Chapter 2 Chase
Rudy changed the group name to WE’RE THE TORNADOES, BITCHES!
Austin: Who added him to the chat again? That’s the fifth time he’s changed the group chat name in the last three months.
Oliver: I think it was Cap. Six months after he joined the team, he was whining like a little bitch when he found out there was a chat he wasn’t in. You know Cap, he can’t take it when little kids cry.
Rudy: You all should have known better. You know I have severe FOMO. And don’t get me started on why you thought to keep this chat from me, when we all know I’m the entertainer.
Austin: You also have a fear of sleeping in the dark on planes.
Oliver: Things that move with no legs.
Me: Don’t forget clowns.
Hayes: Leave the kid alone.
Rudy: Thank you, oh Captain, my Captain.
Oliver: Now look at what you’ve gone and done. You made Dad mad.
Hayes: I’m the same age as you, dickhead.
Oliver: You give parent vibes. I give cool uncle vibes. Roman said so. Last week he said I was number six on his favorite people list.
Me: As Roman’s godfather, I can confirm that he has confided in me that you give off Dad vibes, Cap.
Austin: Hey, Dad, who’s your favorite?
Rudy: At least he’s a good-looking Dad.
Hayes: Rudy is my favorite.
Rudy: Ha! Suck it.
Austin: Well, of course he’d say that. The youngest ALWAYS needs the most love and attention.
Rudy: You’re just jealous because the captain likes me more, and you’ll never be a DILF to the ladies.
Hayes: What have I said about saying that? Besides, I don’t have kids. Unless you count the children in this chat.
Austin: He’s right, Pops. The women love you and dream of you becoming their DILF.
Hayes: You. You are my least favorite.
Me: You may as well make it official now.
Hayes: Rudy, Chase, Oliver, and then Austin. Are you all happy now?
Oliver: Second to last! That’s cold, Cap. I’ll remember that when I’m choosing the karaoke song for you tonight at Hendrick’s Bar.
Austin: My flight’s landing at 8 p.m. I’ll head straight over.
Hayes: I’ll be designated driver for the night.
Rudy: I’ll take you up on that offer.
Me: See you soon, boys.
I pocket my phone and slide into the driver’s seat, my teammates’ teasing fading into the background as my thoughts drift to where I’m headed next—Damon’s office, the only place I allow myself to show emotions regarding my brother.
Gravel and dust kick up around the truck tires as Byrdie crawls nice and slow. She jerks side to side ever so slightly as I take the bend on the winding dirt road that leads up to Damon’s building.
I pull off my shades as his humble abode peeks out from behind the tall woodland trees and squint, letting my blue eyes adjust to the sunlight stretching across the high mountain peaks.
I park and kill the engine. Byrdie’s headlights wink at me as I lock her up and take the trail to the property. It’s only a short walk, but in these few minutes I’m basked in a sense of restfulness as I take in the nature around me.
Everything about this location is peaceful, from the breeze to the stillness.
I’m grateful that I’m here, but more importantly, I’m relieved Damon didn’t turn out to be like every other therapist I’ve had. They treated me as though I was nothing but a piece of meat.
But not him.
Damon greets me a second or two after I knock on his door. As I enter the room, citrus fills the fresh morning air—cool and crisp, with hints of lemons and oranges. The hardwood herringbone floor sparkles under the rays of sunshine coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Damon built this space for his high-profile clients, wanting to give them a safe space away from spotlights and cameras, and I can’t think of a better place for it than right here.
Two blue leather armchairs face each other, the leather worn in obvious places where others before and after me have sat and shared their fears, worries, and insecurities.
It hits me then, choosing a therapist is similar to choosing a sofa. You don’t buy the first one you see, but you shop around and get a feel for what works before making an investment.
My six-foot-four frame fills the seat as I lower myself into the chair and watch Damon do the same on the opposite side of me.
He reaches for the coffee table beside him on his right and pulls out his glasses from a case that says, “Happy Forty.” Putting the round frames on his pale, freckled face, he rests his hands on top of his khaki slacks.
I rub my calloused hands together, the roughness coming from years spent gripping sticks and weights. My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them onto my gray sweats, but the discomfort doesn’t fade.
