Chapter 2
Caleb
“Ca … leb … “
“Ca … leb … “
The struggling sound of my brother calling out my name forces me awake. As I slowly open my eyes, I find the simple act more difficult than it ought to be.
The fuck?
I’m too disoriented to make heads or tails of where I am, much less what happened, as my head pounds ruthlessly like someone is drilling holes into it. But it’s not just my head that hurts. My entire body is filled with aching pain, making every bone and muscle scream in agony. And when an acrid smell of smoke fills my nostrils, making me cough, my ribs feel like they’re on fire.
But there is another scent far more potent in the air, lingering all around me. It seeps into my senses, coating my nose and mouth with its distinctive tang.
It’s nauseating and fucking frightening.
I can almost taste it. Taste its violence.
The smell of blood is so overpowering that it becomes suffocating, coaxing me to cough it out of my lungs. As I struggle to catch my breath with the inescapable metallic tang, flashbacks of what occurred start coming at me at full throttle.
Partying all night after Nate’s wedding.
Calling Jack to pick me up.
Jack and I fighting.
Jack getting behind the wheel.
Bright white truck lights.
Then … the smell of blood.
As I force my lids to open, the first thing I realize is that I’m still strapped to the passenger seat of a car with the seat belt holding me in place.
“Ca … leb … “
“Ca … leb … “
I turn my head slowly to the side, and my heart clenches in horror. My brother is slumped over the steering wheel with a piece of metal jutting through his chest and out his back. Blood is gurgling from his lips, staining his chin and his neck, all the way to his now crimson shirt.
Panic grips me as I frantically fumble with the seat belt, trying to free myself. Nausea comes at me like a tidal wave when I try to move my arm to unlatch the belt off me. The pain is so intense that I end up puking all over myself, relief coming instantly.
Great.
Not only is my arm for sure broken, but I have a concussion, too.
“Ca … leb … “
“I’m here, Jack! I’m here!” I shout over the blinding pain, the hot tears pricking my eyes and blurring my vision.
But it’s the absent sound of sirens in the distance that spurs me into action.
“ARGH!” I scream as I finally manage to undo the belt.
I wipe the disgusting vomit off my chin and open the car door, scrambling out of the car. My legs tremble as I rush to my brother’s side and open the door, my hands shaking as I reach out to touch him.
“Hold on, Jack,” I whisper, uncaring that my tears are now streaming down my cheeks.
I don’t dare look at the object perforating his body.
I refuse to see the blood and mayhem around us.
Instead, I grab his hand and focus on his pale face while the other calls nine-one-one.
It takes me less than a minute to tell the emergency operator to get an ambulance to us.
“Hold on, Jack. Help is on the way.”
My heart breaks into minuscule shards of glass when all my brother can do is blink, no longer having the strength to talk.
“Come on, Jack! Just hold on! Please!” I beg just as the familiar sound of a siren is heard in the distance. “See? Help is coming. It’s coming, Jack. All you have to do is hold on tight to me. Just hold on,” I plead, gripping his hand in mine. “Think of the girls. Think of Erin. Think of Cara and baby Fiona. Think of the little baby that you still haven’t met yet. They all need you. Just hold on. Just a little longer, Jack. Please.”
As the wail of the ambulance draws closer, the flashing lights cast an eerie glow on the scene. I collapse onto my knees, the reality of the situation crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. My brother—my closest companion—lies before me, his life slipping away with each labored breath.
And all I can do is beg.
Beg for him to hold on.
“Please, Jack! For me!” I cry. “Please don’t let go! Please!”
Tears stream down my face as I whisper a broken prayer for my brother, my voice hitching with such misery that I never knew a human being had the capacity to feel.
In this moment of despair and tragedy, all I can do is cling to his hand, just as I cling to the hope that somehow, someway, he’ll make it.
But when the light in his eyes disappears and his lids shut of their own accord, his hand slips away from mine, just as his life does.
I don’t even register when the ambulance arrives.
I don’t even question when they pull me away to tend to my brother.
I’m frozen in shock and grief, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as the paramedics rush in to try and save him.
But in my heart, I know it’s futile.
Because he let go of my hand.
He let go.
With a dying breath … he let go.
I wake up drenched in a cold sweat, the stench of death all around me.
It’s been like this every night since…
The dreams… they torture me.
They serve as a reminder.
A reminder that the wrong brother was behind the wheel that night.
It should have been me.
I’m the one who should have been there lying in a pool of my own blood, gurgling out for help.
Not Jack.
Anyone but Jack.
Like it is with most nights that I wake up like this, I get out of bed, walk to my kitchen, and grab my pain meds and a bottle of whiskey to wash them down with. I then sit on my couch, staring into the abyss, waiting for the meds and the booze to do their thing and knock me out cold.
Drunk and heavily medicated is the only way to guarantee a good night’s sleep.
Because that’s the only way I can prevent the dreams from coming at night.
The nightmares.
Like this, all that awaits me is darkness.
Pitch-black darkness.
Just like my soul.
