Chapter 3
DECLAN
My head is killing me.
I’m not sure how much I drank last night, but it must’ve been enough to make the lights in this rink feel like they're burning straight through my skull. It wasn’t entirely my intention to pour myself a drink when I got home, but the more I thought about Avah’s words, and EJ’s reaction to me talking to his sister, the more I had to drink to forget.
Not to mention my aunt’s message.
Her praying for me only adds onto the guilt I’m already trying to shove down. Her prayers never helped my dad’s drinking, and clearly it’s not doing any good in my life.
I’m hunched over on the bench at the Rangers training facility in Tarrytown, breathing through the nausea. The rubber mat in front of me is swaying.
We’re supposed to meet with our penalty kill coach today, which means it’s a grueling day of practice. I’m counting down the seconds until I’m called, hoping for an intervention of some kind. Anything would do…fire drill, FBI raid, sky falling.
Anything, as long as I get to sit right here where I am.
Honestly, I’m not sure how I got here in the first place.
“You don’t look so good,” says my housemate and teammate, Wyatt Lindgren, as he slaps me on the back.
My brain smacks against my forehead and if I had more energy, I’d punch him right now.
“You know I’m hotter than you, Barney,” I mumble. My sharp comeback sounds flat, even to my own ears.
“Murphy!” Coach calls. I wince, since it sounds like he’s yelling right next to my ear. “Get on the ice!”
“They called you up a few minutes ago, dude,” Lindgren says from next to me. He’s breathing heavily, squirting water in his mouth before spitting into the gutter in front of us. “What’s wrong? You were fine when we got in last night.”
Last night after our flight, he went to his room and slept like a good, dutiful, hockey player.
While I paced around the living room, phone in hand, debating whether or not to call one of the many numbers on my phone for a distraction.
But since a booty call at four a.m. is pushing it, even for me, I opted for the bottle of bourbon instead.
Leaning on my stick, I get up. The motion has a wave of nausea coming over me. My stomach twists. Bending over, I spill everything on the rubber mat in front of me.
“What the—” Coach shouts, his voice echoing off the walls. It’s all too loud and too sharp. Too much.
“Are you okay?” Lindgren asks, his hand on my shoulder. “What’s gotten into you?”
I sink back onto the bench, my head between my legs.
“He’s hungover,” EJ’s voice comes from the ice. The iciness in his voice is unmistakable. It sounds a lot like Avah’s did last night when she told me what a talentless playboy I really am.
“Maybe he’s sick?” Lucas adds from his other side. He’s known me at my highest and my lowest, which means he knows this isn’t a stomach bug. Although, he’s probably hoping it’s a bug, because then he wouldn’t have to kick himself for not intervening in some way.
“Nope,” EJ says. “That’s scotch right there.”
“I can hear you, you know,” I manage, spitting on the floor before wiping the back of my mouth with my glove. “And it’s not scotch. It’s bourbon.”
From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of one of our trainers walking over with a bucket and disinfectant.
Coach skates toward the bench, his scowl deepening as he assesses the situation.
“Get him to the locker room,” he barks to Lindgren. “Take a shower, Murphy, then meet me in my office.”
His voice echoes in the background as he shouts orders to the people around him. The only time he uses that specific tone of voice is when we’re making a mess of the game.
“Looks like I’m in trouble,” I try to joke as Lindgren helps me. He doesn’t say anything, instead he leads me to the athletic therapy room. I collapse onto the padded treatment table, the vinyl cool against my skin. My eyes close and I drift off, finally feeling some relief.
* * *
Sitting in the chair in front of Coach’s desk, I’m already feeling a lot better. Puking at practice definitely wasn’t ideal, but it did the trick. Either that or the two hour nap they allowed me.
I’m already feeling like a human being again.
“I’m not happy about this,” Coach says, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks more disappointed than angry and I hate that look on someone’s face—especially when it’s directed at me.
“That was a semi-open practice, Murphy. I had to rip a phone away from one of the staffers because he managed to get all of that on camera. Luckily Jen is all over it.”
My stomach twists thinking about how I’ve made Brady’s life a bit more complicated…again. Luckily Jen is a PR shark and she’ll be able to help Brady with this clean up.
“It’s just a bug, Coach,” I lie. “I’m feeling better now and I’m ready to go.”
“Are you being serious?” Coach asks, giving me a hard look from behind his black rimmed glasses. “Because I’m hoping this is one of your jokes.”
I don’t answer him. I’ve never shown up to practice hungover before. This is the first time. Sure I’ve had a few times I felt a bit off after a night out, maybe even a bit sluggish…but never like this. This morning I was half convinced that I was going to die if I got on that ice.
“I’ve worked with you for a few years now, Murphy.” He takes off his glasses, looking me square in the eye. “You’ve never once showed up to practice in the state you did this morning.”
I meet his gaze, the truth heavy between us. There’s no hiding from what happened, I have to take responsibility for my actions. His expression softens slightly, switching between sympathy and genuine curiosity.
“I’m not an idiot. I know my players, and I know the things they struggle with. But toeing the line is your strong suit, Murphy. Yet, this morning…” He shakes his head. “What happened?” he asks, popping a new piece of gum in his mouth before disposing of the wrapper in the bin in the corner.
I feel like I’m fourteen, getting a placating lecture from my newest stepdad.
Sympathetic looks and soft words in a bid to try to get me in line.
It never lasted. After I messed up again, those soft words quickly turned into threats of military or boarding school.
