18. Griffin
My head feels like it’s been split in two, right down the middle, and I sit up too quickly when my door flies open, causing my stomach to clench with nausea.
“How long?” My dad asks, his voice stern and louder than he’s ever directed toward me.
“What?” I croak out. My throat feels like I ate a bag of cotton balls.
He slams my bedroom door shut, pulls my desk chair beside my bed, and sits down before he demands, “Tell me how long you’ve been using.”
I surprise myself, doing a decent job of hiding my fear of being caught. I look him right in the eyes and lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Griffin. My last surgery got canceled, so I was able to make it to your game. Imagine my surprise when I show up and find my son is high right before he gets in a fight. His first-ever fight on the ice. What are you taking? Adderall? Ritalin? Oxy? Cocaine?”
I think about coming clean—being honest with him—but I guess I just don’t have any fucks left to give. I double down on my lie. “Dad, I’m not sure what you saw last night, aside from me delivering Abbott an absolute ass-kicking. You haven’t seen me play in a while. I’m not taking anything. I’m just that good.”
Standing, he places his hands on his hips and shakes his head at me. “I can’t believe this,” he says without looking at me. “How could you do this, Griff? Don’t you know you’re all I have left?” His voice breaks, and fuck.
Fuck! How can I be so reckless?
I swore I would never do this to my dad after we lost our mom. But losing Katie? The pain I have to live with every day is too unbearable. Some days, I lie in bed and picture it all ending. I imagine what it would feel like if I didn’t have to wake up each morning with grief’s licks of pain, or if I didn’t have bouts of insomnia—grief’s stronghold refusing to let me escape in my dreams for even just a few hours.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I whisper, “Adderall. But I’m fine, Dad.”
“Griffin, you’re not fine. I just got off the phone with Emmett. He said you got really drunk last night and yelled at McKenna.”
I cut in. “Kenna was here last night?” My stomach churns at the thought of what I said to her in the hallway outside the locker rooms.
“Jesus, Griff. You can’t mix alcohol and amphetamines, even when prescribed. How much did you take?”
Shaking my head, I don’t want to admit this to him. I know I overindulged last night. When I saw Kenna after my game, I couldn’t handle all of the feelings that came rushing out. I got two more pills, crushed them up, and snorted them for the first time right when I got to the party. I then proceeded to drink myself stupid to try to numb the ache in my chest.
Avoiding his question, I answer with one of my own, “Was Kenna really here last night?”
“That’s what Emmett said, and by the looks of it, whatever you said must not have been good,” he says, gesturing toward my face. “Someone gave you a hell of a shiner. If I had to guess, I’d say that was likely Carson’s doing.”
Shit. So that’s why my head is pounding and my eye is swollen.
Dad clears his throat. “I’ve been seeing someone recently, Griff, and I think you should too.”
My chest tightens. “You come in here and yell at me for allegedly using drugs, and now you want me to start dating someone?”
“No, I’m not dating anyone. Shit, that’s not . . .” He pauses to take a deep breath. “What I meant to say was I started seeing a therapist to help me process Katie’s death. I would like it if you would start talking to a therapist, too. All I’m asking is for you to try it out. If you don’t like my therapist, we can find you a different one.”
I look into my dad’s pleading eyes. As much as I don’t want to talk to a stranger about my little sister, I know I need to. If not for myself, then for the man standing before me.
“I’ll do it.”
Relief flashes across my dad’s face. “Thank you, Griff. I love you, Son. So much. I can’t lose you too. I want to fight these demons with you. Please don’t shut me out.”
After I told him about the intrusive thoughts I’d been experiencing and how I took Adderall to try to drown them out, he texted his therapist and asked for an emergency session. That afternoon, my dad and I went to my first therapy appointment.
The therapist recommended trying to disconnect from some of the factors that are heightening my anxiety. To start, I gave my agent, Jared, my phone and told him to contact me on a flip phone I picked up. It’s perfect—no social media, no one aside from my dad, my roommates, Coach, and Jared have the number.
Then Jared recommended hiring a publicist to handle my social media and contractual obligations for my NIL deals for the foreseeable future, and I agreed.
My regular phone was triggering. Memories and daily photos titled “On This Day” would pop up of Katie and I, or Kenna and I, and the anxiety would suffocate me. It got so bad I was having daily panic attacks before I started coping with Adderall and alcohol.
I pray to a god I’m not sure I believe in that tomorrow will be better. Maybe these changes I’m making will make me want to wake up tomorrow morning instead of wishing I don’t.
The minute the wheels touched down again in Minneapolis, I scheduled a meeting with my advisor to set up online classes for the spring semester. The doctor had told me the due date was May 18th, so I could potentially go to in-person classes, but I’m not sure I want to deal with the pitying looks and questions I’ll be bombarded with.
I then set up a meeting with my coach and told him about my pregnancy.
My coach told me that even though I won’t be able to participate in spring training, I will be expected to attend summer training sessions with the team if I want to keep my spot next season. I’m not sure how that will look with a newborn, but I want to try.
Thankfully, both my coach and adviser have been really supportive. To say I’m shocked that Coach didn’t take my spot away is an understatement.
My parents and Carson helped me move out of my dorm room after I got back from Boston. I’m going to be living with my parents and taking the short drive to campus from their house come the fall. For now, I’ll be taking my online classes while living here and getting ready to have a baby.
My mom has graciously offered to watch the baby while I’m at school or practice. I feel like such an imposition on my parents. They finally became empty nesters, my dad is set to retire in a few years, and I know they were looking forward to traveling more as he lessens his caseload to prepare for retirement.
I’ve looked at the adoption pamphlet from Dr. Bahati’s office dozens of times since I returned from Boston—since I realized I was going to be a single mom. Being a young mother is going to be challenging enough, but knowing I’m going to be doing it on my own—well, without a partner to lean on—is something that scares the shit out of me.
Sure, I’ll have the support of my family, but I won’t have a teammate to lean on for the next eighteen-plus years of this little baby’s life.
I feel like I can barely keep my head above water right now. Each day, when I wake up, grief and guilt threaten to pull me under. I can’t imagine how I’m going to have a newborn and tackle these feelings of helplessness and sorrow.
But if there’s one thing I know Katie would say to me in this moment, it’d probably be something sassy like, “Perk those swollen tits up and get to fucking work, blondie.” She was the yin to my yang. Most of the time, she knew what was wrong with me without me even having to say a word.
Goddammit, I miss my person. She would tell me I’ve got this.
Now, I’ve just got to believe in myself.
I’ve got this.