I slowly open my eyes, feeling the harsh sunlight pierce through my eyelids. The pounding in my head matches the rhythm of my racing heart. My mouth feels like a desert, dry and parched. Groaning, I sit up straight on the couch and immediately regret it as the room starts to spin around me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to piece together the fragments of memories from the night before.
Flashes of fists, disappointed glares, and the bottom of a whiskey bottle come to mind. It doesn’t astound me that the images from last night’s clusterfuck of a hockey game aren’t accompanied by a sense of regret or even shame.
What they do remind me of, however, is that Trent Nichols ordered me to be in his office at nine o’clock sharp.
Fuck.
I look around and see my phone on the floor. I pick it up and immediately see a few messages from Nate, telling me not to be late.
I also see that it’s a quarter to nine.
With rush hour traffic, I’ll be lucky if I get there at ten.
“Guess that ship has sailed,” I snicker, throwing my phone to the side.
Still, Trent will be pissed if I’m a no-show.
Fuck.
I pick up my phone again and start typing.
Me: Running a bit late.
Nichols: I said nine. I expect you here at nine on the dot.
I roll my eyes.
Me: Unless you have a time machine handy, then I’m going to be late. An hour late.
I watch the blue lines appear and disappear for a full minute.
A few months ago, Trent would be calling me every name in the book for my disobedience. But now… he’s carefully contemplating the best way to handle me. Like I’m made of glass or some shit.
Nichols: Ten it is, then.
I’d be disappointed with his answer if I hadn’t already expected it.
Still, it pissed me off he would bend to my will so easily.
“Might as well get this over with,” I mutter, aggravated.
As I struggle to get up from the couch, my stomach churns in protest, reminding me that booze and pills make for miserable bedfellows, especially on an empty stomach. I can’t even remember the last time I ate. I make a mental reminder to grab a protein bar before leaving. I then make my way to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face, trying to shake off the fog still clouding the corners of my mind.
But it’s the sight of my reflection in the mirror that wakes me up, my disgust evident.
It’s going to be a long day of regrets and apologies.
Yep.
Today, I pay the price for last night’s reckless behavior.
I can just hear Trent now.
How he warned me that it would be best to take the rest of the season off. That I wasn’t in the right frame of mind, much less in peak condition to play with a fucked-up arm. He gave me a long list of reasons why coming back was a bad idea.
But I did what I always do—I wore him down until I got my way.
My nostrils flare as I stare at myself through the mirror.
Yep, that’s what I do.
I take, take, and take until there’s nothing more for good people to give.
A leech.
That’s what I am. A leech that sucks every drop of goodness that is offered to him.
“Fuck you,” I curse at myself.
Not caring to see my reflection for another second, I turn on the shower and get inside, letting the cold water wash over me, wishing it could clean me of all my sins just as easily.
But absolution is only granted to those who deserve it.
And that’s not me.
That will never be me.
All I deserve is misery.
Shit.
This is a fucking ambush.
This is the thought running in my head when I walk into Trent Nichols’ office an hour later.
When Trent said he wanted to see me, he forgot to mention that there would be witnesses to our convo.
Everyone is here.
Everyone who is linked to the club and me, in some way or another.
Trent and Rex Jones.
Coach Byrne.
Nate, the new team captain and my supposed best friend.
Piper, my sports agent.
And Lawrence Preston III, the new owner of the club.
They are all here, staring at me as if I were a dead man walking.
“I didn’t know we were throwing a party,” I snicker. “If I’d known, I would have dressed up.”
“Sit down, Donovan,” Nichols orders, unamused.
“Is this some kind of intervention?” I ask, throwing the question in Piper’s direction.
“Something like that. Just take a seat, Caleb. Please,” she says, with a warm and patient tone that is so unlike her.
You see… Piper Lee is a hard ass.
She takes shit from no one. Especially me.
Just one of the many reasons why I like her so much.
So, to see the sad glimmer in her eyes as she pleads for me to sit down only pisses me off to no end. It reminds me too much of that horrid day when she gave me the news about Jack at the hospital. After the ambulance brought me back to Mass General, I must have been knocked out from the concussion. And when I came to, I had no recollection of anything that had transpired the night before.
Not until Piper gave me the news with that look in her eyes.
The look of heartbreak and loss.
The look of devastation.
The look of utter sorrow.
I hate that fucking look.
Hate it to the point of pain.
I intentionally avoid making eye contact with her as I walk past the others and settle into the chair positioned in front of Trent’s desk. Rex and Lawrence loom beside him, projecting an image of authority and unity.
But I can tell that Trent is the one calling the shots here.
And if he’s to be the judge, jury, and executioner in this mock trial, then I might as well look my fate dead in the eye.
Not that I’m going to make it easy on him to shell out his sentence.
“If this is about yesterday’s game, I already know what you’re going to say. And I get it. I’ll play nice from now on.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Coach Byrne says, standing at the side, running his hand over his bald head.
“Believe what you will,” I turn to him and say. “I was having a bad day. People are entitled to bad days,” I arrogantly justify.
“They are,” Trent acknowledges, pulling my focus back on him, “but we all know that what happened in Florida wasn’t a one-off. And it would be imprudent of me to let it slide. There is too much on the line.”
