s been fun, Declan, but I’m out.”
I guess that’s what you get if you enter into agreements with someone who’s only in it for the jersey…not the player.
“Got it,” I say, with a sharp nod. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Melissa.”
Her eyes soften for a second as she takes me in. She steps closer and presses a kiss against my cheek.
“Good luck, Declan.” She offers half a smile before leaving.
“Thanks,” I mutter, the words tasting bitter.
The door clicks shut behind her and the silence rushes in. EJ’s warning, Harry’s PTO news, Jenn’s disappointment…it all adds up, pressing down on my chest. I lean against the wall, closing my eyes as I take a deep breath.
I don’t want to face anyone right now. I don’t have it in me to listen to their advice, see their pity and ignore their whispers.
There’s only one place I can go to drown all of this out.
* * *
The clinking of glasses and low muttering of voices is kind of soothing. At least I’m not the only one in this place tonight. That might just have been too pathetic…even for me.
Mike’s has its usual crowd of patrons. The couple in the corner who didn’t come here for the booze, the group of women knocking back tequila shots, deadset on having a good time and the usual regulars hunched over their drinks.
Except the table I usually occupy with my teammates is empty.
Seems right.
My gaze meets the older man at the other end of the bar.
His hand is shaking as he reaches for his drink, his shoulders slumped, his eyes trained on the glass in front of him.
His grey hair pokes out from beneath his faded cap as he downs his drink.
A drink that’s clearly not an escape…but rather a punishment.
Just like your father.
You knew you’d end up here, eventually.
The thought has my stomach twisting, but I still reach for the bourbon in front of me.
As much as the image of the older man sends chills down my spine, I can’t bring myself to leave the drink in front of me.
The alcohol burns down my throat, a small victory of the day.
A reminder of the promises I made to myself and to my old man echoes through my mind.
I won’t ever be like you.
I’ll be better than you, stronger than you.
It’s partially true. I’m not where he is…yet. Looking up, my gaze pauses on the image in the mirror at the back of the bar. For a second, the man staring back at me looks a bit too familiar to my liking. The same vacant eyes, shoulders carrying the same weight.
The blood in my veins feels heavier than it should.
Blood is life.
Where is that from? A movie? A song? An old sermon I blocked out years ago?
And if it’s true, does that mean my dad’s life is now mine, because his blood is in my veins?
I don’t know why this is bothering me so much.
Perhaps when the bourbon hits a certain level, the voice in your head turns into a philosopher.
The kind that forces you to shed light on your mistakes, on your choices.
That way you’ll keep drinking until they all quiet down and get back in the boxes you’ve buried them in.
Lifting two fingers, Mike sets down another drink. “Last one, right?” he asks, looking over my shoulder to our usual empty table. “Where’s the rest of the guys?”
I scoff. “Where they should be,” I say, before tossing back the drink in front of me. “It’s just me tonight, Mikey, so keep ‘em coming.”
He looks at me, his eyes narrowed for a second. He’s no stranger to my nights alone at his bar, although he usually looks a bit more friendly about it. Tonight, there’s a look of worry and disappointment swimming in his gaze.
Join the club, I think bitterly.
He tightens his mouth and nods slightly before refilling my glass.
“I’m taking your keys though,” he says, sliding the keys to my truck off the counter before I can stop him.
“Whatever you want, Mikey, just give me another.” He pours my fourth as soon as I knock back the third. “I’ll just get them from you later.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, his voice stern. “I’m not going to have you wreck your entire life tonight.”
His words tear a mirthless laugh from my throat. After everything that’s happened, a glass of bourbon is the least of my problems.
“You didn’t see?” I ask with a smirk. “It’s already pretty wrecked. We might as well have fun at the wake.” I toss back another drink, taking the bottle from him and pouring myself another. “You can just leave this here, Mikey.”
Mike sighs, but leaves me alone with my demons.
Usually when I find myself face to face with a bottle of bourbon, it’s because the anger and desperation got to be too much. But the thought of my hockey career always kept me anchored. It kept me from making stupid mistakes, from risking losing the only thing that’s worth something in my life.
But now, even that is gone. Or pretty much gone.
I’m not allowed to play for the next two weeks.
And that in itself wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Harry didn’t tell me he’s bringing in another player to try-out for my position.
I’m not even going to be there to defend it.
I can’t attend practice, I can’t work-out with the team…
for two weeks I’m on the outs while the new guy gets settled.
I pour another drink, the image in the mirror blurring a bit in front of me. The usual stop sign flashes through my mind.
Enough.
Get up and go home.
But I hesitate. I can’t phone Melissa for a distraction, because she kicked me to the curb.
I can’t even blame her. Why should she keep up her end of the bargain when I can’t do the same?
The thought of going home alone, of facing Lindgren and his giant Minnesota smile keeps me planted on the barstool.
The alcohol is filtering through my system. Numbing the thoughts, the events of tonight blurring together into a string of incoherent thoughts. Harry’s disappointment, Melissa’s scowl, EJ’s anger…and Avah.
Avah’s tears.
Avah’s icy gaze arrowing through my chest.
The feel of her beneath my hands when I caught her. She was fragile and furious all at once.
I slide off the stool, thinking I’ve had enough. If my mind keeps focusing on the blonde who hates my guts, it’s a clear sign the bourbon has officially taken over. As a hockey player who keeps in condition, it doesn’t take a lot of liquor to bring me down.
Although, I’ve been building a tolerance.
Even in my pride I can see that what once was one beer every now and then, quickly turned into a giant monster that demanded to be fed every time.
I stumble off the chair, the floor moving beneath my feet. Suddenly, the loss of control is too strong. I grab toward the first thing I can find, which is unfortunately, the dress of a woman standing at the bar.
It tears, revealing too much of her. There’s a yell, a few gasps, Mike’s wide eyes.
I lift my hands in an attempt to apologize, but the words never come out. Instead a fist connects with my eye, and the darkness welcomes me like a friend.