FIVE
HAYDEN
BOSTON
DECEMBER
“Emerald? Can you hear me? Emerald, squeeze my hand. Stay with me, okay? We’re getting you out of the snow.”
It’s chaos all around us, but I can't look away from my wife.
They’ve already sliced her bloody jersey open down the front, exposing skin that’s too pale and mottled with bruises. Emerald’s skin has always had this healthy glow. She loves being out in the sun, tilting her face up to it like a flower seeking its light and warmth.
She’s my sunshine girl.
The EMT's words reach my ears in jagged fragments.
“—possible mandible fracture—”
“—airway risk—”
“—significant contusions—”
“—hypothermic—”
“—watch for pneumo—”
“—extensive abrasions—”
“—pattern consistent with dragging—”
“—Emerald, can you hear me?”
All three of them speak over each other, but move with precision around her. They slide a collar around her neck, place an oxygen mask over her bloody mouth and nose, and hold her jaw gently .
The fogginess on the clear plastic might be the only thing holding my sanity together.
The world is a wash of red and blue, squad cars barreling through the building snow with ease as they pull over to us. Simmons found two policemen who were already here for the game. They’re now keeping a crowd of lingering onlookers back.
The snowfall has an odd muffling effect on all the sounds, but it can’t mute my heart pounding in my ears.
When the ambulance arrived, they shoved me aside, and now I stand just feet away, powerless, as they fight to save my wife.
My wife.
My Emerald.
Simmons called Denise, a trauma surgeon, to check whether she's still at Boston Trauma, likely our destination.
Trauma.
The word spins through my skull like a vicious taunt.
As if I can’t see trauma written all over my wife’s broken face. The tears that slip from my eyes freeze almost immediately. I don’t feel the sting of the wind or the cold of the snow. I only feel the tearing sensation in my chest—the fear that I might actually lose her.
And the last thing I said to her was vile.
Inexcusable.
Indefensible.
And if those are the last words I’ll ever say to her...
The female EMT barks, “Give me a blanket.” Another runs to the ambulance and tosses her a Mylar blanket. With gentle hands, she wraps it around Emerald, shielding her from the heavy snow .
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a circus of people with their phones raised, taking pictures and videos.
I know what they say online about her, but I thought it was just that—words online, nonsense, unimportant.
My wife is real. Warm. Bright. They don’t know her and don’t deserve to. So when she would show me those messages in her inbox—some really vile ones— I did get angry. How dare anyone speak to her like that?
And the fucking audacity of these women to send her awful lies that I spent the night with them when I was on the road in Montreal or Nashville.
Thank fucking God, my wife is confident in my fidelity to her. She never believes those women because it would never, ever happen. She’s the only one for me. Always.
But the messages that pick apart her looks, her job, her family, her upbringing are the ones that hurt her the most. I held her and kissed her, thinking comfort was enough.
Should I answer every single one of those people, telling them to leave my wife alone?
Threaten that I’d beat the dogshit out of them if I ever see them in person?
We hadn’t faced anything like this before coming to Boston. When we moved here last fall, I thought it would be our best adventure yet.
The Bullies paid me more money than I ever thought I’d get on my own.
My fights were going viral, with millions of views on YouTube and other social media platforms. I bought us a luxury apartment, new cars, and upgraded her ring.
Anything she mentioned off-handedly, I bought for her because her smile is better than oxygen.
As the fights got more brutal, my social media exploded with followers and messages. I had no interest in it, so I let Rick handle everything— the brand deals, the sports pages wanting interviews, the stores wanting appearances.
Rick would send me the offered dollar amount, and all I saw was our future secured.
I showed up for any appearance, signed the jerseys, took pictures, and talked with fans—men with sons who told me I was their hero.
It was bittersweet to interact with those fans.
The relationship I wanted with my own dad.
I’d smile, I’d take the silly photos with the kids, letting them fake-knock me out, and laugh at the joy on their faces.
Emerald always got a kick out of those photos, and it made it all worth it.
Then came the attention I didn’t want from women, the same ones who would take pictures with me and then send my wife vile abuse.
hey girly, I’m reaching out because Hayden and I spent the entire night together. he didn’t say he was married, you should leave him, you deserve better :(
lol it didn’t take much for him to forget you.
he was incredible in bed. lucky woman. thanks for letting me have him for the night ;)
I was stunned when she showed me them and asked Rick what I should do, because he was well-versed in social media.
