Breakaway

26. Pope

Chapter 26

Pope

I’m too tired to argue with Hayden about skipping the game. It doesn’t help that the idea of staying in the Hayden Wallace bubble he’s created for me in his home is just about the most appealing thing I could think of at the moment. I wait for him to leave before calling Coach though, my stomach twisted into knots.

“Coach O’Connel,” Coach answers, sounding a little out of breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut like I can hide somehow, despite him not even being here to see me. “Coach? This is Pope.”

“Pope. Hey, kid. How ya feeling?”

“Uh—not great. I was able to get out of bed, at least. I kept some water down.” I think of what Hayden had told me to say so that my story would match Jules’s. “The fever and exhaustion are the worst. None of the other guys have gotten it, have they?”

“No, thank fuck. I hear Jules has you quarantined?”

I did not hear about this, but that sounds like something Jules would make up. Actually, it sounds like something he’d actually do too. “Yeah. If you didn’t know it, you’d think I have Ebola or something.”

“I’m glad it’s not. We need you, kid.” He sighs. “Not today, though. I assume you called to say you’re staying home?”

“I can try—”

“No. Stay. One game missing you is a hell of a lot better than you getting hurt or passing out on the ice because you’re sick. Or you getting everyone else sick in time for the weekend. Just rest up. Drink lots of water. If Hayden was here, he’d probably say drink that gross cherry shit he’s always peddling, but I’m not that cruel.” I have to hide a laugh by coughing. I make a mental note to rub that in with Hayden later. “Just get better, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

With my phone already in my hand, I decide to bite the bullet and send a group text to my parents too. I make it sound like I’m withering away in bed so they don’t scold me for texting instead of calling. My mom responds with half a dozen questions while my dad lights up the conversation with GIFs wishing me well. I answer Mom’s questions and send some GIFs back, almost managing a smile.

I have time to waste before the game, which I plan on streaming, so I set alarms and lie down for a nap.

Except, I can’t fall asleep. I’m plenty tired, my body welcoming the comfortable mattress beneath it and my eyelids heavy, but my mind is a different matter entirely. It’s decided that now is the perfect time to analyze everything .

It jumps from vague memories of my mom, to meeting Hayden, to my first time skating, to the first day of training camp, to listening to my dad cry with my mom, Grace, to how it felt lying in that hotel bed helpless, to the first time I realized I probably had depression, to the time I snapped at Jules and he called me an asshole, to the first time Hayden and I kissed, to a documentary we had to watch in high school about teenage suicide, to my dad’s grin when I was signed by the Devils, to the medication commercials that always make my chest feel too tight to—to—to—

I eventually sit up, cradling my head in my hands as I try to quiet everything down. It’s too much. There are so many variables. So many things to consider. I know Hayden can’t make me get help, but that doesn’t mean he has to stay with me either.

Would he leave? Or would he stay, but only out of obligation to my safety?

Can my dad really handle the truth?

Can drugs and therapy really help enough to make everyone—myself included—believe I’m safe? What the fuck is an action plan and why did Hayden mention it?

What was he looking at on his laptop? What was he taking notes on?

Well, those last few I might be able to find out myself.

I sneak into the kitchen despite no one being around to catch me, finding his laptop gone but the notepad still there. I hesitate for only a second before flipping it open. The first few pages have nothing to do with me or depression. It’s not until the fourth page that I find the right stuff. He has common depression symptoms listed with little notes in the margins like First time we met? or, Does he eat enough? or, His recent fighting?

The page after that is full of advice, I think. He’s written things about being patient—I snort because there’s not a patient bone in that man’s body. He’s written the word help , then underlined it and written things under it like clean and cook and run errands . Then blanket burrito is written, which I’ll admit sounds kind of nice, if not a little weird for the internet to suggest. Also, remind to take pills and make sure he eats and be a good listener.

Then, don’t stop encouraging them to get help if they won’t, you’ll always regret it if something happens.

