Chapter 30
Lars
I t doesn’t matter that Von and I rarely see each other. The bond of our childhood friendship cannot be broken so when I texted, he agreed to meet me late at night in Germany. He said he planned to come to the game so it is not an imposition. He is lying, but the guilt I have been carrying has become unbearable.
“ Hej hej ,” I greet him, and we speak rapid Swedish to catch up.
“How are things with Alec?” I ask about his boyfriend, who I still hold responsible for Von’s heartbreak.
Von’s default stern expression breaks into a wide grin. “He is amazing.” There’s a dreamy look in his eyes that I have never seen before. “I can visit again soon, and we are making it work.”
I hesitate, unsure where to begin.
“I saw the video,” he says. It’s an opening, asking to discuss it because he would never pry.
“If you are still speaking to me after what I have to tell you, we can talk about the video,” I say hesitantly.
“I am listening.” He stretches his long legs to the side of our booth in a small bar but leans closer with a look of concern.
I deliberately picked this place in case Dylon came searching for me. There’s an unread text from him asking if we can talk. I have to exorcise my demon before I face the demise of our relationship. Dread settles in my stomach as I realize I could lose my two closest friends within days of each other.
A server with a terrible cough and a red nose takes our order.
“It is about Boe.” I whisper his brother’s name, and his back crashes against the booth. “We started texting regularly about you. We could both tell your heart wasn’t in fotboll anymore, and he was concerned.”
Von quietly digests this information.
“In our offseasons, we spent time together traveling before his accident.” I give him a brief history of the progression of our relationship and coming out to each other. “But I had no idea of the severity of his injury or his abuse of pills.”
The rest of my confession is a blur, and I pour all of my anguish and guilt into a long, overdue apology. A few years too late. I should have told him sooner.
“It sounds like he lied to you,” Von says gravely. “It is what addicts do. They lie and cover up their drug use. We do not want to believe our loved ones could deceive us. I knew there was something wrong, and I tried to convince my parents.” Von lets out a slow exhale.
“Truthfully, I have felt responsible and blamed myself. I asked him to come stay with me and get better medical care, but he refused. His excuses were bullshit, and I knew it, but I did nothing. We cannot go back and change the past. I was furious he had people who loved him, yet he did not ask for help.” He bows his head, and his long blond hair shields his face from view.
I fall back against the booth, astounded. “You do not blame me?”
“How could I? He lied to us all.”
My relief cannot take hold with the looming confrontation with Dylon and his lies. As if he’s read my mind, Von lifts his head.
“Is this coming up now because of Dylon?”
I grimace. Von witnessed Dylon’s overdose, and it wrecked him. “He is very similar to Boe in the best and worst ways. You have met him, so you know he can light up a room, but…” I leave the rest unsaid, unwilling to say anything out loud because he understands .
“I am sorry for that, brother.” He reaches out and grasps my forearm. Calling me brother after what I told him lifts the weight off my chest. He truly does not blame me for not knowing and intervening with Boe’s addiction.
“You deserve happiness. But…do not give and get nothing in return.”
An argument rests on the tip of my tongue but it’s useless. He is not disparaging Dylon, only expressing his best wishes for me.
I thank him and we hug, promising to see each other after my game.
We are losing, and it’s my fault. I broke the pregame ritual with Dylon and have been avoiding him. The team notices but doesn’t say anything. Yet. If I continue to behave as if he’s another random teammate, they will question it. They think I am upset about the picture, but that excuse will not last.
Dylon lied to me.
He dismissed my feelings and concern as insignificant.
He lied to me.
Thinking back, Dylon wasn’t himself at the Halloween party. I missed something important. I don’t want to believe he lied because he was drinking, but I cannot be na?ve.
I miss the pass from Ace and charge after it. The ice is fast and the pace of the game lightning speed, and I am a step behind. I smash into the boards and am slow to recover.
Dylon fights for the puck and gets it off to Ace, but his shot is blocked.
