2. What’s The Worst That Could Happen? #2
Running my fingers through the lengths of my hair, I hand the last cup over to Reid.
I only agreed to play if he would drink for me.
Thankfully, no one around has asked any questions.
Even with the commotion I caused when I walked in and saw so many familiar faces—everyone knows me here, which means they also know what happened.
Therefore, no one has mentioned the incident or brought up hockey.
I really hope it stays that way.
Maybe Jasmine, my therapist, was right about confronting my past. I can be who I once was, without the drinking, without hockey—without her. For the first time in a year, I feel a sliver of my old self returning.
“Do you have to be good at every god-damn thing you do?” I yell across the overcrowded room. “It’s fucking irritating!”
Brennan’s wide smile stretches as he reaches up and flexes a bicep, pressing a kiss to his muscle.
“What can I say?” he shrugs. “I’m a God.” That earns him a middle finger from both Reid and me.
Cocky bastard.
“You know, I didn’t think his head could get any bigger,” I joke. “Seems like I was wrong.”
Reid’s eyebrows shoot up. “That captain title went straight to his head. I’m surprised he can fit through the door nowadays.”
I laugh. But at the same time, two girls approach Reid, one smiling and running her fingers down his arm, stopping to grip his elbow.
“Can—” he clears his throat, correcting himself, “may I help you?” Reid grumbles.
I snort, covering my hand over my mouth, to conceal my laughter because when did he become the fucking grammar police? I mean, sure, he’s wicked smart, but he’s never been a stuck-up prude about proper English…and at a bar nonetheless.
I try to act casual, like I’m not listening in on their conversation, especially as Reid grumbles something and then scatters from them like leaves in the wind.
Suddenly, something else snags my attention, a voice off in the distance—one that sets every nerve ending in my body alight all at once.
The commotion of the bar becomes a mute background noise. My eyes narrow in on the flatscreen TV situated in the corner of the room as I slowly follow the sound, like a moth being drawn to a flame.
My feet move without my consent, cutting the distance with ease. I know I need to stop myself, to force my body to stay planted, to steady my erratic heart—but it’s too late, though, as I’m standing in front of the screen, my eyes flickering over the rerun game.
I flinch, my eyelashes tickling my skin as I blink.
I know this game.
I played in this game.
Look away, Liam. Don’t watch this. I urge myself.
I’ve never had good self-control, though. So, my eyes stay glued to the screen.
I watch, my eyes darting over the TV with anticipation, like I didn’t live out this very moment in real-time.
Players skate across the painted lines, bodies weaving around each other—up and down the ice. Over and over.
My palms go sweaty as I force a swallow.
I look good out there. Like I don’t belong anywhere else. Like my skates are just an extension of myself.
Brennan passes me the puck.
I know what happens next without having to watch it.
I need to walk away. I need to put my back to this.
I don’t, though, of course I don’t.
I watch my past self, the better version of me, handle the puck, cut left, then right.
Good move. I think. Except for the fact that I don’t see the defensemen dangerously closing in, only a few strides behind.
I should have shot. Why didn’t I?
Something tightens in my chest as I place my palm to my heart as if trying to ease the pain I know I’m about to relive.
Like I said, I don’t shoot. No, at the last second, I pull the puck wide, take it to the boards, trying to slow the game and burn time off the clock.
A rookie fucking mistake.
I watch, my breath catching on something deep inside me as my life changes right before my eyes.
The defenseman I had my back to plows into me.
I flinch back as I witness my body get thrown into the glass. The sound over the speakers is not nearly as loud as the one pounding in my ears. A sound I’ll never be able to forget.
Then, I stare blankly as my blade catches awkwardly.
My body goes one way.
My leg, the other.
The TV cuts to a commercial break.
I know why. Anyone who saw the game in real-time knows why.
Because my bone was splintered in half, protruding from my blood-soaked sock—the white fabric turning as dark as Delleth’s crimson stripes decorating it.
People crowd around, their eyes dancing from the replay back to me as they begin murmuring under their breath.