I have to look away after that, my eyes immediately burning with impending tears. It’s not like it’s new information or anything, he’s said the same thing in his own words, but it hits differently.

It hurts .

I know what I have to do.

I just have to figure out how .

I get the courage to make the call just before the end of the second period of the game, which I’ve been streaming on Hayden’s TV. I had attempted a blanket burrito earlier, but it’s since been abandoned. It unraveled during the first when Julian missed a wide-open shot. I may or may not have almost face-planted into the coffee table when I jumped to my feet to yell at the TV and got tangled in the blanket. Thankfully no one was around to see.

I didn’t attempt the burrito again, having a feeling I wasn’t done jumping around. The puck has had zero luck for us tonight, the refs are total shit, and Knut definitely isn’t on his game.

The second intermission is nearly over when I finally manage to dial the contact I’ve been staring at on my phone screen for hours.

My dad answers almost immediately. “Hey, bud. You should be resting, shouldn’t you?”

I roll my eyes. “With the game on? No way.”

“You feeling any better at least?”

“A little.” Which isn’t a lie, at least. “Good enough to be freaking out over this game. You watching?”

“Of course! The refs are total shit.”

I grin. God, I miss him . “Yeah, they are.”

“Is it killing you not being there?”

“Yeah, but it’d kill me worse to be there and stuck in the locker room throwing up or something, you know?”

“Oof. The stomach flu, huh? I suppose that’s better than influenza.” I wince, having forgotten for a moment which fake illness I had. He doesn’t seem to be suspicious though. “I hope you feel okay enough to enjoy Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

That’s just about the last thing I want to do tomorrow.

“Ethan?”

“Sorry. I’m here.” I watch the TV, wishing the intermission would go faster so we could have the game to talk about. I should have waited to call him. “I hope I feel better too.”

“You want me to let you go, kid?”

Yes.

No.

Fuck.

“No. I’m just tired, sorry.”

“You’re alright. Did you need something or just missing your old man?”

My eyes burn. “I miss you a lot, Dad.”

“Ah, kid.” He sniffs. “We miss you, too. We were just talking that we should have stayed longer. We didn’t want to seem clingy or cramp your style or whatever, you know?”

I laugh, but it’s watery and weak. “As parents go, you guys aren’t so bad.”

“What a ringing endorsement.”

The screen thankfully shifts from commercials to the arena, showing the clock running down to zero as the guys amble over to the bench. Knut is doing that thing where he hits the posts with his glove and Wilson is blowing his wife and kids kisses. If I squint, I can see a person standing near the door in the boards, dressed in a purple quarter-zip with a white towel over one shoulder. Hayden . It’s stupid how much I miss him already.

“You know, this TJ kid is good, but with him just getting back from that concussion, I was surprised Coach put him in first line for you. That’s some big shoes to fill.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I tease, trying to get the ache in my chest to ease. Hayden will be back. Until then, I have a job to do. Imagine Hayden’s face when I tell him I finally did it. When I tell him he doesn’t have to be scared anymore. He’ll be so fucking relieved. He’ll be so proud.

Just… not yet.

“I was surprised they gave the spot to TJ, you’re right. I actually thought they’d maybe bump Jules into it or pull from second line, but TJ was going to be the second line center before his concussion, so I guess it makes sense. I think he just needs to get back in the groove. This game doesn’t matter for the cup, so it’s a good time to test him at least.”

“Can’t interrupt Jules and Kirkland though,” my dad argues, sounding aghast that I’d even consider such an option. “Those two are on fire. I just wish that damn puck would— oh! ”

My eyes snap back to the TV, having drifted away. Lafferty is rushing down the ice in a breakaway.

“Go, go, go!” I shout as I jump off the couch.

“Go!”

“Pass to—”

“—Jules is open—”

“—no—”

“—shit—”

“—yes!”

“Fuck yes!”

We cheer in unison, whooping loud enough for my mom to be scolding us from his end of the line.

I collapse back on the couch, a grin on my face.

It slowly fades as the reason for this call seeps back in.

