12. Booker
Booker
“Dude, what happened to your face?” Will Fischer asks when I walk into the locker room for practice on Monday afternoon. The black eye my dad gave me last week is no longer puffy, but it’s still a little purple and yellow.
“Took an elbow from an overly-excited fan at Dad’s show,” I say, having rehearsed a story, knowing people would ask.
“Damn,” he says, inspecting my face. Just then, Colt walks in, and I see Beau’s shoulders stiffen from across the room.
When I got home from the airport last night, Beau was asleep on my couch. He had been staying at the house the week before break, saying something about a fight with Colt, but I had expected him to be gone by the time I got back from California.
“Okay, seriously, you two need to get over whatever this shit is,” I say, turning on my Captain voice.
“I’m over it,” Colt tosses out without any sort of inflection. He’s pissed. More pissed than I’ve seen him in a long time. Colt was a bit of a hothead when he started with the team, but as he’s matured, he’s more level-headed than just about anyone I’ve ever met.
“Yeah, you seemed real ‘over it’ last night,” Beau spits at him, and my eyebrows raise. I have no idea what’s happening, but I’ve never seen these two fight like this.
“You really want to do this here?” Colt asks, eyes glaring at his friend.
I take that as my cue to step in. “Alright, boys, everyone out. Now!”
The team files out, throwing curious glances over their shoulders, but also knowing not to fuck around right now.
Drew is the first one to speak. “What the actual fuck is going on?”
“For real. One of you better start talking. Warren, man, I love you, but I’m sick of your ass sleeping on my couch,” I say, getting really fed up with their bullshit.
“He’s the one with a problem,” Colt fires off. “Did you even tell them why you were staying there?” Beau shakes his head no in response to him.
“Do you want them to leave?” Beau asks Colt.
I cross my arms at that. “I’m not leaving until you motherfuckers figure this out,” I say firmly.
“Fuck.” Colt looks taken aback and slightly distressed, running his hands through his hair. “No. They can stay, I guess.” My curiosity piques, and I share a look with Drew. The hell?
“What are you talking about?” Drew asks, eyes bouncing between our two friends like a pinball machine.
“Colt’s dad is dead. Has been for two years. And he’s been on antidepressants ever since.” Drew and I both inhale a breath, neither one of us having been prepared for that statement to have come out of his mouth.
Colt says something quietly, so quiet I don’t even catch it. But Beau does, and it makes the big man furious. “Because ever since you got with her, you stopped taking your fucking medicine!” he yells, and I share another look with Drew.
I’m way out of my fucking element here. Colt has depression? And stopped taking his meds? Holy shit, how did none of us know?
“Colt, man, I don’t think you’re supposed to just quit that stuff,” I say hesitantly, not entirely sure how to approach the situation.
Colt goes on to say the doctor told him he could get off the meds and that he’s better now. Then the argument progresses into talking about Colt’s girlfriend, Stella. I like her, she seems like a nice girl, but Beau obviously had a different impression of her.
“So, you aren’t going to off yourself, Crosby?” Drew asks when the screaming match dies down, and I put a hand to my forehead, getting a migraine from this damn conversation.
Colt laughs, but it’s without an ounce of humor. “No, Drew. Never tried before, and I don’t plan on trying it out any time soon.”
At that, Beau’s face goes ashen. He looks at Colt with wide, confused eyes, and the pit of my stomach sinks.
“But my mom said…. You were sent away because…”
Beau can’t even get a full sentence out, glancing down at the scars on Colt’s arms. Scars I’ve noticed but never asked about.
I remember when he got them, vaguely. First few weeks after tryouts, Colt had been training with me and the other, older forwards.
Then, he was gone for about a month or so, out of nowhere.
When he came back, he had these long, fresh scars on his arms that he mostly kept covered up with long sleeves.
I should’ve asked him what happened then, but we weren’t as close back in those days as we are now. It didn’t feel like my place to pry. And all along, his dad had been dead.
Fuck. I’m a terrible friend.
“I never did that, Beau. I never tried to kill myself. Your mom found me after I had broken into the liquor cabinet; the glass cut my arms, but it was an accident.”
The look on my face must mirror Drew’s shock, because Colt looks at us like he just threw a grenade into the floor. He might as well have.
“I—after Gracie, I couldn’t—I thought I needed to protect you…” Beau’s voice cracks, and I look over to see that his eyes are red. Suddenly, Colt is there, catching his brother in his arms, and I take that as our cue to go. I grab Drew by the back of the jersey, pulling him off the bench.
We’ve overstayed our welcome, and that conversation is not one I want to be a part of without explicit consent.
We all know the story of Gracie Warren.
When I was a freshman—Beau, Colt, and Drew would’ve been seniors in high school—it was big news that this rich local girl went missing from a party. No one knew what had happened. No one saw anything.
I saw Beau’s parents on the news almost nightly, asking for information, offering to pay a ransom for their daughter. But their efforts were met with radio silence.
When Beau came to Saint A’s, Coach told us who he was, and we weren’t to bring up his sister.
Between Beau, Drew, and me, I knew our team had some fucked up pasts. Secrets. I always expected Colt to be the one with a clean-cut home life. This revelation has rocked me to my core.
“I’m going to talk to Coach,” I tell Drew, not even bothering to put on my skates as I walk across the ice.
Coach meets me halfway, saying Simmons gave him a heads up about what was going on in the locker room.
“Did you know?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Know what?” Coach returns, meeting my glare.
“About Colt’s dad.” His silence is all the confirmation I need. I chuckle disbelievingly. “I’m the fucking captain. You didn’t think it was important for me to know one of my friends was depressed? You didn’t think I needed to be aware to keep an eye on him when we went to the bars?”
“Don’t use that tone with me, Jamie, or I’ll have you skating laps. He asked me not to say anything. Besides, it’s not like you’ve been eager to chat with me the last few years.” Coach throws his arms up in defeat.
“Don’t start with the ‘Jamie’ bullshit. You should’ve told me.” My blood pounds in my ears, anger at Coach, at Colt for keeping this a secret. At myself for not paying closer attention.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you should’ve gotten your head out of your ass long enough to ask,” Coach throws back at me, and my eyes widen in outrage. By God, does it take everything in me not to swing at him.
“I’m leaving,” I say, turning to walk away. I’ve never missed a practice in all my years of playing, but I can’t stand to be here a second longer.
“Jamie, wait—” Coach calls, skating after me, but I’ve already hopped the boards, walking away.