Chapter 16
PEYTON
We’d played in Boston tonight, but now we were back at the hotel instead of heading to the airport.
The original plan had been to fly to Buffalo right after the game so we could play there the day after tomorrow.
Unfortunately, Buffalo was getting hammered with “don’t even think about flying in here” weather, and the hotel in Boston had been able to accommodate us for another night, so…
here we were. Tomorrow afternoon, assuming the weather let up, we’d fly to Buffalo, but for now, we could just chill in the hotel bar.
Chill. Yeah, right. There was nothing “chill” about a hockey team still vibrating with excitement after a decisive win.
“To owning Boston on their own ice!” Eminem said, holding up glass.
“Cheers!” We all clinked our glasses and bottles together, then took deep pulls from them.
“All hail Ziggy!” Baddy added. “Third shutout of the season!”
Everyone roared, and Davis slapped our big goalie on his narrow shoulders hard enough that Ziggy almost choked on his beer.
“Hey!” Ziggy elbowed him in the pec. “Don’t spill my fucking beer!”
“Well, protect it.” Davis grinned wide. “That’s your job!”
Ziggy just groaned, gave Davis a shove, and drank his beer.
I was sitting on Davis’s other side, across the long table from Avery and Eminem.
The mood in the hotel bar was raucously happy—we’d shut out Boston 5-0, which the guys were saying felt like repentance after Boston had knocked Pittsburgh out of the playoffs last season.
I hadn’t been part of that, but Boston had swept my team, kicking our asses 3-1, 8-4, 4-2, and that incredibly embarrassing 6-0 just before the playoffs.
They were a good team—had made it to the Eastern Conference Finals and barely lost that series—and it always felt good to hand them their asses.
Granted they were missing two of their top six to injuries, had lost their star left winger and one of their tandem goalies to free agency, and there was a nasty stomach bug running through their locker room, so they weren’t exactly playing at their normal caliber.
Still, a win was a win, a shutout was a shutout, and beating Boston was always sweet, so… bottoms up.
Of course, I could’ve done without getting my ass knocked around.
I was still hurting from that in places nobody wanted to be hurting, and my teammates didn’t even give me shit about it.
There was a little grumbling about how the other guy should’ve taken a penalty, but that was it.
Maybe the refs hadn’t seen it. Maybe they just didn’t think it should be illegal to hit a guy between the legs with a stick.
I didn’t know. I hadn’t really been paying attention to much of anything in the minutes after that except how bad it hurt and how close I’d been to puking.
In the locker room, Evan had assured me there was no shame in sitting the rest of the game. I wasn’t injured per se, but I didn’t imagine anyone would’ve judged me if I’d said, “Fuck this, I’m going to go ice my balls for the next few hours.”
That was still an option now. The dull ache below my belt was unpleasant to say the least, and the queasiness hadn’t fully abandoned ship. Fortunately, I knew that would ease up on its own. Unfortunately, I knew that from experience.
Despite the relentless ache and nausea, I sipped a Coke in the bar with my teammates. I was too wired after the game to go to sleep, and I enjoyed the camaraderie, especially after a win.
“C’mon, Halls,” Eminem said. “At least let us buy you a drink. Feels like we owe you after you took one of the team.”
Half the guys at the table squirmed uncomfortably—probably sympathy pain.
“I’m good.” I raised my Coke. “You guys can buy on a night when I feel like getting trashed.”
“Usually I’d say it’s a one-time deal.” Eminem shook his head. “But if I took one to the nuts like that, I’d expect all you assholes to buy me drinks and dinner for the rest of the season. So… deal.”
There were some grunts and nods.
“Is that all it takes to get free food out of you guys?” I grinned. “Well, damn. It’s almost worth it.”
That got some laughs. And some more squirming.
Right then, a server came by to check on us, and a few people ordered another round.
Including Avery.
The glass in his hand wasn’t even empty yet, but the way he gestured with it as he and the server exchanged a few words, he was definitely ordering another.
Wasn’t that like his third or fourth?
It’s none of your business, Peyton. Ignore it.
But then my dad’s voice said, “Hold the line, Peyton.”
Fuck my life.
I’d been too young to notice the signs of my mom’s drinking—or, well, too young to realize what they’d meant—but they were so obvious in hindsight.
It was during my second season as a pro that I’d seen those signs again in someone else.
Richards had been as slick as my mom about dismissing hangover symptoms as allergies or a difficult night sleeping.
Like her, he’d gaslit people around him into believing, “No, I’m still working on the same beer you saw me drinking an hour ago,” when it was actually his fourth or fifth.
The times they did drink to excess in front of people, they still insisted it wasn’t a problem.
Mom had been “working nonstop for weeks on end” and “just needed to cut loose for once.” Richards had scoffed that “you’d be getting this shitfaced too if your ex-wife just told you she’s going for full custody. ”
I’d accepted everything they’d said right up until they’d hit rock bottom.
Dad had told Mom it was either rehab or divorce.
Richards had spiraled down and down and down as his messy divorce progressed, and after his ex-wife had been granted full custody, he’d wound up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning.