Just get it over with. Rip it off like a Band-Aid.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding slightly distracted.

“Dad?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, bud?”

My throat squeezes tight. “Can you guys come back?”

“To Superior?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure. Of course. When are you thinking?”

I close my eyes, a tear sliding down my cheek. My voice wobbles when I answer. “Soon as you can? I’m okay. Don’t—don’t worry or anything. Just—can you come soon? I need—can you just come?”

There’s the slightest pause. Then, “We’re on our way.”

I’ve worked myself up into a nervous wreck by the time Hayden gets home. I’ve cried. Then laughed hysterically. Then sat down with my head in my hands and just tried to fucking process what I’m about to do. Then I cried some more. Not wanting to rush him, I had decided to wait until he got home before telling him what I did. Maybe that wasn’t the greatest plan.

He takes one look at me and drops his bag to the ground, hurrying over to pull me into his arms. “What happened? What’s going on?”

“I called them,” I gasp, feeling so many emotions about those three words I can’t even begin to place them. “They’re coming.”

He pulls back, eyes wide. “Your parents?”

“Yeah. I don’t know when or even how. I should probably text them or something. I just asked them to come and Dad said they’re on their way and I started crying so I hung up.” I press my face to his shoulder, wanting him to hold me again. He obliges easily. “I can’t believe I called them.”

“I can. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

“Can you be there? When I tell them?” I cling to his shirt, almost like he’s going to leave right now. “Would that be okay?”

“Of course. I’ll be right there the whole time, as long as you want me.”

I nearly laugh at that. He should watch what he says because I won’t fucking let him go.

Then I really do laugh, just a little. He laughs as well, though his is laced with confusion. He moves us so he can look at me, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“It’s fucking Thanksgiving tomorrow.” I laugh again, even as fresh tears bloom in my eyes. “It’s Thanksgiving and I’m making them fly here. What if there aren’t hotels? What if they want us to make them dinner?” I laugh harder. “Should we tell them before or after the Macy’s Day Parade?”

“Baby—”

“When do you ruin someone’s life?” I ask, laughing so hard now I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

Oh .

He catches me just as I fall, the next laugh coming out as a sob instead.

“Okay,” he murmurs, holding me close like he’s done most of the past seventy-two hours. “That’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

“What if I made a mistake?” I try to say, but I can’t because I can’t fucking breathe .

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

My eyes lock onto his. Because his forehead is against mine. And his hands are on my cheeks. And he’s saying—he’s saying —“Breathe, baby. Just breathe.” And I always thought his eyes were a dark brown, but right now there’s just a little gold in them, right by the pupils. I’d never noticed. “That’s it. Breathe.” I grip tighter to—to—to his shirt, yeah, that’s his shirt. “Isn’t that soft?” he asks, taking one hand off my face to press it over my hand on his shirt. “It’s purple. Can you look down? Do you see how it’s purple?”

I look down, even though I already know. He’s always in purple on a game day. I saw him on the TV. I want to tell him I saw him, that I missed him, but my brain is swimming.

“Look, you’re wearing blue,” he murmurs, pulling my shirt away from my body until the fabric is touching our joined hands. “Touch it. Is it soft, too?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. I inhale. My chest burns, but it’s going away. “Not—” I swallow. Breathe again. That feels better. Fuck, that’s a lot better. “Not as soft… as yours.”

“No, mine is all silky.” He tsks. “Not real silk, though. I’ll have to complain to Ian about that.”

I laugh shakily before wincing. “My head hurts.”

“Yeah, I bet. How about we call it a night?” He wipes my tears for me. “I’m going to call your parents—” I straighten, panic seizing my chest, but he quickly shakes his head and explains. “Just to get their travel details. I’ll go pick them up from the airport or have Jules do it or something. Why don’t you go use the bathroom while I do that, okay? Get ready for bed?”

That honestly sounds fucking fantastic.

So fantastic, I only manage to pee and splash water on my face before crashing face-first onto the bed and passing out.

