Chapter 27 #2
In my bedroom, I tugged at my tie and looked myself up and down in the mirror. I’d been wearing suits to games since forever, and it hadn’t been all that long since my last game. Still, it felt weird tonight. Like being in the wrong skin.
Like I don’t belong there.
I pushed that thought down. No, I did belong. My stint in the assistance program was a setback, like an injury putting me on LTIR. I’d come back from those just like I’d come back from this.
I just wondered how many games it would take before this newfound imposter syndrome went away. Before I felt like I was worthy of a Whiskey Rebels’ sweater, never mind one with a C on it.
That thought gave me pause.
Maybe the C is the problem. Maybe I can’t handle the captaincy.
Maybe I needed to talk to Coach about that. Talk to the guys about relinquishing the C and letting someone else take the reins.
That was a conversation for another day, though; the whole point of tonight was for me to show my face.
Be a morale boost for the guys so they could head out on their road trip without worrying about me.
I didn’t imagine any of them were losing much sleep over me, but Peyton insisted it would be good for them, so… I was doing this.
I gave myself one more long look in the mirror. Straightened my tie. Took a deep breath.
Then I headed downstairs, got in the car, and drove over to Peyton’s place.
As he came out of his apartment, some of my tangled-up thoughts faded away. What could I say? It was hard to hold on to a negative thought when that man was coming down the steps in a dark blue plaid suit that fit him like a damn dream. He just looked so fucking good.
Any chance we can go inside for a little while? Maybe get a head start on your pregame warmups?
The ridiculous thought made me chuckle, so at least I was smiling when he got in the car. That meant he wouldn’t catch on that I’d been mentally spinning out and reconsidering my place as the team’s captain. Perfect.
As he pulled on his seat belt, he met my gaze, his own smile lighting up the whole world. “Ready for this?”
“Of course.” I started backing out of the parking space. “Isn’t like I’ve never been to a hockey game.”
“Okay, true. But you know what I mean.”
I did. As I shifted gears and headed out of the lot, I was grateful that I had the road to hold my attention. I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing the scrutiny that I could feel coming from the passenger seat.
“It’s… weird, I guess?” I tapped my thumbs on the wheel. “It’s one thing to show up when I’m on LTIR or something. This is different, you know?”
“I get it. But it’s really not as different as you think. I mean, one of my teammates a couple of years ago took a leave of absence to deal with his mental health. Bad bout of depression, I think it was.”
I nodded slowly. “Oh, yeah. I remember that. Hayes, wasn’t it?”
“Yep. And the thing is, we all knew he was struggling. When it finally came out what was going on, nobody gave him shit. It was like, oh, okay, that’s what’s happening.”
I swallowed. “And when he came back—did things change? With him and the team?”
“No. He was still Hayes. Same as ever. Some of the guys who were closer to him than me, they’d check in on him more. Make sure he was doing all right. But otherwise, it was no different than if he’d been out with an injury.”
God, I wanted to believe that would happen this time, too. I understood that mental health was as important as physical health, but not everyone applied that in practice.
I squirmed a little as I pulled onto the freeway. “There are definitely some fans who aren’t happy about it.”
“You’ve reading social media comments again, haven’t you?”
“Against my better judgment, yeah.”
“Fuck ’em,” he growled. “They’re keyboard warriors.
Haven’t you seen the way they talk about all of us?
” He scoffed and I glanced his way in time to catch him rolling his eyes.
“Remember all the crap they say about Ziggy? And come on, these are the same assholes who criticized Matt Conley for being off his game last year during the Cup final, even after they found out he’d been playing through a core muscle injury, a broken finger, and two fractured ribs. ”
I grunted in agreement, because, well, he did have a point.
Every year, it came out that some players had knuckled through incredibly painful injuries during the postseason.
And every year, there were jackasses on social media who’d call them “soft” or “weak” because their play had suffered.
I knew they were full of shit then. Why was I listening to them now?
“Is it stupid that I’m afraid I’ll get booed once the fans see me again?”
“It’s not stupid,” he said. “But I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”
I glanced at him again. “Yeah?”
Peyton gave my forearm a squeeze. “You’ll see.”
At the arena, we parked in the players’ lot and headed inside.
