Chapter 2
two
. . .
Aidan
I do not have the spoons for this bullshit today.
The locker room pulses with the pounding bass and buzz of chatter filling the space.
My fraying nerves have me overstimulated from the second I walk in, and although the promise of open ice calls to me, I’m not sure if returning to my happy place will be enough for me today.
I try to be the first one on-site each day, but after gaming with Annie until close to three o’clock this morning, I overslept my alarm. Getting out of my warm, cozy bed felt like a monumental hurdle, and I simply don’t have the capacity to pretend like I’m okay.
My sister is the one who introduced me to spoon theory.
Hailey has multiple chronic illnesses, and sometimes she doesn’t have the ability to do everything that needs to get done.
If she has a finite set of energy, and unloading the dishwasher takes 10 percent of her entire day’s capacity, that means things like folding the laundry and taking a shower and going to work might be within her scope, but anything extra, like cooking dinner, is not possible.
And if she “borrows” from the next day’s spoons, she’s already shortchanged.
On top of that, she never knows when any particular day will be a low-availability day.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t get it at first. Not until she moved in with me after our parents died in a freak car crash.
I’d been off at college and then breaking into the AHL.
She’d already been diagnosed with endometriosis by then—the POTS and Ehlers-Danlos labels came a few years later—and was struggling.
I’ve done what I can to alleviate her challenges, hiring a cleaner, organizing meal prep, and finding her the best medical care possible. And now that she’s engaged to Ryan, he hasn’t been shy about doing as much as he can to support her.
He looks up as I walk into the dressing room, already stripped out of his street clothes and in his tights.
“Hey, man.” My teammate slips his undershirt over his head, his voice coming out muffled. “Thought you’d never show up. The world ending?”
Our cubbies are next to each other by design. We’ve been inseparable since he was traded to the Grizzlies a few years ago.
I grunt in acknowledgment as I whip off my soft cotton team shirt and replace it with my long-sleeved base layer.
The tight, sweat-wicking fabric is a comfort, the familiar constriction welcome.
I don’t like loose-fitting clothing. No matter how worn in and comfortable the material is, it never feels right on my skin.
Ryan sings along to the Simple Plan song blasting through the room. On my other side, Gonzo and Mitchell are chatting, and Easton and Sinclair are laughing at Jenkins’s antics as he retells a story.
This is my family. This is my home.
We suit up and head to the weight room to activate and warm up. Our schedule adheres to a fairly regular structure, depending on if we have a game that night or not, or if we’re on a losing streak or riding the high of a win. There are variables, but only a few. It’s predictable.
I like predictable.
The coaching staff keeps a tight lid on things.
They don’t tolerate tardiness or disrespect.
Most importantly, they encourage us to give our all—without abusing us, unlike some other teams. Sure, Coach Turner has a penchant for yelling, but he doesn’t belittle us like some of my previous coaches did.
Coach McKittrick—fuck, it’s still weird to think of my former captain and teammate as a coach—finds ways to support us while keeping us accountable.
Despite giving up three unanswered goals and blowing our lead, we pulled off a win last night, thanks to Larsson’s lucky shot in overtime. Coach is unhappy and isn’t shy about making his displeasure known.
We have to do better. We have to be better.
I have to be better. I’m the captain. The guys look up to me for guidance. How am I supposed to lead this team when I can hardly handle myself?
I’m the one who let San Jose score on us. There was a scuffle, I lost the puck, and they scored. I’m now minus a point in the leaderboard, and our team suffered as a result.
That falls on me. It’s my fault. I celebrate every win, and I mourn every loss. The weight of the captaincy is a burden I’m happy to bear, but despite being genuinely happy to lead these men every night on the ice, I can’t deny the toll it takes on me.
Coach has us on the ice for two hours, and when the rest of the team heads to recovery, I stick around. Henry, one of the goaltenders, stays in net for me. I need the extra time to recalibrate. How the hell am I supposed to lead this team if I can’t put the biscuit in the basket?
I don’t think he’s trying, though. He lets in more pucks than he stops.
And I’m not sure if he’s doing it to pump up my ego or if he’s too tired from the grueling practice.
Lewis was on the ice last night, and if our defense hadn’t folded in front of him, we might have stood a chance at scraping out a W in regulation.
Two points is two points, even if they’re dirty, scrappy points. Even if we allowed San Jose to pick one up by forcing OT.
“Okay, MacGregor,” Coach calls from the bench when a shot goes rogue and nearly hits Henry in the mask. “That’s enough.”
I skate to a stop, breathing hard. “One more.”
He shakes his head. “Warm down. Don’t overwork yourself. We need you for tomorrow’s game.”