Mom had eventually recovered, and she’d even stayed married to my dad.
Richards’s story had gone from bad to worse.
The team had given him much the same ultimatum my dad had given my mom—player assistance program or a terminated contract—and he’d responded by getting a DUI.
After his contract was summarily terminated, he wrapped his car around a lamppost. He’d survived, but any hope of ever playing hockey again was dashed thanks to his injuries, and then came the painkiller addiction.
I had no idea how or where he was now.
And every time I thought of him, I was almost overcome with guilt.
Could I have stepped in sooner? Could I have noticed something and told someone and maybe gotten him help before things had gotten so far out of hand?
I’d had more therapy to cope with that guilt than I’d had to deal with my mom’s alcoholism, and that was saying something.
Now here I was, sitting across from a man who was waving the same flags Mom and Richards had waved, and I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what if anything I was supposed to do.
As surreptitiously as I could, I studied Avery. Was I just jumping the gun because I knew he had a reason to dive into a bottle? Was everything about him and his drinking perfectly normal, but I was edgy because of my past experiences and because I knew he was grieving?
What the hell do I do?
As the server came back and placed the glass in front of Avery, my stomach somersaulted.
It wasn’t like I’d never been around hockey players getting drunk.
Hell, I’d done it myself plenty of times, especially when we had a light schedule the next day, though I wasn’t above showing up hungover-but-functional to practice.
Avery started to take a drink, but he glanced my way, then did a double take and locked eyes with me. “What?”
Oh, shit. Was I wearing my worry on my face?
“Uh.” I cleared my throat and shook my head. “Nothing. I was—”
“If you’ve got a problem, Halls,” he said with sudden anger. “Just say it.”
I blinked. “I didn’t say a—”
“Yeah, your face said it out loud.” He slammed the glass down on the table, sending some drops flying onto his hand. “Do you think I need a babysitter or something?”
“What? No! I—”
“Then why are you side-eying every goddamned thing I drink?” He picked up his glass. “If you’ve got a problem, just fucking—”
“I don’t have a problem with anything,” I snapped. “But if you’re so damn defensive just because I looked at your drink, then maybe—”
“Oh, get wrecked.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. He grimaced as the alcohol went down, then glared at me again, renewed fire in his eyes. “If you’ve got something to say, then either say it, or fuck off so the rest of us can—”
“Hey! You came at me sideways, not the other way around, so—”
“Whoa, hey guys,” Baddy said, alarm written all over his face. “Everybody chill out, okay?”
“I’m chill!” Avery said, the faintest hint of a slur in his voice, and he flailed a hand toward me. “You want someone to chill, talk to—”
“Hey, hey.” Eminem slung an arm around Avery’s shoulders and gave his chest a firm pat. “C’mon, Calds. Take a breath, all right?”
Beside me, Davis nudged me with my elbow. “Might not be a bad time to call it a night.”
I didn’t get the feeling he was trying to boot me out, just do damage control like Baddy and Eminem were. And he was getting up too, so he was probably going to leave with me.
I didn’t argue. I pulled a ten out of my wallet and tossed it on the table; it would more than cover my soda and tip.
Then I left with Davis, pretending not to notice Avery’s angry voice calling out something at my back.
At least my heart was pounding too hard and the bar was too loud for me to make out the words. The drunk anger was more than enough.
Davis and I walked in silence across the lobby. Thank God, there weren’t a lot of people out and about this time of night, and we didn’t have to wait for an elevator.
As the doors closed us inside, I sagged against the wall and scrubbed a hand over my face. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“Calds?” Davis asked.
I nodded and turned to my teammate. “Not gonna lie—I’m worried about him.”
“Me too,” Davis admitted. “He hasn’t been himself since…” He winced and shook his head.
Yeah, I could put those pieces together. “It really messed him up, didn’t it? Losing Early?”
Grimacing, Davis nodded. “Yeah. Fucked us all up, but Calds?” He whistled. “Not gonna lie—I was surprised he even made it to training camp. I was sure he was going to take a leave of absence or something.”
Right then, the elevator stopped, and we stepped out into the hallway, but neither of us continued toward our respective rooms.
Gaze distant, Davis said, “Sometimes I think he’d have been better off if he’d taken some time. But then I think about how much hockey and being around the team helped me after the funeral, and… I mean, it’s probably the only thing that’s kept him upright, you know?”
I nodded slowly. “I think it’s the only thing that kept a lot of you going.” I hesitated, then added, “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how any of you have managed.”
“We have to,” he whispered. “Early’s gone, but we still have contracts and fans.
And the alternative is just sitting at home thinking about how much it sucks that he’s gone.
” He worked his jaw for a moment, then cleared his throat, and his voice was a little threadbare as he said, “Early would want us to keep going.”
I nodded again, unsure what to say.
Davis sighed, and his shoulders dropped as he gazed back at the elevator doors. “He’d want us to keep going… but man, what happens if someone can’t keep going after that?”
He didn’t have to specify which someone he meant.
And I was glad he apparently didn’t expect an answer out of me.
Because I had no idea.