Turning to face the windows, I stare at the mountains—soaring peaks bathed in sunlight. The sky is a bright blue, the trees below full and green.
The mixture of voices and laughter hovers in the air for a moment, and with it comes the atmosphere of draft day, pulling me back to lighter days.
My best friend, Jack, was on stage with me. Our families, and our other best friend, Brodie, were in the crowd, roaring and cheering as if the whole event was just for us. That feeling of holy shit—we did it when we saw our names on the back of NHL jerseys for the first time was surreal.
Jack and I had been picked third and fourth overall for the Flying Tornadoes. Just two teenagers from Huxley Bay High School suddenly heading to the big leagues. It was, without a doubt, the best day of my life.
The draft is where it all began. It was the birthing moment of what the rest of our lives would become. But now, the very idea of getting back on the ice after what happened to Jack and me has my stomach bottoming out.
It’s been six months since our accidents.
Mine took me out of the season.
Jack’s took his life.
I’ve been working to get back on my feet ever since. It’s been hard—fighting to leave the hospital, combating my pain and injuries, as well as the rehabilitation, but I’ve done it.
“Chase?”
“Huh?” I lift my head to Damon as my thoughts burst.
“What were you just thinking about?” he asks,
“The accidents last year,” I say after a pause. “It’s, um… It was Jack’s birthday yesterday. There’s a private celebration for him tonight at Hendrick’s Bar. He would have been twenty-five.”
Damon nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He lets me sit with my own thoughts. He knows I hate it when he uses the silence to make me reflect. All it does is remind me of what I had and all I’ve lost.
The truth is, I feel suffocated by the past, stuck in the present, and unsure about my future.
It’s fucking exhausting, and I want to turn it all off.
“The few weeks leading up to Jack’s birthday are making me realize how he’d still be here if I made a different choice that night,” I say as I stare into my hands.
I let out a breath and look up at my therapist, the expression on his face indicating he knows how hard this is for me.
"If Elliot..." I stop.
My stomach fills with acid. My brother’s name leaving my mouth brings the emotions I’ve been trying to fight right to the surface.
“Take your time,” Damon says.
I clear my throat and start again.
“If Elliot hadn’t come back…none of this would’ve happened, and everything—everything—wouldn’t have shattered.”
I was only seventeen when everything changed. Elliot was an addict who couldn’t see his actions were hurting people, and my dad had finally reached his limit and sent him packing. My brother walking out of our childhood home was the last time I saw him—until last year.
He came home just before Christmas.
Turning around and finding him at Lottie’s Scoops with a massive grin on his face… my jaw, and my ice cream, fell to the ground.
Being together in the ice cream parlor we visited so often as kids was a memory I never expected to relive.
We talked for hours.
I beamed with pride when he told me he’d been clean for a number of years and had been working on himself. It felt as though I had my brother back, and everything felt right again. And then he told me he wasn’t sticking around.
I was crushed.
He’d come back to make amends but planned on returning to Florida, to the life he’d built away from Huxley Bay.
I was hurt.
Pissed.
I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to stay but he wouldn’t.
He told me that he wouldn’t be coming back again and asked for a ride to the airport, but I didn’t want to watch him walk out of my life again. So I didn’t. I left him at Lottie’s Scoops.
And then, suddenly, he was gone.
Not just from Huxley Bay, but from the world.
And I’d do anything to go back and change it all.
“If I would’ve been able to accept that Elliot couldn’t start over in Huxley Bay and just dropped him off at the airport, he never would have been at Great Lakes Stadium with Jack that night and beat him to death.”
I pause and let the words ring out before continuing.
“Brodie and I wouldn’t have been out looking for Elliot when he took off, and the three of us wouldn’t have gotten into the car accident.”
My pupils burn as I remember Elliot’s body smashing through the windshield. The sound of shattering glass pierces my eardrums, as if it’s happening all over again, but I don’t stop.
“Elliot wouldn’t have died, Engine 45 wouldn’t have needed to be on the scene to help, and my dad wouldn’t have lost his life on the job, trying to save us.”
I let the words float free in the open space that mirrors a small box closing in on me with every breath I take, but I don’t find relief in airing out the truth. Instead, it tightens around me.
