Chapter 8
PEYTON
I didn’t know what to make of Avery. No one seemed to.
Even after Eminem came back—he only missed one game—our captain was still edgy in ways that were hard to define.
He socialized in the locker room and in the players’ lounge, but it seemed…
forced? Like it took work to laugh at things that would’ve had him rolling before? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
During games, his temper flared explosively fast. He’d rarely been one to drop gloves throughout his career, but in the last four games, he’d been in two fights.
Three if you counted the brief scuffle that the refs broke up before it escalated.
All of those scrums had been on the heels of an opposing player committing a dirty but not overly egregious play. Slashing. Tripping. A rough check.
He’d almost gotten into it after someone slashed Davis hard enough to send him off the ice for a couple of shifts until his hand stopped tingling.
Another time, a player checked me when I didn’t have the puck, shoving me against the goal just right to knock it from its mooring.
The refs didn’t bother to call the obvious interference penalty, but they did blow the whistle because the net was dislodged.
That stoppage gave Ollie, one of our defensemen, a chance to get in Avery’s way and talk him down from a fight.
Throughout his whole career, even as far back as major juniors, he’d been known for having a cool head most of the time. He could lose his shit just like any hockey player, but he was extremely disciplined most of the time.
These days? Holy hell.
And judging by the worried and sometimes uncomfortable glances our teammates threw his way when he wasn’t looking, I wasn’t imagining anything.
I sometimes caught his longtime teammates—especially Baddy and Eminem—murmuring to each other and exchanging concerned glances.
The whole vibe around the locker room was that something was wrong, but no one wanted to be the one to bring it up.
I didn’t know how to bring it up, if I should bring it up, or who I should bring it up to.
The best thing I could think of at this point was to defer to the men who knew him best, especially Eminem and Baddy.
Though they didn’t seem to know what to do about him either. What Baddy did do was lean hard into his role as alternate captain; he stepped up and led the younger guys. I saw him consulting with Coach during practices and intermissions. Mix, the other alternate, followed his lead.
So they seemed to know something was off about Avery, but they didn’t have a clue how to address it or if they should, only that they should step up.
That wasn’t to say Avery wasn’t doing his job as captain. Most of the time, he was exactly what a captain should be—a leader. Encouraging all of us. Guiding the young players. Meeting with Coach on the ice and behind closed doors. He was still living up to the C on his sweater.
But there were moments when, despite his best efforts, he seemed… brittle. Distracted. Uncharacteristically volatile.
Something is wrong.
Everyone can see it.
What do we do about it?
My worries intensified on our first West Coast road trip of the season. The last week of October, we had a three-game trip playing against Los Angeles, San Jose, and Portland. That meant my favorite part of traveling with this sport: a long-ass flight.
Okay, it was only five hours.
But still. That was five hours of asking a plane full of hockey players to sit. I barely made it through Mass whenever I visited my grandparents. Five hours on a plane? Fuck my liiife.
Baddy, Mix, Eminem, and Avery commandeered one of the club tables for a very rowdy game of Hearts. I’d never been great at the game, and I’d found it more frustrating and annoying than anything, but it was sure fun to watch this group play.
“You’re cheating again!” Avery kicked Eminem under the table, driving a yelp out of him.
“Ow!” Eminem leaned down to rub his shin. “I am not cheating! Just because you suck doesn’t mean—”
“Hey, now,” Mix said with a grin. “Leave his personal life out of this.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Avery rolled his eyes and grabbed his glass. “You’re all dicks.”
“That’s why you love us,” Baddy said, and managed to dodge a kick from Avery. “Ha! Your aim is—ow!”
Mix laughed. “His aim sucks, but mine doesn’t.”
“Ugh. Fuck you all.”
Several of us were gathered around to watch, and we all chuckled at the interplay. Trust these four to make a game of Hearts interesting.
Baddy shuffled the deck, and he was about to deal when a flight attendant came by. Everyone ordered additional drinks, and Baddy held off shuffling until she came back with the tray of glasses and bottles.
And that was when I realized Avery was starting on his third mojito.
Alarm prickled the back of my neck. It wasn’t unusual for players to drink, especially on long flights with no game or practice until the next day. But… three mojitos? Before we were even halfway through the flight? At noon?
