26. Jack
Jack
Five days, still no Izzy since I saw her at Brooks’s show in Boston.
I can’t get my fucking gear on. My hands keep fumbling the straps, fingers shaking like I’ve never done this before. There’s a gnawing tightness in my chest that won’t let up, and the fluorescent lights are making my head pound.
“Have you seen this yet?” Noah asks Bosko beside me.
“No, you got a video?” Connor jumps to his feet and wedges himself between Bosko and Noah.
Alex kicks my skate, bringing my attention back to him.
I know what’s going to happen before the video plays, but I’m still not prepared.
The guys rallied and took me out last night.
Well, Alex had to practically drag me off the couch.
They made me eat something, some gross grain bowl with soggy greens they grabbed from the deli across from my building.
Then, they agreed it was best that I go with them to karaoke for emotional support.
It was annoying, but not nearly as terrible as when I hear Alex and me butcher “Purple Rain.”
Emotional support? Right. Those fuckers bought three rounds of shots, then shoved Alex and me onto the stage.
Alex snickers as Bosko pries the phone out of Noah’s hand. “Whose brilliant idea was this?”
“Mine.” Connor runs his hand through his short brown hair, beaming. The smug bastard. “You’re welcome.”
“Way to kick a man when he’s down, Fitzy. I expected better.”
Noah steps in, always trying to insert himself into our group. “He’s not drunk, and he’s at practice on time. Take the win, Bosko.”
Our captain shoots him a warning glare. One I was also on the receiving end of when I was first traded here.
“Hey.” Alex slaps my shoulder. “You good, Murph? You look like shit.”
I force a grin, but it doesn’t feel right. “Yeah, thanks.”
Bosko leans over, dropping his voice. “Seriously, though, when’s the last time you slept?”
Slept? I haven’t slept much, but when I do, it’s on the couch. I can’t sleep in my bed, convinced I can still smell her perfume. Can still remember her tucked beside me, the way the light filtered through the white sheets as we burrowed beneath, stealing away from the rest of the world. Just us.
I really liked us. And I never thought I would ever say that about anyone.
“I’m fine.” I yank on my gloves. They stick to my sweaty palms. “Let’s just get on the ice. We have a game to win tomorrow. Detroit’s going to be hard to beat.”
Everyone exchanges worried looks, but they don’t say anything else. Good. I swear I can hear the hum of the lights, and it’s pissing me off.
But this is fine. I’m fine. I’ll fix this mess.
I dig my skates into the ice, pivot, and take control of the puck.
It’s been me and the ice for years. It’s what I understand, how best to move through the world.
“Murph!” Noah yells.
I ignore him, wind up for a shot I have no business making, and almost clip Detroit’s goalie in the helmet.
“What the fuck, man?” he growls as I skate past him.
Detroit’s defenseman, Reynolds, checks me. “Don’t start shit, Murph.”
Just to piss him off, I snag the puck back and dart between everyone, my focus laser tight. With a flick of my wrist, the puck sails past the goalie into the net. The air horn is the same deep boom as my heart in my chest.
“You’re an asshole tonight,” Noah says, pulling me in for a quick hug. “I like it.”
I break away, quickly taking in the fans on their feet, cheering. This used to feel better. I fucking hate that tonight, it doesn’t matter. Not this goal or the next, which I end up scoring four minutes later.
“Murphy!” Coach yells as I hop over to the bench after the line change. His arms are crossed, and he’s glaring, which is never a good sign.
I squirt a stream of water into my mouth from my water bottle, leaning forward on my knees to catch my breath, and watch my teammates on the ice. I’m pushing too hard tonight, playing like a selfish prick.
“I don’t know what hair fell across your ass today,” he growls, bending to get in my face, “but calm down before you hurt someone. You included.”
“I’m fine.” My jaw tics. “We’re going to win if I keep it up.”
“You’re too angry. That’s how people get hurt. Get your head right or I’ll fucking bench you.”
I keep my mouth shut. No point in arguing. I nod, blankly staring ahead.
Izzy asked me why I couldn’t say I loved her, and I just stood there. Twice.
