Chapter 11
AVERY
I had never been more relieved to drop onto a hotel bed.
Not after those long-ass flights to the World Cup and to the Olympics. Not after crossing countless time zones and—on occasion—the goddamned International Date Line. Not after yet another game followed by a flight during a grueling playoff series.
Lying back on the bed, still wearing my suit, I scrubbed my hands over my face and exhaled. I was exhausted, and it had little to do with the intense grind of a game we’d played just a few hours ago.
I’d done one of the intermission interviews.
Before the game, Falon had interviewed me as well, since we’d been playing New York, one of our longstanding rivals.
There’d been fans outside after the morning skate and again braving the cold outside the hotel tonight, and I’d smiled for all of them as I’d signed autographs, taken selfies, and chatted with them about hockey.
During our flight, I’d handily beaten both Eminem and Peyton at rummy, then joined in cheering on Baddy and Ziggy as they’d played Mario Kart on the charter jet’s big screen.
It was all a perfectly normal part of the regular season, but I was absolutely drained. I had been all season, and that had only gotten worse since Thanksgiving at Baddy’s house almost three weeks ago.
Closing my eyes, I rubbed my forehead with the heels of my hands.
I’d spent that whole day putting on a show.
I’d spent every day since putting on another one.
That day, it had been “easygoing, celebratory Avery who doesn’t die a little inside every time he looks at his best friend’s kids or widow.
” Every goddamned day after, it had been “relaxed but focused Avery who’s dialed in on this morning’s practice,” followed by “happy and fun Avery who’s keeping morale up and spirits high because losing one game doesn’t mean we’ll lose the next one. ”
Then we’d had an intense homestand of nearly back-to-back games, and now I was alone in this hotel room, and for a little while at least, I could finally fucking breathe.
Well, I was allowed to breathe anyway. I wasn’t so sure how capable I was.
Suck it up, Calds. Have a drink, go to sleep, and be the captain you’re supposed to be.
Ugh. All of that sounded like a lot of work.
The drink part sounded pretty good, though, so I pushed myself up off the bed.
I didn’t dare touch the minibar; I’d indulge sometimes, but I didn’t want to do it often enough to catch the travel coordinator’s notice.
Instead, I took my shaving kit out of my suitcase and dug around to find two plain plastic bottles that looked like they contained shampoo or something.
I unscrewed the cap on one, and my mouth watered. The plastic didn’t do much for the taste, but I wasn’t in this for the flavor. I just wanted to throw back what amounted to two shots of good, strong bourbon.
I made a face as it went down, almost gagging on the plasticky taste combined with the burn of the alcohol.
Maybe I needed to get some glass bottles to take with me.
But… no. Those would be too obvious if someone searched my bag.
The opaque blue bottles with “shampoo” and “conditioner” written in Sharpie wouldn’t pique anyone’s interest the way a glass bottle full of suspiciously dark liquid would.
I’d just have to live with the taste.
It wasn’t enough to give me more than a very, very mild buzz, even with the remnants of my in-flight drinks still keeping my head light.
Hopefully it would be enough to let me sleep, though, because I couldn’t risk having any more than this.
Not when I had to be at the team breakfast at oh-fuck-thirty, and not when I had to skate a couple of hours later.
This would have to be enough.
I went through the motions of getting ready for bed, then climbed under the covers.
Tomorrow, I’d practice with the team. After that, I’d go golfing with Eminem, Ziggy, and Baddy. The weather was promising, and getting out there for eighteen holes would be good for me. It always was.
Tonight, I would sleep. If nothing else, being this exhausted would knock my ass out, and maybe I’d even get lucky and not dream.
Tomorrow, I’d be Avery Caldwell, captain of the Pittsburgh Whiskey Rebels. I’d golf with my friends. I’d play hockey with my team.
Maybe everyone would believe I was okay.
Maybe even me.
That scream.
That heart-wrenching scream.
