14. Jackson
FOURTEEN
JACKSON
Ethan Blackwood is our head coach and a giant fucking prick. He’s controlling and arrogant and on my dick twenty-four-seven. He tells me where to be and when. He tells me what I can and can’t put in my body. He has turned the entire organization against me, firing whoever doesn’t follow his rules where I’m concerned. He fired most of the training staff, including the head doctor, for giving me an IV.
A fucking IV.
For hydration.
So what if I came to practice hungover? I’ve done it a million times. He’s lucky I’m not drunk or high.
I toss my helmet into my cubby. It hits the wall and bounces onto the locker room floor.
“Pick it up,” demands the asshole.
I yank my jersey over my head. “Fuck you.”
“The staff shouldn’t have to clean up after you. You’re not a fucking child. You’re a grown-ass adult.” He steps closer, a vein bulging in his neck. “You wanna play on my team? Pick. It. Up.”
I don’t. I turn and face him, sick of this fucking dictatorship. One controlling bastard in my life is enough. “I didn’t choose to be on your team. You weren’t the coach when I signed my contract.”
“I’ve read your contract. Nowhere does it say you’re free to show up drunk, hungover, or use substances. In fact, there are stipulations against it. So you can pick up that helmet, go home, and get your shit together, or I’ll drug test you.”
I scoff. “You think I haven’t tested positive before?”
“I’m sure you have, and everyone who swept it under the rug has been removed from this team. There’s no place for that shit here. I’ll submit your positive drug test myself and suspend you without pay. What will Daddy think about that?”
I step into him, fists clenched and my body quaking with fury. “Fuck you.”
He doesn’t back down. If anything, he stands taller. “Say it again, and you’ll sit the bench.”
“Do you want this team to lose? Because that’s exactly what will happen if I don’t play.”
He shakes his head, an expression of pity on his face that I absolutely despise.
“Winning isn’t everything. Your life and health are more important than a few goals. And if you haven’t noticed, this team hasn’t made it past the first round of the playoffs since your rookie year. So tell me, Jackson, how are you improving this team? Each year, your performance declines.”
Shame and rage ignite. I pick up the helmet and slam it into his chest. “Fuck you and your team.”
He doesn’t even flinch. He lets the helmet fall to the floor, skewering me with his death glare. “Go home and sleep. Be back here tonight at seven.”
“Good luck with that. I won’t be here.”
“You will.”
“And why is that?”
“When you enter the Hall of Fame, this moment will be your speech. You’ll share with the crowd about the day you stopped drinking and how that decision transformed your life.”
Tears well up, and I grind my molars to stop them. “I don’t care about the Hall of Fame.”
He glances behind me at the pictures of Aurora. “What about the girl who loves you but doesn’t love your addiction? Do you care about her? If not, let me know. I’d love to?—”
My chest cracks wide open. “Shut the fuck up. Do not finish that fucking sentence.”
“That’s what I thought. Seven on the ice, not a minute later.”
I regret coming home immediately. Scratch that—this is not a home. It’s nothing but an empty shell.
In the doorway, I contemplate whether to stay or leave.
If I stay, I’ll be bombarded with memories, and it’ll fucking hurt. It might drive me to drink—or worse.
But if I go back to my father’s, there’s a 99.9 percent probability I’m getting drunk or high.Most likely both.
The thought of checking out of reality is inviting. My heart races, my mouth goes dry, and that familiar, relentless craving claws at my brain.
What about the girl who loves you but doesn’t love your addiction? Do you care about her?
Fuck him.
The irritation of Ethan’s words drives me forward, into the penthouse and away from the door. This place is a strange dream, a nightmare, and I leave my shoes on.
Aurora should be living here. I gave it to her when I left.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and down it as I survey the hollow space.
There’s nothing here, not a single trace of her. That can’t be right. She lived here for nearly two years. There has to be something of hers here.
I search the cabinets, find an open bag of Jolly Ranchers used for drinks, and pop one into my mouth. The sweetness tricks my brain and quenches my dry throat, and I continue searching.
There’s nothing in the kitchen, not her bubbly water or that ridiculous kettle corn she can’t live without. I make a mental list of her favorite foods and decide to order them.Why? I don’t know. To feel close to her?
I move to the living room, throwing off all the couch cushions. Nothing. It’s spotless. The maids have cleaned. I open every drawer and cabinet. I stop and think. Did she have anything here? Only personal items, and they remained in the bedroom and bathroom.
Was she even comfortable here?
She gave me a PlayStation for Christmas, and I check the media room. It’s still here. I used it at most twice. Why didn’t I use it? I’d tell her I was going to play COD with the guys, and I never did. It was an excuse to leave and get high.