Damon sits there, giving me the space to get every painful and gut-wrenching thought out.
The words aren’t new—it’s not as if I haven’t said them to myself or Damon—but they leave a taste of ash in my mouth.
“One wrong choice… and everything unraveled. Three lives gone. Two families destroyed. And my career—gone with them.”
The truth cuts deep into my skin. I try to breathe, but it’s too much. It’s overwhelming, the weight of it capable of crushing me if I let it.
“The car accident took away your ability to play hockey?” he asks with a questioned gaze.
The lie burns as the word escapes my mouth. “Yes.”
Damon doesn’t push further, but I can see it in his eyes. He knows. He knows I’m lying to him, and to myself.
We’ve barely talked about my hockey career, which I think he’s been surprised by. I haven’t wanted to talk about it, even though I think about it all the time.
“Hmm.”
There’s nothing accusatory about his tone or posture, his hum echoes deep in my bones. For a blip, I’m not sitting opposite him. I’m exposed and laid bare on the operating table for him to see all of me.
Damon leans forward, his voice calm. “Chase, is it safe to say that it’s not the injuries keeping you from the ice? That something else is holding you back?”
The question cuts through my defenses.
The truth is I’ve canceled every ice evaluation the team doctor has scheduled, and my excuse is always the same: I’m in pain.
But it’s a lie.
It’s not the pain.
The pain is gone. I’m faking the injuries I no longer have. Pretending my body still hurts just to stay off the ice and make sure Coach Avery keeps my ass benched.
Right now, it’s working in my favor, because until I show up for ice evaluations and Briar clears me, the rules say I can’t step foot in the rink.
What I’m doing is selfish, but I can’t tell them the real reason. I can’t tell them I’m afraid to step onto the ice and face what comes after that.
Our eyes connect for a quick second, and he gives me that knowing look. He knows the truth. I can see it, but I’m not ready to say it out loud quite yet, so I give him a partial one instead.
“I can’t move forward with any part of my life until the knots of that day are untangled.
When situations weighed on Elliot’s mind, he always needed to skate.
Whatever happened was heavy enough for him to miss his flight and go to the stadium.
I just don’t know what that was. Until I know the truth, I won’t be able to move on. ”
Damon’s eyes flick up to the clock behind me, and I know we don’t have much time left.
“You mentioned in our last session that you have a friend that might be able to help you figure out why Elliot was there,” Damon says, leaning forward slightly.
He’s talking about Brax; Brodie’s older brother who’s a detective.
“Maybe he can help you, and that’s a topic we can explore during our next appointment.” Damon stands and motions to the door, ready to walk me out the way he always does when the hour comes to an end.
It always goes by so quickly.
When we reach the door, I turn to face him.
“So, what’s my question to reflect on for homework?” I ask him. “I know giving it is secretly your favorite part.”
Damon takes off his glasses. “We haven’t talked much about your absence from hockey,” he says. “I’d like you to explore what those next steps might look like for you. Not just logistically, but emotionally.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head.
“Your accident ended the season for you, and your team’s already out of the Stanley Cup. But October is just around the corner. Let’s imagine you’ve been cleared to play. What does that mean for you?”
I don’t respond, but I understand what he means. It’s pretty clear to me that if I don’t tell someone soon what’s really holding me back, the lie I’ve spun could land me—and others—in a dangerous situation.
“Maybe what’s important here is being honest with your team, but also yourself,” Damon suggests. “That’s what I’d like you to reflect on. We’ll pick up again in two weeks.”
When I get back out to my car and unlock it, Byrdie winks at me again. As my vehicle crawls down the winding road, dust and gravel fling beneath my tires again, and I know she’ll need a luxurious car wash.
The mountains and swaying trees begin to disappear from my rearview mirror as I leave the area.
Damon’s words ring out in my head.
But October is just around the corner. Let’s imagine you’ve been cleared to play. What does that mean for you?
I know my body will remember what to do.
But the ice... it doesn’t just remind me of the game. It reminds me of Jack. Every time I think about stepping on it, I see him—his lifeless form, his blood.
I want to play.
God, I miss it so much.
But how do I tell my team and coach that it’s not my body holding me back, it’s someone else’s.