Lying there in the dark, drenched in sweat and breathing hard as the dream slowly faded, my ears still rang with that awful sound.
My chest still hurt, that impossible mix of being cavernously empty because my heart had just been torn out and feeling like it was about to explode from all those excruciating emotions.
Some part of me tried to reassure myself it had been just a dream, but the worst part was… it hadn’t been just a dream.
Tonight, sure. Tonight, I hadn’t been there in that waiting room. Tonight, I hadn’t listened to a doctor calmly and professionally tell everyone our lives would never be the same.
Tonight, I hadn’t heard Rachel scream like her soul had just been ripped out of her body.
But all that had been real. And every damn night, it happened again and again.
It would get better eventually, right? Farther away?
Maybe.
But not tonight.
Golfing out here with the guys had sounded like an amazing idea.
Just the change of pace I needed to jar me out of the funk I was working so hard to keep out of everyone’s sight.
There were few things that couldn’t be helped by a little fresh air—even when it was cold—and some shit-talking over eighteen holes.
But I may not have thought it through today.
We’d played here every time the Whiskey Rebels were in Detroit. Every year I’d been with the team. It was a tradition, even when the weather was awful. One I looked forward to whenever we were in town.
And like everything in my goddamned world, it reminded me of someone who wasn’t here anymore.
On the way out to the course with Baddy, Eminem, and Ziggy, I forced those feelings as far beneath the surface as they would go. Through the first three holes, I refused to acknowledge the long past conversations that insisted on echoing through my head as I followed this familiar path.
At the fourth hole, though, Baddy turned to me, a grin on his face, and he started to speak, but then clearly caught himself.
“Hey do—” He froze, going full-on deer-in-the-headlights. Recovering quickly, he cleared his throat. “Do you remember the time we were out here and it started storming?”
I forced the most genuine laugh I could muster. Yeah. I remembered. But I had a feeling his mind really had gone to the same place mine had.
“For fuck’s sake.” Leif had thrown up his hands and scoffed. “What is it with you and this course?”
I’d flashed him a huge grin. “What? It’s not my fault you always go a million over par on this—”
“Bite me,” he’d muttered. “I think we should take away your handicap when we play here, because you always beat the shit out of all of us on this course.”
“He’s not wrong,” Baddy had said. “Did you come out here last night and make some kind of sacrifice? You never play this good!”
“Oh, kiss my ass.” I’d rolled my eyes. “I play just fine!”
Leif had huffed sharply. “You never play this good, Calds. Never. I think Baddy’s on to some—”
“Calds?”
Baddy’s voice. In the present. The here and now.
I shook myself and turned to him. “Hmm?”
All three of my teammates were watching me, the chirping and competitiveness gone from their expressions.
“You okay?” Eminem asked. “You kind of…” He waved a hand in front of his face.
“I’m good.” I laughed and poked him with my club. “Just doing the math to figure out how far over par you are.”
He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Eat a dick.”
“Math?” Baddy tsked. “Bro, you have a smartphone.” He held his up and jiggled it. “Use the calculator when the numbers are that big.”
That earned him a smack across the shin from Eminem’s five iron, and he yelped and hopped.
“You deserved that,” Eminem muttered.
That seemed to make them all forget I’d spaced out, and I did nothing to remind them of it.
As we continued down the green, he and Baddy kept bitching at each other like they always did when we golfed while Ziggy egged them on.
I threw in my two cents now and then, too, just to keep them off the scent that my mind was elsewhere.
My mind was elsewhere, though. Everything about this day had Leif written all over it, and it hurt. We’d played in this city. We’d golfed on this course. Ziggy wouldn’t even be here, soundly beating all three of us, if things had been different.
If things were still the same.
How much longer until I get used to this?
That didn’t even seem possible. Leif was too indelibly imprinted on too many parts of my life to just be… gone. There was no getting used to that
Ever since the night he’d died, I’d had a few sharp, shameful moments of wishing I’d never met him.
