Chapter 21 #2
“Damn it. I’m sorry.” I sniffed as I wiped my eyes with a badly shaking hand. “I’m such a trainwreck.”
“You’re not,” he whispered, and he didn’t sound the least bit judgy. “I get the feeling you’ve been holding all that in for a long time.”
“I have to.”
“Why? It’s not healthy.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. The team needs me.”
“Yeah, and you need them, too.” He held my gaze. “I’ve watched you, man. You’ve been holding up everyone and letting the whole team grieve. We can do the same for you, you know.”
Shaking my head, I clenched my jaw. “No. If I fall apart, the whole team falls apart.”
Peyton arched an eyebrow. “Okay, but if you need to fall apart, then—”
“I won’t. I got into my own head, and I guess it was bothering me last night.”
“And today.” It didn’t sound like an accusation, but it was close.
He touched my forearm. “I know you’re trying to be the captain of this team and hold them all up.
But you’re human. And from what I’ve heard, you were closer to Leif than anyone else on the team.
Of course losing him will hit you harder. ”
My throat tightened as tears threatened again. “They need a captain. They need me to be—”
“You’re human, Avery,” he said again. “There isn’t a single person in that locker room who wants you to carry all of them at your own expense. No one is expecting you to shoulder all that grief and pull the entire team.”
I am, I wanted to say. I needed to do both of those things. “If I buckle, where does that leave the team?”
“Do you think we could hold our own if you were out with an injury?”
I chewed my lip. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t the same thing.
But… it kind of was. Players went down all the time.
Whether a guy was hurt, sick, suspended, or at the hospital with his laboring wife, the gap he left was the same.
No matter what, it would be next man up.
Someone would come up to fill his vacancy on a line or a D pair, or the backup goalie would take his place, and someone else would be called up from the minors to fill his space.
The game would go on. Yeah, it was hard to lose someone, especially someone who played as many minutes as Peyton or I did—as many minutes as Leif had—but the sport stopped for no man.
“You could play without me,” I said. “I just… I don’t want to put the team in that position.” Before he could protest and insist it wasn’t my responsibility, I whispered, “God, I hate this.” I wiped a hand over my face. “I don’t even… I can’t blame it all on grief. I don’t think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I—maybe it is because of Leif? I don’t know.
But I’m a panicked, nervous wreck every goddamned game now.
Every time someone gets hurt or goes down—like when Eminem collided with that other player, or when you…
” I closed my eyes and exhaled before looking at him again.
“Whenever something happens, I freak out.”
“I’ve seen you get upset,” he admitted. “But you usually snap back to having a cool head.”
I let my shoulders sag. “Because I bust my ass to make sure everyone thinks I have a cool head. But the reality…” I didn’t even know how to explain it.
How to describe that surge of anxiety every time one of my teammates so much as winced in pain.
Or the flash of anger every time an opposing player crosschecked one of my guys, or boarded him, or did anything that could cause an injury.
Even the normal shit that happened every damn game.
How it all fucked me up long past the moment of impact, sabotaging my concentration and even keeping me awake in bed hours later.
Everything fucked me up. Everything made me panicked or angry or…
Pressing my elbows into my thighs, I leaned forward and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. “God, I am such a mess.”
Peyton was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it before, which honestly said something.
“Listen. This isn’t me judging you or calling you weak or any of that shit.
I’m speaking as your teammate and as your friend, okay?
” When I met his gaze, his forehead creased. “I think you need to get some help.”
I straightened. “What kind of help? Like a shrink?”
“Therapy, yeah.” He half-shrugged, and his tone was cautious as he softly added, “Rehab, too.”
Bristling, I glared at him. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
“I don’t think you are. But I do think you’ve been self-medicating enough that you’re hurting yourself.
” He chewed his lip. “I think… Look, I’m not an expert, okay?
But if you keep going the way you’re going, I think you’re going to become an alcoholic.
” Rage surged up in me, and I was about to lash out defensively, but he softly added, “Because that’s what grief does to people sometimes, you know? ”
I froze, mouth open, but the words lodged in my throat.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he went on. “You’ve been through hell. You’re still going through it. Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve kept yourself upright this long.”