And that was from the nicer stepdad. Another one was a bit more physical with his threats and warnings.
My mom had this uncanny ability to marry someone who thought they had automatic control over me.
But Coach is not like that, and I try to remind myself of that fact.
He knows me. He knows what I’m capable of.
His mouth is working hard on a piece of gum. I’m starting to think the gum is there to keep him from saying something he shouldn’t. He’s studying me like he’s trying to figure something out.
I shrug. “Marachino got to me, that’s all.”
My words aren’t even fully out and Coach is already shaking his head, laughing without humor. He leans forward, his elbows set on the table, on the boards covered in x’s and o’s.
“I don’t buy it, Murphy,” he says. He chews on his gum a few more times, never once taking his eyes off me.
“You know what you’re supposed to do to keep those kinds of guys out of your head.
It’s never been that hard for you. Sure, you play with an edge, a fierce edge.
It’s what makes you a great d-man. But something is…
” he pauses, shaking his head like he’s trying to find the right words.
“For some reason, when you’re out there it’s like you have no brakes.
No control. It started last season, right before the playoffs.
At first I thought it was end of the season fatigue or something.
But now it’s like your aggression has hit crack-level. ”
A small chuckle escapes me at his choice of words.
I avert his gaze, not wanting to admit that he’s right.
I don’t know what the exact reason is. I just know that the intensity inside of me has grown…
over the off-season and more so when we started playing again.
Now, it’s hard to control. A part of me thinks I don’t need to control it.
Playing hockey at this level calls for aggression and grit.
Why should I stop what’s growing inside of me?
My eyes land on the photo frame on his desk.
We all know Coach has a family. His wife is smiling happily at the camera while their three kids are standing in front of them.
Lucas has brought that kind of mentality onto the ice, the one where all the guys are suddenly more eager to get someone to be by their side.
“The media is already on this,” he adds after I don’t say anything.
“Which means soon it’s going to be the GM in your face instead of me.
And you know how Harry Matlock feels about negative press.
He needs to answer to the organization, so he’ll want to nip this in the bud before it gets out of hand.
I’m telling you this for your own good.”
I wipe my hands on my pants, hating that I’m suddenly a bit nervous of the consequences of my actions.
Irritation is flaring up inside of me, because I know he’s right and I hate that.
I’m frustrated because Coach cares. He cares about every single one of his players.
He makes it his business to make sure his team is top form…
on and off the ice. It’s something we all have come to appreciate because some teams quite simply trade players.
But right now, I’m not in a place to accept his words. At least not in a way he wants me to.
“Is that all? Can I go shower?” I ask.
I’ll take his words and I’ll think about it. That’s the least I can do. But I’m not about to stand here and admit to him that I’m struggling. My ego won’t allow me to.
“Yes, please do,” he says with a smile in his voice. I look up to see him giving me an encouraging smile. “You stink.”
I get up and slap my hands on his desk. “Good talk, Coach.”
As I reach the door, I take a deep breath. I step into the hallway to head to the locker room. After a shower, I’m sure I’ll be in the right headspace to figure out what’s going on with me. I’m not going to play without aggression. But maybe I can work on reigning it in…a little.
I don’t make a habit of being out of control or impulsive. Everything is always within bounds. Mostly. I’m an aggressive player and that’s why they like me, why I’m part of the best defense on this team. But with aggression comes certain risks. If I overdo it, I could get in trouble.
As for the alcohol. That was a slip I don’t want to repeat.
The smell that’s currently sticking to me reminds me too much of my dad. Of walking into the house after school with that stench hanging in the air. There were too many times I just closed the door back up before disappearing for the rest of the day.
I vowed I would never be like that.
You’re just like him. Blood means something.
The thought hits and nausea fills my stomach again.
Luckily that bottle of bourbon was the last of it.
I’ll be fine. I just need to get my head back on straight. I need things to go back to the way they were.
My phone vibrates with a text from Brady…I should’ve known.
Really? Drunk at practice?
There’s one video, I’m trying to crush it before it does more damage than it already has. Two of your sponsors are already calling me. I’m working with Jen on this.
Instead of texting him back, I head to the locker room to grab my stuff.
First I have to fix things with my teammates.
Things have been a bit weird between us ever since Lucas married Hannah.
I know most of that is on me. I’m irritated that he changed the dynamic and that it’s spilling over into my life.
But he was my teammate first, and that’s what he’ll continue to be.
The team comes first. Hockey is more important than the rest of it.
Opening the door to the locker room, Lucas is sitting in front of my cubby, waiting for me. He gets up, a concerned look on his face.
“What did Coach say?” he asks. “Everything alright?”
I force a laugh. “He just wanted to get the number to a good pizza place. Nothing serious.”
Lucas nods, a knowing look on his face. He picks up his duffle and slings it across his shoulder.
“Hey, you’re coming over later right?” Lucas asks, as he reaches the door. “Hannah’s getting a few steaks ready for the grill.”
The look on his face is full of concern and I swallow down the flash of irritation flaring up inside of me. My teammates aren’t my keepers, they’re not my parents and they sure as hell should get off their high horses. They’re not as perfect as they’d like to think.
I swallow, knowing that there’s no out. It’s either this, grill a few steaks and smooth things over…or go back to my place. Definitely alone, since Lindgren will be grilling with the guys.
I could always call Melissa?
The prospect of seeing her isn’t as exciting as it should be.
“Sure thing,” I toss over my shoulder. “See you later.”