Of course I didn’t wish that at all. I was a better man for having known him, and my life was a million times better for having him in it.
But goddamn, when his loss was this close to the surface—when it was this unavoidable—never knowing him at all sounded like fucking bliss because it would mean I’d never had him to lose.
Right now was one of those moments, and I hated myself for it, which made me feel even worse.
I shouldn’t have come here.
I didn’t know if I meant this golf course or this city—not that I had a choice about coming to the city—only that being anywhere but here was incredibly appealing.
My teammates had already caught on that I wasn’t in a good place today, though, and I didn’t want them to worry. They needed to trust that I had my head together enough to play hockey and to be their captain.
So, I forced myself to focus on our golf game, and I forced myself to join in with the banter and snarking even though I wasn’t feeling it at all.
By the time we reached the eighteenth hole, the sun was starting to set. Made sense—it felt like we’d been out here for hours and hours. Except then I realized it was only like 4:30.
We hadn’t been out here forever. It was just late November and the sun went down earlier.
“You think that’s dark early?” Leif had given a haughty scoff. “Try living somewhere the sun doesn’t come up at all this time of year.”
“Oh, fuck off.” I’d shoved him. “Your hometown doesn’t get the polar night, you drama queen.”
“Hey! I had family in Kiruna!”
“Uh-huh, and you only visited them every other year, so you didn’t live there. Shut up.”
At least this time, I snapped out of it before any of the guys noticed, and I managed to stay in the present as we headed into the clubhouse.
We grabbed dinner there, since they had a great restaurant, and then we Ubered back to the hotel.
There, some of our teammates were, predictably, hanging out in the bar, so naturally, we joined them.
I had to resist the urge to pound my mojito like a shot while gesturing at the bartender to start making me another one. Not here. Not in front of my teammates.
I sipped it, willing myself to drink slowly no matter how bad I wanted to get fucked up.
When I made it the bottom of the glass, I casually ordered a whiskey on the rocks.
A double. If I couldn’t throw it back like I so desperately wanted to, then I could at least make it strong enough to pack a punch.
It was getting the job done, too. As the evening went on, I had to work harder to follow the conversations around me, and not just because the bar was so loud.
It started with my teammates who had strong accents—Mix and Ziggy, mostly, but also Astala, who was Finnish, and Willie, who was Quebecois.
After another round, even the Americans and Anglophile Canadians started making less and less sense.
Yes. God, yes. More oblivion. Less clarity. Hell yeah.
At some point, as I was getting into my… hell, I didn’t know how many I’d had at this point, but I was only partway through my current drink. Anyway, the guys were starting to settle up their tabs and peel away. A few sips later, only Baddy and Mix remained besides me.
“Morning skate comes early.” Eminem clapped my shoulder. “You heading up soon?”
I gestured with my glass. “Gonna finish this first. I’m right behind you.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I grinned. “You want me to let this go to waste? That’s alcohol abuse!”
He considered me curiously for a moment, then chuckled, smacked my shoulder again, and left with the rest of the guys.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. I was finally alone except for the bartenders and the ghost of my best friend. I couldn’t shake him off. Not here. We’d played on that golf course. We’d drunk in this bar. Leif’s name was all over this city. All over my life.
I couldn’t even look at my gorgeous new teammate without thinking about the man who’d bet me a hundred bucks and three steak dinners that we’d hook up. At least Peyton hadn’t joined me and the guys in the bar tonight. I’d probably do or say something stupid.
I took a deep swallow from my drink, begging it to take me closer to the oblivion where Leif had never existed and I could actually be sane.
God, I miss you, Leif.
Apparently this was the ugly side of having such a close friend. Everywhere I went was stained with his memory. With his absence.
I needed to sleep. We had our morning skate, and we had tomorrow night’s game.
First, I needed to spend some time forgetting why this place hurt so damn much.
So I finished my drink just like I’d told Eminem I would.
And then I ordered another double.