Epilogue #2
It helped, too, that I wasn’t the only one getting therapy.
Peyton hadn’t been able to lock anyone down until the season was over, especially since he had no time during the playoffs.
Barely three days after we were eliminated, though, he was in his new therapist’s office.
They were slowly working through the trauma he hadn’t even realized he had from his mom’s alcoholism and the effect it had on the family, and it had been tough for him.
There were some days he came back from therapy and just wanted to curl up on the couch and watch stupid movies.
Other times, he wanted to go shoot pucks for a while until he could finally let a few tears fall and talk to me about his session.
About a month into the off season, his therapist had dug into the feelings Peyton had about Jeff Richards, his former teammate who’d lost his marriage and career to his addiction.
Turned out Peyton had been harboring a lot more guilt about it than even he’d realized, and it was eating him up that he hadn’t helped him.
He’d wondered all this time if Richards was even alive, and his conscience had been a wreck because he blamed himself for not stepping up.
After that session, Peyton had reached out to some other players from Detroit.
They, too, were carrying a lot of shame and guilt.
With some help from the League, Richards’s family, and—from what I’d gathered—law enforcement, they’d managed to locate their former teammate.
Richards was still in a bad spot, still struggling hard with his addiction and he’d been living in his car for the past two years.
He was alive, though, and—to Peyton’s immense relief—receptive to help.
In between giving him that help, Richards’s former teammates were now working to start an organization.
Their plan was to not only help athletes struggling with addiction, but to offer help and resources to the friends, family, and teammates of those addicts.
I’d joined them, and the Pittsburgh and Detroit clubs were both eager to pitch in.
Hopefully in the coming season, the organization would launch, and people like Peyton, Richards, and me would no longer feel quite so alone.
The week before we’d left for Sweden, Richards was settling into an inpatient rehab facility in New Mexico.
Peyton spoke to him on the phone, and he’d cried after they’d ended the call.
I’d cautiously asked if everything was okay, and he’d smiled as he’d wiped his eyes and told me, “He wants us to visit when we get back.”
We would, too. They kept in constant communication via text and the occasional FaceTime, and they were both looking forward to our visit. So was I.
For that alone, I decided Peyton’s therapist was worth his weight in gold.
Our couples counselor was a godsend, too. Right now, he was mostly helping us navigate each other’s therapy—how to talk about things, what to ask, how to be what the other needed. Between him and our individual therapists, we were on much more solid ground than I’d thought possible.
We’d initially agreed to take our relationship slower than we had at the start, but at least one step ended up being unexpectedly accelerated.
It was a combination of a downstairs neighbor driving Peyton insane with too-loud bass-heavy music at all hours of the day and night, and us spending almost every night together anyway.
Then at the trade deadline, the team had acquired a player from the western conference, and Peyton suddenly had an opportunity to jump ship from his lease so the other player could take his apartment.
The team didn’t have to fuss with finding a place to put up the new guy, the new guy wore earplugs to sleep and headphones the rest of the time—it worked out for everyone.
So… now we were living together at my place.
We had the odd squabbles that came with cohabitating—I wasn’t great about keeping up on the dishes, he was the worst about leaving beard trimmings in the sink, and neither of us could ever remember when trash day was—but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
It was like we’d butted heads and struck sparks off each other in the beginning, sorted all that shit out, and now everything was smooth and easy.
Sighing, I drew back again. “We should probably get out of here. Don’t want to keep the family waiting.”
Peyton didn’t move. “Are you ready to go?”
I stared down at Leif’s headstone for a long moment.
I couldn’t say I felt particularly good, standing beside my best friend’s grave and rubbing up against the raw spots of my grief, but there was a sense of peace that I was pretty sure I’d been chasing all this time.
That settled feeling that even though it sure felt like it sometimes, I was not going to crumble beneath this weight.
Taking a deep breath and rolling my shoulders, I met my boyfriend’s gaze again. “I think I’m ready, yeah.” I swallowed. “Do you, um… Do you have any objection to coming back here before we fly home?”
“Not at all,” he whispered. “We’ll spend as much time here as you need.”
I smiled, lifted my chin, and kissed him softly. “Thank you.”
He smiled back, and we shared another kiss. Longer this time, but still chaste—still appropriate for where we were.
And yet, in the back of my mind, I could hear that scoff followed by the Swedish-accented, “Jesus Christ, you two. Get a room.”
The thought drove a laugh out of me, which broke the kiss.
Peyton eyed me. “What?”