Before I can escape it, the memory comes to life, sending chills over my skin as I can practically still feel the warmth of my blood seeping through my gear, a stark contrast to the cold of the ice where I laid.
I stumble back, nearly toppling over a barstool as I try to catch my balance.
Phantom pain coils up my shin, a throbbing ache that causes my eyes to twitch.
I look down, knowing I’m not on that ice anymore, that my leg isn’t really split in half.
My mind betrays me, though, and as I look down, suddenly I’m no longer at Melbourne’s.
I’m in a hospital bed, staring down at my unnaturally twisted leg.
The curtains to my hospital bay fling open. A number of people in matching blue scrubs come running in, each one’s face twisting at the sight of me in the stretcher.
They quickly place towels over my open injury, trying to remove my gear as I scream in pain.
I’m surrounded. They’re holding me down in various places.
Someone grabs my arm, twisting it toward my side as I feel the sting of a bee.
“Ahhh,” I wince, happy for a distraction from my leg screaming in agonizing pain, even if it just means replacing it with another.
My head snaps over my shoulder to see a nurse pull free a needle, quickly injecting me with something.
“That should help with the pain, Liam.” The nurse comforts, taping the IV in place.
But my focus isn’t on her. No, not as they begin cutting through the layers of my gear.
“Hey,” I start, my words starting to bleed together. “Don’t cut my lucky fucking socks, I’ll need them next—”
The room goes quiet. Several eyes find my own. They can’t hold the contact, though. No, they flicker over me, then look away.
I look around, over each of their faces, each one more solemn than the next.
My leg suddenly doesn’t hurt.
No. A different pain has taken over now. One I know that can never be remedied—one that is mental vs. physical.
Because I know, without any doctors or specialists telling me…there won’t be a need for my lucky socks anymore. There won’t be another game.
A breath pulls sharply through me as the television screen goes black.
My head snaps up. Finding Brennan to my left, remote control in his hand.
“I think we all know what happens after that,” he announces, several bystanders cursing him for cutting the feed. But his eyes are only locked on mine.
I break the stalemate. I fucking hate it when he looks at me this way. When anyone does. Like I’m a broken piece of glass threatening to cut an artery and bleed out right on this floor.
Brennan lays a hand over my shoulder, leading me to the bar with a tight grip—like he’s worried I’m about to sprint through the doors and never come back.
Not a bad idea, come to think of it.
While the bar might not be my first choice for escape, I’ll take it. I’m willing to go anywhere except deeper into that memory right now.
“Water—no ice,” I say as the bartender asks for our orders when we sit. And thankfully, the older woman doesn’t question me as she fills me a glass.
“Same for me,” Brennan orders.
I steal a glance at him, “You can drink, man, it’s alright.”
Brennan has his good qualities. For someone seemingly so self-absorbed, he can sometimes surprise you with his awareness.
But he sways a little on his barstool. “I appreciate you being cool with it—but I’m sooo fucked up right now. I think I’d better stick with water.” He snorts, laughing as he throws back his sobering drink.
Or, maybe he’s not being attentive…just drunk.
“How’s practice going?” I ask, trying my best to sound like I’m not struggling to ask the question. Brennan leans sideways, and even with his heavy eyelids, I can see the surprise in his eyes from my question. But he doesn’t answer me right away, as an unseen woman slides into the seat next to him.
I scoff, blowing out a puff of air as he turns his back to me, focusing his attention on her. Emptying my water, I swallow the room-temperature liquid as the smell of beer fills the air around me, practically dancing on my tongue as I reminisce about the yeasty taste.
An unknown woman approaches me, “Hey, I’m Emery.”
I cast a quick glance before she reaches out a thin hand, and I hesitantly meet it.
She’s pretty, no denying that. But with her thick layer of makeup and spiderwebbed lashes, she’s not the type I usually gravitate toward.
I can’t help picturing sun-kissed skin and dark hair—probably streaked with natural caramel highlights this time of year.
Aubrey.
That fucking annoying voice in my head whispers: the only features you’re attracted to are hers.