Archie
My friends and family looked at my life from afar and said I was living the dream. On paper, they were right.
I played for the Cascade Kodiaks, the same team whose games I’d watched as a kid. On weekends, I used to sit cross-legged too close to the TV and my older brother would yell at me to move.
I had a jersey with my name on the back, a contract that made my folks cry when I called to tell them, and a locker with my nameplate above it in a rink that smelled of fresh ice.
Kids admired me and wore my number and strangers took selfies with me.
That eighteen-year-old who worked weekends in the hardware store hadn’t dreamed or hoped of success like this.
But no one knew what it was like looking at my life from the inside. The reality was every day it felt as though I were wearing someone else’s life like a too-big winter coat.
The “dream” was worth little because the most important part was missing, but I got up and lived it every day, unlike my wolf. Since that day eight years ago, he’d been almost catatonic. He’d wake for games because the ice was home. But as the final horn sounded, he returned to grieving.
Some mornings I’d open my eyes and for the first few seconds, I’d think “Today’s the day when I can start again.
” But I’d cut out the best part of me, and the wound reopened after I took five breaths.
I clutched my chest as I pictured Garrick delivering his verdict in my parents’ entryway.
How could I forget what he’d promised to do to Walter if I didn’t agree with his demand?
After eight years, I’d expected the pain to fade, leaving an ugly scar, but it never did.
Practice this morning was a hard one, and I was grateful to Coach, because when it was hard, it left less time to think.
He ran us through the forecheck for the better part of an hour. It was a drill where we chased the puck carrier deep into his own end and hunted the puck loose before he could move it. In practice, that meant going at my own teammates.
My job was to be the first man in, throwing myself at whoever had the puck while my two line mates sealed off the boards behind me so nothing got out clean. I was that first man more often than not, and that pleased me.
Throwing my body at another player was the one part of the day that asked nothing of me but effort.
I didn’t have to smile through it or pretend I was fine.
I just had to line someone up and drive my shoulder into him.
For those few seconds, my head was quiet.
My wolf liked it too. Contact was one of the few things that woke him up.
So I spent the session crashing into defensemen who outweighed me and shoved back. I hit them harder than the drill called for because that left less space inside me for anything else.
After that, we ran attacks on the ice then fought for loose pucks in the corners. That was just me and one other guy jammed against the boards, shoving each other, with both of us trying to dig the puck out and skate off with it.
I won most of these because my wolf helped me thanks to his reflexes, and he sensed where a player would move before he did. It was the same edge that got scouts writing about me years ago, and I was grateful he gave me that despite his sadness.
We finished with conditioning, skating hard from one end of the rink to the other until my lungs burned. I pushed harder than my team members because this pain was honest and earned and not like the other kind.
But the whistle went and it was over, and I had nothing left to hide behind.
This was the most difficult part.
In the locker room the guys were loud, trading insults and slapping towels, and someone was always playing music. Our captain dropped on the bench beside me, half out of his gear and grinning at a video of his daughter. I smiled and agreed that she was the cutest toddler on the planet.
I plastered a smile on my face, hoping it convinced him it was genuine, but he was lost in his little girl twirling and calling, “Daddy, look at me.” My chest ached with the loss of something I’d never experience, and I blinked away tears.
My wolf didn’t say anything but I knew what he was thinking.
We could have had that.
But I’d had no choice, and even though my beast had urged me to agree with Garrick, neither of us had been prepared for the consequences of living a half life.
Putting myself on autopilot—it was the only way to get out of here without having a meltdown—I peeled off my gear, answered when people spoke to me, and laughed at a joke.
My wolf was pacing because he wanted out.
Pressure from him was building inside me, similar to air being pumped into a balloon.
My beast needed his fur, four legs, and the forest floor beneath his paws, anything that wasn’t this bright room full of men with lives they were living to the fullest.
Keep it together, I begged, until we can get out of here.
I hit the showers, got dressed at record speed, and left before anyone could invite me to eat with them. The captain shouted about a team dinner, and I raised a hand as I sped out of the room. If I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure if words would come out or a growl.
I didn’t remember most of the drive out of town, but I’d bought my place for one reason. The land behind it was a dark stretch of woods that led into the hills and didn’t belong to anyone. On the nights when the pain hurt the worst, the tree line was the only thing that kept me from coming apart.
And tonight was bad.
I left the truck parked at an odd angle in the drive and didn’t lock it, not that I needed it out here. My shirt was off before I hit the trees, and I tossed the boots somewhere. My beast took his fur while I was still half dressed and my jeans and briefs didn’t make it. RIP to them.
The shift sharpened my senses as I gave way to my beast. And though there was always pain when bones broke and formed, I welcomed it because this pain was freeing.
There were no decisions to make about where to go, what to do, or who to avoid, and I was safe inside him with my thoughts.
I didn’t have to perform for anyone, and my wolf and I didn’t have to hide our grief.
My wolf wasn’t tired out here. He ran and chased whatever prey he scented through the birches and along the ridge where a fierce wind ripped through the branches. The moon provided a trail of light, not that my beast needed it.
During the hunt, the sharp piercing pain in my chest faded to an ache. This was what counted as peace in our lives.
My wolf scented deer, and he followed its scent.
He was patient and slow while he stalked the animal, before he became a blur of fur and teeth as he took it down.
And when his belly was full, he lay on the ground and was quiet.
It wasn’t the same stillness as when he was grieving but the good kind of quiet.
This was the closest we ever got to being okay, out here with no one watching.
I looked up at the dark sky and wondered if Walter could see the same patch of clouds. Unlikely as he was probably still on the other side of the continent. He was out there, being safe and never knowing the deal I’d made where I’d traded my happiness for his life.
But I’d do it again if given the chance.
My wolf sighed and put his head on his paws. Same time tomorrow?
Yep.
It was the only activity that kept me from breaking down.