The fury was suddenly gone, replaced by that ever-present lump in my throat. “I don’t think I’ve been holding myself as upright as you think.”
“If it were me,” he said dryly, “I’d be in a fetal position somewhere.”
I slouched back against the couch. “I can’t do that, though. The team… The fans…”
He studied me, brow pinched. “But what about you?”
I couldn’t look at him. There was no room for me.
No room to let myself crumble the way I wanted—needed—to crumble.
My voice was brittle as I whispered, “There are too many people depending on me.” I closed my eyes, surprised my back didn’t ache from the weight of everyone—my team, our fans, my best friend’s widow, their kids…
“You know,” Peyton said softly, “just because millions of people rely on a bridge every day doesn’t mean it won’t collapse when it goes too long without repairs.”
I met his gaze.
He moved a little closer to me, eyes locked on mine.
“Avery, you’ve been trying to hold up this entire team while you’re falling apart.
Let us carry the team while you take care of yourself.
Let us carry that weight while you take care of yourself.
” He put his hand on my forearm. “Let us take care of you.”
My throat constricted, and I avoided his gaze.
“I get it, okay?” he said. “We—men—we’re supposed to be strong and stoic. Letting our emotions out is supposed to be weak, but it’s not weak. And the thing is, even if it was weak, no one’s expecting you to be this strong.”
God, I was so done crying. Today. At all. I was just so done with tears.
At least I didn’t completely unravel this time. I wasn’t so sure I had it in me to fall apart like that again. Peyton rested a hand on my shoulder as I collected myself, and when I’d more or less regained my composure, he asked, “You all right?”
“Not really, no.” Why was it so liberating to say that out loud? “But I think… I don’t know. I think I needed that more than I realized. And what you said…” I managed something that I hoped resembled a smile. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
His smile was soft. Far more sweet and endearing than I deserved.
I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “I think you’re right, too. About the drinking and—yeah. I can’t keep doing this to myself.” I pushed out a ragged breath. “I should talk to the front office about the player assistance program.”
Peyton exhaled hard, and I didn’t think I was imagining the sheer relief rolling off him. “I can go with you if you want,” he said softly. “If you need some moral support.”
“But you need to get to practice.” It was still early yet, but in another hour or two, he’d have to start getting ready.
“I’ll talk to Coach,” he said. “This seems more important.”
I studied him. “Why are you doing this for me? After I’ve been such a dick to you, and…” I trailed off, not sure how to finish.
Peyton was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his own hands. “To be fair, I might’ve come on a little strong about the drinking.”
“No, you didn’t.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “You were right. Yeah, I was pissed about it, but now…”
He shifted a little on the cushion. “I could’ve been more…” He chewed his lip, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. I do jump the gun about stuff like that, though.” The distant look in his eyes gave me pause.
“Is there a story there?”
Peyton swallowed. Then he rolled his shoulders and reached up to scratch the back of his head. “My mom—she had a drinking problem. A bad one.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “She’s better now.
She’s been through rehab and all that, but I mean, the damage is done.
She has a ton of health problems now because of it, and I know she feels guilty about the strain her addiction put on all of us.
” He turned to me. “And one of my teammates drank himself right out of his career.”
My breath hitched. “Really?”
Pursing his lips, he nodded. “Jeff Richards.”
“Ooh. Yeah, I remember he…” I tilted my head, trying to remember what I’d heard about Richards. “He lost his career over it?”
“In the end, yeah. It was pretty messy.” Peyton sat back against the couch and blew out a breath. “I don’t even know where he is now. Or… if he is.”
A chill shot right through me. Of all the things Peyton had said to gently nudge me toward rehab, I was pretty sure that one was the swift kick in the ass I truly needed.
What if I’d lost control before someone had scraped me up?
What if I’d managed to get deep enough into a bottle that I completely screwed over not only my team, but myself?
Alcohol poisoning. A car accident. Hadn’t Richards’s drinking problem been piggybacked by an opioid addiction? How bad could that have gotten?
Cold water slithered through my veins as the truth hit me in the chest:
What if I’d been so far out of control that my teammates had to grieve another player?