Couldn’t get the words out, and she damn well deserves so much more. She deserves better than this version of me. But if I keep skating, keep moving, maybe it’ll be enough to outrun the thought of her tonight.
Once the second period starts, AC/DC blares through the arena, and my sour-ass mood only worsens. The team loves to play “TNT” to spur me on, and the fans know what that means. I’m itching for a fight, sure, but I can’t seem to get out of my own way right now.
I skate like when I knew scouts were in the arena back in high school, like when I first played in Oregon, determined to win over everyone and so desperately alone, like when I first came back to Boston to play for the Breakers, proud to have finally made it.
Funny how I keep moving that goal post. I’ll be happy when. I’m so busy being the funny guy, the fan’s favorite, that I’ve ignored completely that I’ve been at war with myself for years. It’s exhausting. And I’m so fucking tired.
“Fuck, Murph!” Alex yells. “Murphy!”
But it’s too late. A stick tangles in my skate. I’m going too fast, the boards rushing up to meet me, and I can’t stop. Can’t turn. Can’t—
The crack is loud. My helmet. My head.
White flash. Blinding.
I swear I can smell Izzy’s vanilla perfume, feel the ghost of her hand on my cheek, the weight of her lips against mine.
The ringing continues, like I’m underwater, and the edges of the rink far away. I blink my eyes open, slowly drawing focus to the body in front of me, the gloves he tosses to the ground. Someone is yelling my name, and I realize Reynolds is about to throw a punch.
My body is slow, my mind even slower to follow, before everything snaps into focus.
I walked away from Izzy for this?
Fans are screaming, banging their fists against the plexiglass, eager for me to fight. I look toward the tunnel instead, my heart not here but back in Merritt Point. I have to choose myself before I can choose her.
And tonight, for the first time in my career, I keep my gloves on. I don’t give them the show. I just skate away.
The trainer pulled me aside. No concussion, just a hard hit. But I didn’t score again the rest of the game.
I peel off my gear in the locker room, moving on autopilot.
I’ve been so focused on being Jack Murphy that I’ve forgotten I’m just Jack. The guy with a brain that can break. A career that can and will end.
And then what?
That rink project with Summit is supposed to be my way out. My future.
And Izzy.
God, Izzy.
That’s what actually matters. The only thing that’s ever mattered in all of this mess, and I still managed to screw it up.
My teammates pack up their gear and shower. Someone mentions that their family’s coming on Friday for the holidays. Another shares that his girlfriend is flying in from San Francisco. Their voices all blur together until Bosko’s cuts through.
“What are you going to do about Izzy?” He stuffs Princess Beanie, the shaggy purple teddy bear Lily gave him, back into his duffel.
She made him pinkie swear at the start of the season to always have the bear in his locker so he won’t forget her when he’s on the ice. And he’s such a good dad, he does it.
“What about her?”
“She was really good for you. You’re just going to give up?”
“Not sure I deserve her.”
There’s a long pause. Then Bosko shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tight. “You finally found someone who can put up with you, wants to cheer you on, and that’s it?” Bosko leans forward. “Never knew you to be a quitter.”
“I’m not.”
“Murphy, you just got your bell rung because you’re too stubborn to deal with your shit. Fix it before you do something even stupider, and it’s too late.”
Silence wraps around me as everyone files out, leaving me behind with only the buzz of the overhead lights and the smell of sweat and ice. I sit there, staring at the floor until movement catches my eye. Alex stands in front of me, swinging the keys to his Land Rover around his index finger.
“Come on.”
“What?”
“I’m driving you home, bud.”
“I’m fine. I can—”
“Murph, you just hit the boards headfirst because you’re too fucked up over a girl to skate straight. You’re not driving. Let’s go.”
I want to argue, but instead, I grab my bag and follow him out to the private parking garage.
We drive in silence for the first five minutes. Alex’s jaw is tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. The city streaks past us, everything blurry as the windows fog and a cool, icy drizzle falls.
“You know, we’ve been friends for a while, but do you know what the worst part is?” he asks suddenly, tapping the brakes a little too fast at the red light. I grip the door handle, shooting him an annoyed glare.
“What?”
“Watching you throw yourself into the boards because you’re too chickenshit to deal with your feelings.” His voice cracks, just once. “Meanwhile, I’d give anything to fix mine.”