“Streisand effect, man. You acknowledge it, you just blow it up.”
“You feed the monster by engaging with it. Just let it be, it’ll die down.”
“All it is is fucking pathetic jealousy, Haymaker. They want you, but she has you.”
“Buy her some jewelry or send her to the spa, that’ll take her mind off of it.”
So, I listened to him, because I thought he knew best.
And I told Emerald the same thing .
“Ignore it, baby. It’s noise. It doesn’t matter. No one can hurt you. Words can’t hurt you. I’m here. You’re safe. I’ll always keep you safe.”
And I thought it was all fine.
Then we started losing. Badly.
Long stretches of losses.
The team got angry, snapping at each other in practice. Coach was angry. Our captain was angry. The front office was angry. I was angry and getting into more fights.
My temper was shorter. My mood plummeted.
And for the last two months, I threw myself into hockey, into appearances, into work.
Emerald is the only shining light in my life, so of course, I took out my temper on her.
Now my wife is lying in the snow, beaten and bloody.
Police move with urgency, setting up a crime scene. Because a crime happened to Emerald, while I was inside, warm, signing autographs, taking pictures, and feeling sorry for myself.
My wife was being brutalized at the exact same time.
I can’t get the fucking images out of my head.
My tight smile. Emerald’s jaw breaking.
My hand cramping from holding the marker. My wife’s fingers snapping.
My hand hovering behind Britney’s back for that fucking photo. Someone dragging my wife across the freezing concrete.
Again and again, the images torture me. I don’t even try to stop them—it feels right to suffer. The agony clawing through my numbness is proof: I deserve this. I deserve worse. If I could take her pain—if I could trade places—I would do it in a heartbeat .
“ETA to trauma center, five minutes,” the EMT reports into the radio, as a stretcher is brought over. “Alright, let’s get her in— gently, gently...”
With careful, expert hands, they get Emerald on the stretcher, and the female EMT turns to me.
“You coming?”
Without another thought, I follow them on shaky legs to the back of the ambulance. Just as they’re loading Emerald inside, I hear my name being shouted.
“Yo, Sawyer!”
Turning, I see an out-of-breath Simmons being stopped by the police. He ignores them, focused on me. “Denise is there! She’s expecting Emerald! She’ll take care of her man!”
I nod to Simmons, who places a hand over his heart as a show of support, before I pull myself into the back of the ambulance. I’m barely in before they slam the doors shut and take off.
The inside of the truck is just even more chaos, the sirens blaring overhead. The light gives me a better view of my wife’s face—the bruising, the blood, her twisted jaw—and makes me want to tear my own skin off.
“Emerald...” I whimper, my hands curled into fists in my lap. I’m sitting next to her head, the oxygen mask still on, her neck stabilized in a collar. I’m terrified to touch her, so I just sit here uselessly, watching, hoping, and dying along with her.
If she goes, I go...
It’s a horrible thought.
And yet...
“Talk to her,” the female EMT says suddenly, and I blink, confused.
“W-What? ”
“Hearing is the last thing to go.”
She doesn’t even spare me a glance, but her voice is firm and directed right at me.
“Give her something to fight for.”
Give her something to fight for.
I can’t think of a fucking thing to say, my goddamn brain has suddenly escaped my skull. I lean as close to my wife as I can, tears escaping my eyes at the sight of her battered face close-up. And I speak from my heart.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so—so fucking sorry.
I swear I didn’t mean it, Emerald. You’re my world, my breath, my reason for every heartbeat.
I love you, do you hear me? I love you more than my own skin, more than life.
Please, please... don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.
I need you. Please, Emerald, come back to me… ”
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then...
“BP rising...”
Dangerous hope swells in my chest at those words.
I press my lips directly against her ear.
“Come back to me, baby. Come back... come back, Emerald...”
My body is in this weird state of flux—numb and then agony, nothing and then everything, coming in torturous waves. My legs feel heavy, my body feels sluggish and hazy, and I can recognize that it's the adrenaline leaving my body.
Emerald hasn't moved once, not since I've found her, not since they loaded her into the ambulance, not in the ambulance, and not as she's jostled into the trauma center.
The stillness is terrifying. The only signs of life she's shown are the little foggy puffs of breath against the plastic face mask, pumping oxygen into her lungs.