Maybe he has a point. Exhaustion adds ten pounds to each muscle, weighing me down, and sweat soaks through my base layers. I can already smell the stink radiating off me.
After helping Henry collect all the loose pucks, I trudge into the dressing room. Most of my teammates are done for the day, already changing into their street clothes.
I’m the only freak who changes out of my base layers and into new clothes for my warm-down. Dressed in a new long-sleeve and shorts, I hit the bike to work out all the lactic acid built up from practice, finishing with a brisk walk on the treadmill.
My post-workout shower resets my equilibrium before I visit our physical therapist, who works on my ankle. It’s been bugging me on and off for the last few years, and the only way to make sure I don’t get worse is by regular maintenance.
Thankfully, Amelia makes it as painless as possible, then sets me some stretching exercises to do. She monitors me for a bit before pronouncing me free for the day.
Some of my teammates have headed home to rest and relax.
Others are in the lounge, eating and hanging out, the room thick with the industrial, pungent scent of locker room soap and the lingering traces of sweat and body odor that permeate the building.
I grab a plate from the counter and fill it before heading to my regular table.
Ryan kicks out a chair for me. “You done torturing yourself?”
Letting out a grunt, I roll my eyes but don’t bother to defend myself.
“What are you doing after this?” Sinclair asks. “I was thinking of maybe playing some Madden.”
“I could play.” Football isn’t my favorite, but give me a sporty video game and I’m down. I’m not so crazy about shooting games or ones where things blow up.
“Hailey’s got a meeting this afternoon, so you can all come down to my place,” Ryan says.
A handful of Grizzlies all live in the same building in the Financial District.
Some of us carpool, and we regularly get together during our downtime.
It’s surprisingly nice having so many of my teammates nearby.
And it keeps Ryan and Hailey close too. Their apartment is on the thirteenth floor, and I’m on the fifteenth.
“Meeting?” My eyebrows shoot up. I still have her schedule on our shared calendar, but now that they live together, I don’t check it religiously to plan my entire life around hers.
Just three times a week instead of three times a day.
“The foundation. They had to reschedule their regular time.”
Ah. My sister’s on the board of the team’s charitable foundation. Typically, they meet midmorning, and she’s done for the day around the same time we are.
The three of us usually ride to the rink together, but since I woke up late, they left without me. It’s not a hardship to drive myself. It’s something I have to get used to, being alone.
I’m alone a lot.
Even surrounded by my teammates on road trips and at home, I’m often by myself.
Truth be told, I like it that way—when I can ignore how lonely it can be.
I’m not a barfly, so even though I’ll go out with the guys on occasion, I don’t have more than one drink, and I nurse it all night until it gets warm and I can discard it.
Our book club meets every few road trips.
It’s an unofficial thing Henry started last season.
We don’t read the same one concurrently—we pass them from one to another as we finish them—but just hang out and talk about books.
It’s a way to shoot the shit without resorting to gambling or heavy drinking.
A lot of hockey players tend toward obsessive personalities, and it’s easy to get in over your head with certain vices.
The team has a zero-tolerance policy for recreational drug use.
We can be tested at any time—by Coach, the front office, or the league.
When I was in San Diego, it was rampant in the dressing room.
In Boston, however, Coach runs a tight ship, and he’s not afraid to bench someone or trade them for bad behavior.
Ryan clears his throat, forcing my attention back to the conversation at hand. “So we’ll meet at my place at two?”
Sinclair and Jenkins nod in agreement.
“Works for me,” I agree.
My best friend sits back in his chair, a grin on his face. “Awesome.”
Too bad Annie can’t join us. Given her love of baseball, I bet she’d get a kick out of hanging out with bona fide athletes.
Annie.
We’ve been gaming together for years. We started in a fantasy league that has since disbanded. The few other guys we played with have since faded away. Now it’s just me and her, and I find myself looking forward to our gaming sessions more and more.
I know Annie isn’t her real name; her gaming handle is StatisticalAnomaly, which is a little hard to say—hence the nickname.
I’ve never asked for her real one, because then I’d have to tell her mine.
She’s the only person I talk to who’s not connected to the team.
She knows things about me I’ve never shared with anyone, not even Hailey or Ryan.
I know her. I trust her. But finding out she’s been hanging with a “celebrity” for the last seven years is not something I can just drop in her lap.
The things we’ve shared with each other…
I can’t afford for it to get out. Even though her job is flexible, I don’t know her financial situation, and she might decide it’s worth selling a story to a gossip rag for a few thousand dollars.
In all actuality, I don’t think she would. She’s not that type. But given that I didn’t think my ex-girlfriend would try to baby trap me with another man’s child, I’m clearly not the best judge of character.