I wake up to the smell of bacon and coffee. I wake up to the sound of— Mom .

My eyes snap open, my heart immediately racing so hard I feel dizzy with it.

They’re here.

I can’t do this.

How the fuck am I supposed to do this?

My legs are weak as I force them to bring me to the bathroom. I try to breathe. Slow. Steady. Breathe, fucking breathe.

I use the toilet and wash up, my hands shaking hard. I’ve played this conversation over a hundred times in my head. A thousand, probably, over the years. Over a dozen yesterday alone. Hell, as I stand bracing myself on the sink while my head clears, I’m pretty damn sure I dreamt of it last night even.

That doesn’t make it any easier.

I stall, changing into a new set of clothes from the duffel I had packed before, using some water on my hair to tame it. I can’t quite meet my own eyes in the mirror.

By the time I’m in the hall, I’m shaking so hard I’d swear I was stuck out in the cold all night. It’s a good thing I went to bed on an empty stomach because I’m pretty fucking sure I’d throw up otherwise.

My mom spots me first from where she’s sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. Her face brightens, but it doesn’t erase the bags under her eyes or the red around them. I’m sorry, Mom.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” She wraps her arms around me, giving me a tight hug. I wonder if she can feel me shaking. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Not for long.

“Hey, Mom,” I whisper, my voice already cracking. I look past her to my dad standing beside Hayden in front of the stove, both of them watching us closely.

Dad comes over before Mom can finish the hug, wrapping his arms around the both of us. He ruffles my hair before pressing his forehead to my temple. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay, kid.”

A sob catches in my throat. All I can do is nod, clinging to them both.

“I made breakfast,” Hayden says after a minute. Mom pulls out of the hug first. There are tears on her cheeks. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, God I’m sorry.

Dad pulls away too, his hand remaining on my back as he looks at Hayden. “Thank you, Hayden. It smells delicious.”

If I even look at it, I’m going to throw up.

“Ethan?” Hayden asks. He’s closer now, his eyebrows knitted together. I can tell he wants to steal me from them and hold me. He’s fighting it, but he’s not happy about it. It’s almost enough to make me smile. “Do you want to eat first?”

I keep my eyes locked on him. He’s safe. If Hayden is here, everything will be okay. He promised. “I just want to get it out of the way.”

“Okay.” Hayden gestures to the living room. “Should we all sit, maybe?”

Thinking that’s a great idea, considering my legs feel ready to give out any second, I follow him into the living room and collapse on the couch. Hayden lingers by the armrest to my left since there aren’t enough seats. My mom takes the spot beside me on the couch while my dad settles on the armchair across from us. It feels unreal. Terrifying.

Hayden places a hand on the back of my neck, warm and steady.

Okay.

Okay, I can do this.

I’m ready.

“Dad—”

It’s as far as I can get before my throat is closing up. I can’t look at him. Can’t look at my mom. I knit my fingers together in my lap, focusing on the feel of my calluses.

I try again. “Dad, I—”

Maybe I can’t do this.

Maybe I’m not ready after all.

I look at Hayden, trying to convey to him that this was a mistake. He just smiles and nods encouragingly.

“Whatever it is,” my mom says, echoing my dad’s sentiments from before. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I just—I want you guys to know I’m sorry.” I can feel myself starting to shake again. My chest is tight, burning. I can breathe, but just barely. “I—” I’ve been lying. I’m sick like Mom. I have depression. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

The words are there, just… stuck . My brain isn’t working with the rest of my body to form them. To get them out. It feels like they’re stuck in my throat, choking me.

“Oh, sweet boy.” My mom starts rubbing a hand on my back. “Ethan, honey, just tell us. It’s okay.”

I close my eyes, feeling tears fall down my cheeks. I’m so tired of crying.

I’m just tired.

I’m so fucking tired.

I don’t want to be tired anymore.

“I’m like Mom.” The words are thick and shaky, but coherent. “I—I’m sorry. I lied. I’ve been—been lying.”