As Baddy dealt the cards, he stole a glance at the drink in Avery’s hand, and his jaw tightened.
When Avery wasn’t looking, Mix eyed the drink, then met Eminem’s gaze across the table, and something unspoken passed between them.
When Mix looked at Baddy, Baddy subtly shook his head, and that was that. No one said anything.
They continued their game, chirping and accusing each other of cheating even though I didn’t think any of them actually were (well, Eminem might’ve been) and carrying on like normal.
The rest of us cheered them on, laughing at the banter and reacting like a playoff crowd whenever someone started to gain an obvious lead.
Avery finished that third mojito in pretty short order, but everyone was so focused on the game and the chirping that they didn’t seem to notice when he called the flight attendant over again. I cringed, though.
Another one? Dude, what the hell? You’re already slurring a little bit.
To my great relief, though, he asked for water this time.
The damage was apparently done, though.
The next game, he lost one trick after another. When Avery wound up taking the Queen of Spades, Eminem whistled. “My dude. Did you forget how to play?”
Avery seemed to waver a little, and he half-shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. This wasn’t good.
If he was getting drunk enough to forget how to play a game he played regularly—in the middle of the day around our teammates, no less—that seemed like a red flag to me.
And quite possibly to our other teammates, who were now watching nervously, especially as the guys got down to their last few cards.
Avery lost yet another trick.
Then Baddy stiffened. “Oh, you son of a bitch.”
“What?” Avery blinked at him innocently. “Something wrong?”
Eminem furrowed his brow. Then he groaned and sat back as he tossed one of his remaining cards into the center of the table. “Fuck you, Calds.”
Avery smiled sweetly, tossing a five onto the pile, which currently consisted of two threes and a four. “What? Is something wrong?”
Mix muttered what I thought was some Russian profanity.
“Wait,” Laramie said. “What’s going on? I thought Calds forgot how to play.”
“No.” Eminem slapped down a ten. “He’s gonna shoot the damn moon.”
“Shoot the—what?” Laramie turned puzzled eyes on me. “I don’t know this game. What is he talking about?”
“If you lose all the tricks,” Baddy grumbled, throwing down his second to last card. “You shoot the moon. Which means you take zero points and everyone else takes twenty-six.” He narrowed his eyes at Avery. “Fucking punk.”
Avery cackled, adding a Jack to the mix that ensured he “lost” this trick, too.
And on the final trick, he also lost.
His three opponents all groaned and swore, and Avery just snickered as he went for a sip from his water bottle.
I laughed along with him, but more than anything, I was relieved. Maybe I’d been worried about nothing. Yeah, Avery’d had a lot to drink, all things considered. Yet he’d remained sharp enough to not only play Hearts, but shoot the moon, something I’d rarely seen anyone do.
Okay, maybe we’d all been worried about nothing, then. Yeah, Avery’d had a lot to drink, but he was obviously still functional.
Clearly, he was fine.
Trews—Lance Trewin—was the rookie defenseman on the third D pair.
He was competent and aggressive, exactly the kind of gritty, in-your-face player we needed on the blue line.
He could be a real pest, too. One of those guys I was thrilled to have on my own team because he would piss me the hell off if we were on opposite sides.
He was still a rookie, though, and sometimes that showed.
When he realized he was on the ice with some of the living legends playing in the League right now, he’d get starstruck.
Not enough to throw off his game, but he’d be setting up for a faceoff and have a momentary “oh my God, that’s so-and-so” flash across his face before he refocused.
It was kind of cute, honestly, and made me nostalgic for my own rookie days.
Tonight, we were playing in Los Angeles, and as we came out for our morning skate, he stared up, awe written all over his face.
I skated up to him. “You good, kid?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He swallowed hard, then pulled his gaze away from his surroundings and looked at me. “I used to come here to watch games when I was a kid. It’s… I mean, it’s already surreal to be playing in the League, but playing here?” He whistled low.
I bumped him with my shoulder. “Guess you made it, huh?”
He turned that starstruck look on me. “What?”
“You made it.” I gestured around us. “You moved from there”—I pointed at the seats—“to here.” I pointed at the ice beneath our skates, and I smiled. “That means you made it, kid. This is the top.”
He stared at me, and then his smile got so big, he lit up the whole arena. “Holy shit.” He scanned our surroundings. “I did, didn’t I?”