We are down by two, and the chemistry of the entire team seems out of sync. It’s as if my uncertainty infects our playing. Coach switches things up, and I end up playing with the third line. My performance lacks skill, and it’s the worst I’ve played since entering the league. Everyone has bad games, but I’m winded as if out of shape.
“Hey, man, you okay?” Benz sits next to me on the bench. “You look pale.”
My jaw clenches but I don’t respond .
“We all have off nights. It’s part of the game, but you aren’t—”
“I am fine,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear about how badly I’m playing. Too soon it’s my shift, and I’m back in the game.
Benz tries a couple more times to talk to me, but I shake him off. There aren’t words to fix my head at this point. Liska’s having an off night in goal. Tonight, he’s playing well, but we need him to play great.
Griffin and King combine for a goal to bring us within one.
In a first for me, I tumble over the boards and lose my footing. Coach pulls me three minutes later and tells me to get my head out of my ass. My head cannot send the correct signals to my body. It’s as if I’m skating underwater.
As the stream of water from the bottle hits my throat, I have a coughing fit. Helplessly, I watch Dylon chase a rebound and take an elbow to the face from number 12. The ref misses it, and no penalty is called.
I see red.
On my next shift, the player who hit Dylon isn’t on the ice, but I manage to keep pace and get a shot off, which the goalie catches.
During Dylon’s next shift, number 12 throws him into the boards after another player strips the puck away. It’s an illegal hit, and again the refs do nothing.
Number 12 skates off the ice as I launch myself over the wall, and without slowing, my body slams into his and my elbow connects with his throat in retaliation. Adrenaline courses through me as the opposing players scream for the refs to intervene. Number 12 calls me a slur, referencing the photo of Dylon and me.
The red I saw earlier becomes black as I tackle him to the ice and punch until I’m hauled off of him, both of us covered in blood. My chest aches, and I have another coughing fit.
The ref cites me for misconduct, and I am immediately ejected from the game. My stunned teammates don’t say a word as I skate past, not looking them in the eyes .
My reputation as the protector is well known, but today I was an executioner, and I hurt my team by getting ejected. I shower and wait. As punishment, Coach sends in the assistant we refer to as Ass. He drones on and on, but I don’t listen.
We lose by three, and the locker room is subdued. There are accusatory glances, but no one speaks to me. Coach gives a scathing speech and makes it clear that if I ever attack another player like tonight, I will suffer more consequences than an ejection.
I bolt to the bus as quickly as possible and sit in the back with my headphones so no one will approach me. Dylon plops down, undeterred.
“Thank you,” he mutters. “I know you went after him for me, and I’m sorry you got ejected.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” I say, hoping there’s an explanation I can live with regarding his lie. I hate what he did, but tonight I acted on instinct. No one hurts him. Even if he’s not mine, no one touches him.
“Can we talk?” His big, sweet eyes implore me, and as much as I cannot hear another lie, I won’t say no to him.
“Drakenberg, up front,” Coach barks, and Dylon’s face falls.
I make my way to the front of the bus, and Coach points to a seat next to our other assistant coach, who offers me a look of sympathy. He’s a reprieve from the vitriol of Coach Ass. He’s the coach you go to with questions and concerns so it’s not a surprise when he asks me if I’m okay with the social media debacle and what he can do to help.
Social media does not affect my life. The team handles my account, and I rarely have any personal pictures to post. Finn keeps me updated on the meme but doesn’t tell me about the comments. The post isn’t a factor in my poor performance tonight.
My head throbs as if struck by a skate.
Something’s wrong because when I stand to get off the bus, the world tilts before I find my footing. We have a team dinner, but my body aches and I can hardly stand .
I bypass the elevator and take the stairs. The thought of being enclosed in the small space with big bodies feels like a bad idea. I don’t understand why I’m out of breath after a couple of flights of stairs.
My face hits the pillow, and I’m too tired to set an alarm. A few minutes of rest and I’ll be good as new.