I bury my face in my hands as the first sob falls from my lips. My mom immediately pulls me into her lap, not caring when I end up tilted awkwardly and half-crushing her. Dad settles by my side with a hand on my head and the other on my back. I can’t look at either of them as I shake and cry in their arms.

I think they’re crying too.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

It takes me the longest to calm down, my dad rubbing my back while my mom keeps whispering comforting things. When I finally have my emotions under control, I gently pull out of their holds and wipe my face clean.

I still can’t look at them.

“What’s the official diagnosis?” my mom asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’ve never—I didn’t want anyone to ever know.”

“Oh, son…” My dad grips the back of my neck just like he used to when I was a little boy, using the hold to make me look at him. He’s sad, but not crushed. Not agonized like I always imagined. “I have so many resources for you. I have a whole file on my laptop, okay? The best doctors in Boston and here. The best meds and their side effects. There’s one that works really well with athletes because it helps with energy. I don’t remember the name, but it’s starred in the file. Once we get you a doctor, we’ll talk to them about that one, okay?”

“And try to limit your caffeine,” my mom adds. “Oh, and alcohol.”

I shake my head, feeling a little bit like I might be sleeping still. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“Clinical depression can develop anytime. Just because you were okay every year didn’t mean the next year you wouldn’t need help. I wanted to be prepared. I—” he pauses, shaking his head. “I didn’t push your mom to get help. We were right on the cusp of mental health being embraced and she was so stubborn about it… I stopped fighting her. I knew if it ever happened to you, I wanted to be ready. We were going to kick depression’s ass.”

“We are going to kick its ass,” Mom corrects.

“Fuck yes, we are.” Dad is smiling, but it wavers a little as our eyes meet again. “How long, kid? Was it training camp?”

It’d be so easy to lie. To make this a softer blow.

But I’m so close to being free of this secret. I don’t want to just replace it with another.

“I knew for sure in high school…”

Dad’s expression crumbles before he quickly gathers himself. I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it, Ethan. I’m so sorry.”

“We both are,” Mom adds with a tremble to her voice.

“I worked really hard to make sure you couldn’t. I knew it would hurt you, Dad. I knew you’d worry. After Mom… I couldn’t do that to you all over again.”

Dad’s eyes start to water. “You remember that?”

I nod. “You told Grace you were scared I’d be like her and you—you cried.” I look away, glad he’s no longer holding onto me. “I told myself I’d never get sick, but when I realized I couldn’t stop it, I told myself you’d never know.”

That’s when he loses it. Then my mom has her arms full of two wrecked Pope men, somehow managing to hold us together against her tiny frame. Hayden doesn’t last long before he’s joining, placing a steadying hand on my back and just standing there while we all process our grief.

It’s my mom who pulls us together eventually, moving away just enough to cup one of my cheeks and one of my dad’s. “My boys. Everything will be okay, alright? I say so.”

I laugh, the sound watery. “Yes, ma’am.”

She wipes our cheeks clean, then her own, before laughing too. “You know what we need?”

“Alcohol?” my dad jokes.

“That too. I was thinking pie. And the parade.” She smiles wide. “And where is Jules? He’s probably pouting about being left out. Someone call the poor guy before he gets dramatic about it.”

I grin, my chest feeling unbearably warm.

We’re going to help you get better, honey.

I close my eyes, letting that sink in. I’ve had to do it a few times since deciding to talk to them. My head is having a hard time processing the possibility of me actually getting better. My future was an endless abyss of darkness that I planned on dragging myself through for the sake of my dad—and mom, really. Now, my future is hazy, but bright. There’s Hayden in it, I hope. Jules for sure. My parents. Hockey. Happiness. Lazy days in bed because I want to spend hours kissing Hayden’s naked body, not because I’m so drained I can’t physically get up. Smiles that aren’t forced and laughter that doesn’t sound false to my own ears.

It’s hope.

It’s finally hope and I’m so fucking relieved.