I shook my head and took his hand. “Just imagining Leif heckling us.” As we started back down the path, I added, “Because he absolutely would.”
He chuckled as he fell into step beside me. “From what you’ve told me about him? I believe you.”
We exchanged glances, both laughing softly, and we headed back toward the rental car.
Coming here hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d anticipated. Definitely not as bad as the last time; the funeral had been hell on earth. Now I was leaving with Peyton, and I promised myself we’d be back at least one more time before we left Sweden.
Then we’d be back to Pittsburgh. Back to training with our team, ready for the next hockey season.
Last season, for all I’d wished at one point that it would be over sooner than later, had ended earlier than we would’ve hoped.
The Whiskey Rebels made it to the second round of the playoffs before being knocked out by Long Island.
That was tough, but we were proud to have made it as far as we did.
When Coach told us in the locker room afterward that Leif would’ve been proud, I wasn’t the only one who cried.
Next season, we’d all vowed, we were going all the way to the finals.
But that was next season. For now, we had this time to let injuries heal, spend time with our friends and family, and relax.
Peyton and I were religious about working out, and we had ice time scheduled with several other players from the League who were summering in Sweden.
Leif’s nephew would be joining us, too. I was looking forward to that.
In between, we played tourist, especially since Peyton had never been here before. We had side trips planned to Norway, Finland, and a couple of other places.
We were also here to help Rachel and the kids, which had had a side benefit that I hadn’t anticipated.
I’d never been particularly sentimental about watching a man interact with kids, but the first time I saw Peyton playing with Kalle and Linnea…
oh Lord. He was just so damn cute with them.
And the first time I saw him holding baby Adrian?
Whoa. That was the first time I’d ever thought that I didn’t just want kids of my own—I wanted kids of my own with him.
Not yet, though.
As much as losing Leif had given me a sense of urgency for everything—the intense fear that everything needed to be accelerated so we didn’t run out of time—I made myself be patient when it came to this relationship.
I hadn’t want it to be based in my grief, and I didn’t want it to be rushed because of it either.
We’d get there.
For now, we were here, enjoying our time in Sweden even with the reminders of Leif’s absence at every turn.
For the first time, I was beginning to understand what Shannon had meant when she’d said to me once that I’d eventually be able to celebrate Leif’s life more than I grieved his death.
Mentioning him or being reminded of him always stung, but more and more, the happy memories could stand on their own.
More and more, I believed that when I came to Sweden again in the future, I could smile without getting that lump in my throat.
I would always miss my best friend, but the dark felt like it was behind me now. There was joy in my life again. I still saw his wife and children all the time, and I’d vowed to her that I would help her keep his memory alive in them as they got older.
As the days grew brighter and the weight of grief on my shoulders lightened into something I could carry, I knew there was love and happiness ahead of me.
Especially because there was already love and happiness with me right now.
At the car, I turned to face Peyton. “Thank you. For coming with me.”
“Of course.” He released my hand and wrapped his arms around my waist. “We can come back as many times as you need to.”
I smiled, draping my arms over his shoulders. “Maybe. But… I think I got what I needed.”
“Okay. If you need more, though…”
The words “I have exactly what I need right here” were on the tip of my tongue, but that sounded just a little too corny. Instead, I drew him in for a soft kiss.
When I broke that kiss, though, some words did come.
“A year ago,” I whispered, “I never imagined thinking this ever again, but… I think I might be the luckiest man alive.”
Surprise registered on his expression, but then he smiled. “I don’t know. I think I hit the jackpot.”
I laughed quietly and shrugged. “Maybe. But I met someone who saw me at my absolute worst, pulled me out of the fray, and still managed to love me like this. Pretty sure it doesn’t get any better than that.”
Peyton was already shaking his head. “Nothing that happened was any reason to love you less.” He caressed my cheek. “You’re amazing, and you’re a lot stronger than you think.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “And those six-pack abs don’t hurt anything, so—”
I burst out laughing, which felt absolutely incredible. Here in this place where I’d wondered if I’d ever feel anything but sadness and loss ever again, Peyton had me laughing and rolling my eyes and… feeling good.
As I sobered, I trailed my fingertips along the edge of his beard. “Thank you again. I mean it. For… everything.”
He just smiled and drew me in, and I let his kiss make me as dizzy as the laughter had.
The man I’d been a year ago couldn’t have imagined where I’d be now.
The man I was now couldn’t imagine things turning out any other way.
And I couldn’t wait to see the beautiful future I was going to have with Peyton.