All the anxiety and uncertainty wound itself into a tight ball of bullshit in the pit of my stomach, but I mostly ignored it.
I’d seen some of my teammates yesterday, but not all of them.
None of the staff or coaches, either. Definitely none of the fans.
Nervous? Me? Yeah, just a little.
Still, I stayed in step with Peyton as we headed for the locker room. In the hallway just outside the door, Falon, our team’s reporter, did a double take when she saw me.
“Calds? Oh my God!” Her high heels clomped on the concrete as she trotted across the hall to hug me. “It’s so good to see you!”
I smiled, hugging her back. “It’s good to be here.”
Even if I’m a nervous fucking mess.
Drawing back, she locked eyes with me. “You know, the fans would love to hear from you.” Gesturing over her shoulder to where her cameraman was arranging his gear, she added, “Any chance you’d be interested in a quick interview?”
I gulped. “Um.”
“It’s okay if not,” she said quickly. “But I think everyone will love to see you. There’s so many rumors swirling, I think this will put some of them to bed.”
“Rumors?” My spine straightened, and I glanced back and forth between her and Peyton as panic surged up in me. “What kind of rumors?”
“People speculate,” she said. “When they hear player assistance program, they assume the worst.”
I groaned. “Of course they do.”
“Not like that,” Peyton said gently. “She means they’re worried. So many players disappear from sight when they go into the program, so no one knows if they’re getting better or if they’re in really bad shape, like, physically.”
I swallowed. Truthfully, I couldn’t argue with that; I’d worried and speculated about other players who’d gone into the program.
The way they abruptly vanished, sometimes not even posting on social media for months, left us all concerned about just how bad their situation might be.
Sure, there was gossip and judgment, too, because people could be assholes and God knew men’s mental health was badly stigmatized.
But hockey was a tightknit community. We looked after our own. For every judgmental asshole, there were ten more quietly waiting for some kind of update so they could breathe again, knowing the player would be okay.
I’d been one of the guys who worried, and not because I thought someone was a loser or a trainwreck. I’d never thought someone was weak or a wuss because he struggled with mental health problems and/or addiction.
Was it really such a stretch to imagine people had the same concerns about me?
“Okay,” I whispered. “Yeah, I… I can do an interview.”
“All right.” Falon smiled. “Let me get Jim and the camera set up.”
As she walked away, Peyton turned to me. “Are you sure about this?”
“Do you think I shouldn’t?”
“I didn’t say that. I just want to make sure you’re okay with it.”
I gave it some careful thought, then nodded. “I’m good.”
“Okay. Do, um… Do you want me to stay out here with you?”
I checked my phone and shook my head. “No. You need to start your pregame routine.” I smiled, and hopefully it was reassuring and didn’t look at all panicked or anxious. “I’ll be fine.”
He studied me, chewing his lip. Then, “Okay.” He clapped my shoulder. “I’ll be in there when you get done.”
He headed into the locker room, and I took a moment to steel myself before I joined Falon and her cameraman.
“Tell me honestly before we turn on the camera and microphone.” She inclined her head. “Do you want to discuss why you’re in the assistance program?”
I again gave it some thought before I nodded. “Yeah. I think it would be good for people to hear it.”
“Okay. This is a recorded interview, okay?” She gestured at the camera. “Anything you want us to cut out, say so.”
I nodded again. Live interviews could be stressful as all hell, and I had trust issues with some reporters who insisted they’d edit based on our requests.
Falon was good to us, though. As the team reporter, she had to have our trust; if she did one of us dirty, then everyone would likely clam up around her, and she’d find herself out of a job.
I didn’t think she was the type to do that anyway. Either way, I was glad we weren’t doing this live.
I took a deep breath. Then I let her know I was ready, and a moment later, the camera was rolling.
“I’m here outside the Whiskey Rebels’ locker room,” she said to the camera, “and joining me is a surprise guest—Pittsburgh’s captain, Avery Caldwell.”
The cameraman backed up a little, probably to bring me into the frame, and I smiled. I was used to being in front of those giant lenses and microphones, but it was a little nerve-racking this time.
“Now, Calds,” Falon said, “you and the team recently announced that you are in the League’s player assistance program. Can you talk about why you entered the program?”