She bought me the PlayStation so I’d stay home, and guilt hits me hard in the chest.
More fucking tears.
The pain is unbearable.
I can’t be sober for this.
My gaze flashes to the balcony.
Just end it. End all this torment.
I was doing the right thing to protect her.
Another lie. I don’t know where the lies end and the truth begins. At one point, I started using drugs and alcohol to escape, and then I was escaping to use. I couldn’t stop.
I can’t stop.
Another lie. I can. I refuse to. I have no reason to.
What about the girl who loves you but doesn’t love your addiction? Do you care about her? If not, let me know.
Like fuck I’ll allow him to have her.
I sit on my bed and drop my head into my hands. Where do I go from here?
First, because Ethan Blackwood is a dick, I have practice at seven.
Second, I avoid the places where I get drunk and high. Not difficult, as long as my father doesn’t force me to see him. I can always tell him Coach has me on a short leash. That’s not a lie.
Next, I need to sell this penthouse. I can’t stay here, or I will eventually jump from the balcony.
I remove my boots and climb into bed. I’m exhausted but unable to sleep. I take out my phone and search IG for any new pictures of Aurora.
She’s currently in New York City. Her public profile has a picture of her behind the scenes with the caption: Getting ready for fashion week *kiss emoji*. She’s wearing a black lace bra, a pink feathery miniskirt, and high heels. Her legs are a mile long. Fuck, I miss having them wrapped around my waist.
Her ribs are showing, and the skirt is low enough to see the indentation of her ab muscles and prominent hip bones. She’s stunning, as always, but she has lost weight.
The best part of the picture is her bright smile. She appears happy. She deserves it.
It’d never work out between us, even if I was sober and my father wasn’t a snake. We both travel, and I’d be insanely jealous of every guy who saw her this way.
I could work on that, though.
Well, I can get sober. I’m still trying to figure out the jealousy.
I leave her a comment. I miss that smile. *heart emoji*
She never writes back. I don’t blame her, but I’d give anything to talk to her.
“I thought I was here for practice, not a fucking therapy session.”
“Shoot the fucking puck, then.”
I take another shot at the empty net, nailing the top-right corner.
“Left side,” Ethan calls out then resumes asking his stupid fucking questions. “When did you start playing?”
“Fourteen.” I hit the left side.
“Ding the bar, I wanna hear it. You play as if you started at four. How’d you make pro in five years?”
I take the shot, dinging the bar, and the sound echoes through the empty arena. “Surfing. I’ve surfed since I was little.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“Surfing teaches you balance. Skating is about balance. Low and wide. Strong core. It’s all the same. Most of the fights I get into, the other player falls first. They lose their balance, and I’m on top.”
“Holy fuck. That’s impressive.” He gestures toward the goal. “Five hole.”
This shot is supposed to be between the goalie’s legs. Easy enough without a goalie. “When did you retire?” I ask.
“When I was twenty-eight. Hit the top shelf.”
Ding . Twenty-eight is too young to retire. “What happened? Why’d you stop?”
“Fractured my neck. They won’t let you play after that.”
A sadistic smile forms on my face as I aim for the next shot.
“Jesus. Does that make you happy?”
My grin widens. “Happy to hear you have a weakness.”
“Why? So you can murder me? Everyone has a weakness.”
I should murder him. He knew he was coming here to coach, knew Aurora and I had history, and he fucked her anyway.
And I only have myself to blame.
I shrug. “If you say so.”
“Don’t act smug. Everybody knows yours.”
I straighten to my full height, leaning on my stick. “And what’s that?”
He scoffs and raises his brows. “Aurora.”
Shaking my head, I return to shooting slap shots against the bar.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
Ding. “Nothing to talk about.”
“Why’d you break up?”
Ding. “We didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. She broke up with you.”
Ding. “Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. She never broke up with me.”
“You’re in denial. You left town. She left you. Same thing.”
Ding. “She left my house. Moved out. Blocked me on everything, but she never broke up with me.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, his perma-scowl deepening. “You need to let that shit go. You can’t hold on to her forever. She’s not yours.”
I drop my stick on the ice and clench my fists. The fuck I can’t. I’ll hold on to her until I’m six feet under. I have no issue with that. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. If I’d have stayed, she’d have stayed. She’d have never left me. I was a full-blown addict. She deserved better. I gave her the penthouse. I told her to keep it. I was the problem, and I left.” My voice cracks, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “I spent that time getting obliterated on every drug I could get my hands on, hoping to fucking?—”
Die .
I rub at the ache in my sternum. “She’s better off.”
He nods, taking it all in. He no longer regards me with pity or arrogance. “Don’t you think it’s a little obsessive to be this hung up over a girl?”
“Are you asking for me or you?”