I blink, my brain still stubbornly too sluggish to catch up.
“Molly thinks I don’t care enough about…” He gestures at the windshield, like the word is somewhere out there in the dark. “Everything. Maybe she’s right.”
Alex and Molly always seemed solid. Hell, I was the best man at their wedding three years ago.
“She says I’m married to hockey. That I care more about wins than her, than the idea of a family.” His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “I keep telling her, after this season. Just one more run for the Cup, and I’ll be ready to try.”
He exhales hard, and I can almost hear it—the sound of something breaking. It’s the same sound I made in Izzy’s living room when I realized we were done. The same sound I made watching her drive off in my brother’s truck at the club.
“At least I’m trying though. We started couples therapy last week. I showed up. You? You had something good, and you ran.”
“I didn’t run.”
“Oh, not telling her you loved her? That’s running, man.”
Damn it. I should never have told him about that.
I slump back in my seat, and the car goes quiet except for the wipers sweeping over the windshield. I stare at the blur of headlights in the rain as we merge onto Storrow.
He’s right. He’s absolutely right.
“My scans are clean.” The words come out before I can change my mind.
“But I still can’t shake these wicked headaches.
The light, the noise—it’s like my brain is trying to vibrate out of my skull.
Sometimes, I lose words mid-sentence, or my hands shake, and I have to pretend I’m fine.
” I exhale, rolling my head over to look at my best friend.
“I don’t know how much longer I can keep hiding it. ”
We pull up outside my building, the quiet so loud between us.
“Coach, hell, even Bosko, I can understand. But you weren’t going to say anything to me?”
“I don’t want the team to bench me. I want to be the one who decides when it’s done.” My jaw tightens. “But there’s too much to lose now, if I haven’t fucked it up enough.”
“It’s not like I’m going to snitch on you, but fuck, man. You can’t hide that. Hockey is one thing. We all live for this game. But you can’t chance killing yourself because you’re too proud—”
“Scared,” I correct. “Scared shitless,” I scoff.
“That’s why you didn’t fight tonight?”
“Yeah.”
He drums his fingers over the steering wheel for another long minute. “Promise me you’re going to figure it out.”
“I’m trying.” I bump my fist against his shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.” I jump out to grab my bag from the back seat, every movement stiff.
“Murphy.” Alex twists in his seat, his face shadowed in the dashboard glow. “Don’t waste this. Some of us don’t get second chances.”
The soft crack in his voice wedges its way into my chest. He’s not lecturing now; it’s a plea.
“You and Molly gonna be okay?”
He runs his hand over his face. “I don’t know.”
I grip the door, keeping my balance. “Alex.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. Not just for the ride. For… caring.”
He nods once. “That’s what friends do, Murphy. They show up. Now go rest. Call me if you need anything.”
Upstairs, my penthouse doesn’t feel right when I push through the door.
I think I hate it now. It’s too big, too…
clean. I miss the sound of her laughing in the kitchen, her dancing around my living room to ABBA.
Her stack of books is still by the ottoman, spines creased.
She was still at the beginning of the book on top of the stack. I wonder if she’ll want it back.
I change into sweats, turn on some mindless TV, and scour the freezer for the pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
I drop onto the couch and let my head gently fall back against the cushions.
The ice cream pint sweats in my hand. The cold bites my palm, but it’s not enough to numb the ache behind my eyes.
My phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. I stare at it like it might blink first.
Picking it up, I scroll through my camera roll.
Her smile.
The one she gave me that morning in my bed, sleepy and soft, like she’d never been happier. God, I miss that smile.
The only thing I could think about when I hit those boards was that I never told her.
What if I’d woken up and couldn’t remember her? What if I’d never woken up at all? The rink project doesn’t matter if I’m dead. But Izzy? Izzy matters.
She always did.
After tomorrow’s practice, I’m going back to Merritt Point to see her. Even if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Even if she tells me it’s too late. Even if I’m terrified.
I’ll show up, because that’s what love is, right? Showing up. Being seen. Saying the hard things. Love is the moment you finally stop running.
Tomorrow, I’m going home to Merritt Point for Izzy.