Right.
We are all but a shoo-in to qualify for the Stanley Cup playoffs, and my little stunt almost ruined that for the whole team. That’s why I’ve been called here today. To get a good telling-off so that I don’t fuck it up for the rest of the team.
The thing is, I don’t give a fuck about the cup.
Not now, anyway.
“We’ve discussed what we believe is the best course of action from this point on,” Nichols continues to explain, his face blank of all emotion.
“And what’s that?”
“We’ve all come to a consensus that it’s best that you sit out the next few games,” he finally pulls the trigger I saw coming a mile away.
I knew in my bones that this was what he’d say. That he’d keep me within arm’s reach so that I don’t pose a threat to myself while simultaneously keeping me at arm’s length from his team so I don’t fuck things more than I already have.
I should be relieved.
I should be fucking ecstatic that he’s giving me an out since my heart isn’t in the game anyway.
But instead, I’m pissed.
Pissed beyond measure.
“The fuck you are!” I shout, standing up from my seat.
“Caleb, sit down,” Nate orders to my right
I stare at him with daggers in my eyes.
He’s family.
Nate is fucking family.
And right now, I hate him.
I hate every goddamn person in here.
“No,” I state with venom in my tone. “I’m not going to sit down, and I’m not going to recuse myself from what I worked so hard to accomplish. The only way you’ll be lifting that cup over your heads is with me right there beside you.”
“Caleb,” Piper interjects to my left.
“No! I don’t want to hear it. A Donovan will hold up that Stanley Cup!” I shout, hating the pitying looks they give me in return for my outburst. “Do you hear me? A Donovan will hold up that Stanley Cup!”
I’m not sure if it’s the manic look in my eyes or the desperation in my voice, but Trent is quick to relent.
“Fine,” Trent says.
“Nichols,” Lawrence interjects with a warning, but Trent just ignores him.
“If Caleb wants a shot at the title, then we’ll give him one. We all know that he’s worked for it.”
Finally, someone is talking sense.
“But don’t think for a minute that I’ll make things easy for you. Not if you insist on disrupting my team. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” I sit back down and stare only at the general manager. “So what do you want me to do?”
His shark-like grin stretches across his face, signaling his satisfaction that I’ve been paying attention over the years—when you make a deal with Trent Nichols, there are always strings attached.
“For the time being, you’ll warm the bench and let someone else be the goalie. You’re not in the right headspace to defend, and right now, you’re more of a liability than an asset. I won’t have it.”
“How am I supposed to win a title if I can’t play?” I ask in confusion.
“I’ll give you a shot to prove to me and the rest of the team that you’re still worthy of playing. First, no more fighting. And no more drinking. If I even smell a whiff of alcohol on you, your ass is out,” he explains, scrunching his nose.
Even after taking a shower and putting on fresh, clean clothes, I’m sure the alcohol is still flowing out of my pores as we speak.
“What else?” I ask.
“Counseling,” Nate chimes in, making me snarl.
With one word, I feel like he just managed to stab me in the back.
Fucker.
He’s supposed to be my friend, and here he is, giving Trent ideas on how to punish me.
I don’t even look at him.
“No.”
“Yes,” Trent says. “I agree with Wilder. You need to talk to someone. Someone who can help you during this time. To make sense of what happened. Maybe a grief counselor.”
“Fuck no.” I shake my head.
“Caleb,” Piper pleads. “You need this. Not for the team but for you. You can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?” I snap.
“Like a bomb ready to explode,” Nate answers for her.
Again, I stare at the man who I consider to be like my own flesh and blood.
And again… I hate him for his betrayal.
“I’m not talking to a grief counselor,” I sneer at him.
“He can see Dr. Seymour,” Nate says to the others while staring me down. “She’ll know how to handle him.”
“I’m right here, motherfucker. Don’t talk about my life like I’m not even here.”
“Because you’re not,” Nate rebukes coldly. “My friend… my brother is not in the room with us. He’s gone. And until he comes back, we’re done here.”
And with those parting words, Nate leaves.
I don’t even turn around to watch him go.
Fucker blames me.
Blames me for what happened.
But then again, that makes two of us.
“Damn it, Caleb,” Piper mutters under her breath as she follows Nate out the door.
I try not to think about how her crestfallen expression hurts just as much as Nate’s contempt.
“Pretty soon, you’ll run out of friends, kid,” Rex throws in his own two cents.
“Do I look bothered?” I reply without care while getting up from my seat. “So is that all? Do you have any more hoops you want me to jump through, or are we good?”
“I believe we are,” Trent retorts as he rises from his own seat to extend his hand for me to shake. “Show us that you have your head on right, and I promise you that a Donovan will lift that Stanley Cup.”
I take his hand in mine and shake it before surprising him by pulling him to me.
“You can say it, Trent. It won’t be the right Donovan up there. The one who should be there got totaled with your car. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right? One Donovan is as good as the next.”
“Caleb,” he starts, his black eyes guilt-ridden with my unexpected remark.
“Don’t worry, boss. You’ll get your cup. I’ll make sure of it.”
I then let go of his hand with a jerk and walk away.