Puck Me Back to Life (Puckboys Unleashed #6)

Chapter 1

Kai

Istand on the edge of my apartment building and try to decide whether tomorrow is worth surviving.

The thought should probably scare me more than it does.

A healthy person would be alarmed to find themselves six stories above the sidewalk at three o'clock in the morning, staring down at the city and wondering how much courage it would take to lean forward rather than backward.

Instead, I find myself mostly tired. The kind of tired that settles somewhere deeper than exhaustion.

The kind that follows you through entire years until you can't remember what life felt like before it arrived.

The city glows beneath me in a thousand different shades of white and gold.

Cars move through the streets below, their headlights tracing familiar paths through downtown traffic.

Somewhere nearby, a siren wails before disappearing into the distance.

Life continues exactly as it always has.

People are falling asleep beside their spouses.

They're coming home from late shifts. They're worrying about bills and deadlines and what they're going to eat for breakfast tomorrow morning.

I envy them more than I envy millionaires.

Because normal people get to wake up thinking about normal things.

I wake up thinking about William Grove.

When I close my eyes, I see blood immediately.

I don't think there's been a single night in the last two years where the memory hasn't found me.

It arrives in pieces at first: the scrape of skates against ice, the roar of twenty thousand people, the blur of William's jersey as he cuts toward the net.

Then the collision comes, followed by the impossible amount of red spreading across the white ice.

No matter how many times I tell myself it was an accident, my brain always stops at the same place.

William Grove falls. I survive. The world keeps turning anyway.

The league called it a freak accident.

The investigators called it unavoidable.

The lawyers called it tragic.

The media spent six months calling it every possible variation of those three things.

None of it changed the fact that William died. The NHL eventually cleared me of wrongdoing. The investigation ended. The lawsuits disappeared. The reporters found other stories to chase. Life moved on for everyone else. Mine never really did.

Tomorrow is opening night. My first regular-season game in almost two years. The realization settles heavily in my chest.

Training camp was manageable because nobody outside the organization cared very much. The preseason games were uncomfortable, but they were easy enough to survive. The crowds were smaller. The cameras were less interested. Most people were paying attention to rookies trying to earn roster spots.

Tomorrow is different. Tomorrow every seat in the arena will be filled. Sports networks will run little comeback segments before puck drop, and commentators will lower their voices and talk about resilience. Tomorrow, there will be people in the crowd who still believe I got away with murder.

The worst part is that on nights like this, I agree with them. I know what the investigation found, and accidents happen in hockey. I've heard every argument. I've repeated them to myself so many times that I could probably recite them in my sleep.

It doesn't matter.

It was my skate. My fault.

There is a part of me that will always believe William Grove should have gone home that night and I should have been the one who didn't.

The wind cuts across the rooftop hard enough to sting my face. I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket and stare at the concrete below.

One step.

That's all it would take.

The simplicity of it is almost insulting.

No more nightmares or panic attacks. No more pretending I don't hear what people whisper when they recognize me. I won't have to see William's parents in interviews and wonder if they're happier on days when they forget my name exists.

I picture the headlines. Then, against my will, I picture Mrs. Grove.

The only time I met her was during the investigation.

She cried through almost the entire conversation.

Mr. Grove sat beside her looking like a man who had aged twenty years in six months.

Neither of them yelled at me. Neither of them blamed me. Somehow that made it worse.

I remember Mrs. Grove reaching across the table and squeezing my hand.

You didn't mean to hurt him.

I still haven't figured out how to live with those words.

The thought of putting that woman through another tragedy connected to my name makes something inside me recoil.

She has already buried her son. She shouldn't have to sit through another press conference because I couldn't handle my own guilt.

Maybe that makes me weak.

But it is enough. Tonight, it is enough.

I take a step backward. The distance between me and the edge grows by a few inches. Then several feet. Relief never comes.

People talk about choosing life as though it's a triumphant decision. They talk about it like the clouds part and some invisible weight lifts from your shoulders. The truth is usually much less dramatic.

I just don't jump. I go back inside.

The sadness, the guilt, the memories follow closely behind.

I make my way down the stairwell and let myself into my apartment.

The familiar silence greets me immediately.

The place is nicer than I need. Professional hockey pays well, even when you're shit.

The apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown, a kitchen large enough for someone who actually cooks, and furniture that looked impressive in the showroom before I realized furniture doesn't stop a place from feeling empty.

The loneliness is worse at night.

During the day I can distract myself. There are workouts and meetings and team obligations. There are errands and grocery stores and enough noise to keep my thoughts occupied. At three in the morning, there is nowhere to hide from yourself.

My gaze drifts toward the neighboring balcony.

Angela's lights are off. She's probably asleep.

Angela became my friend during the year I spent away from hockey.

One afternoon her cat escaped into the hallway while she was carrying groceries, and I spent twenty minutes helping her chase him down three flights of stairs.

The cat bit me. Angela laughed so hard she nearly dropped a carton of eggs. Somehow that became friendship.

Now I watch Cleveland the cat whenever she travels. He's orange, overweight, and possesses the confidence of a medieval warlord. He's also one of the few living creatures that never cared about William Grove. I find that comforting.

The clock on my microwave reads 3:24 a.m. Sleep isn't happening tonight.

I already know that.

Whenever I close my eyes, William finds me eventually.

Sometimes he's bleeding.

Sometimes he's smiling.

Sometimes he's just standing there watching me.

I grab the remote from the coffee table and switch on the television. An old black-and-white movie flickers onto the screen. The actors speak in polished accents from a world that no longer exists.

Perfect.

I've spent the last two years hiding inside old stories. Classical literature. Old films. Dead poets. Anything that allows me to disappear into someone else's life for a few hours.

When I'm reading Dickens, nobody is prying into my bruised psyche. I'm watching an old movie, and nobody is debating whether I deserve a second chance. For a few moments, I get to live inside another person's tragedy, I get a brief vacation from my own.

I settle deeper into the couch and pull a blanket over myself.

Tomorrow, I have to step onto NHL ice again. Wear the Arcane Wizards jersey. I have to look out at thousands of people and pretend I belong there. The thought should terrify me.

Instead, I just feel tired.

The movie continues playing while the city glows outside my windows. Eventually my eyes begin to grow heavy despite the anxiety clawing at my chest.

My alarm goes off at six. I don't remember falling asleep. One moment I am watching a detective explain a murder to a room full of suspects, and the next my phone is vibrating angrily on the coffee table. For a few disorienting seconds, I stare at the ceiling and try to remember where I am.

Then reality settles back into place.

I silence the alarm and drag myself upright. My body protests immediately. Every muscle feels tight, and there is a pressure behind my eyes that tells me three hours of sleep wasn't enough. Three hours is better than none.

I've learned to lower my standards.

By the time I finish showering and dressing, the sun is beginning to rise over the city. The skyline outside my apartment windows is painted in soft shades of orange and gold. It should be beautiful.

I stop at the convenience store a few blocks from the arena and grab my usual breakfast: a protein bar and an energy drink that looks radioactive enough to power a small country. The cashier recognizes me. Most people do.

For a moment, I brace myself for the look. The one where recognition turns into discomfort.

The one where people remember exactly who I am. Instead, the cashier simply rings up my purchase and wishes me a good day.

The interaction feels remarkable. Maybe this is a good sign. That everyone else is finally moving on.

The arena parking lot is already half full when I arrive. Players move through the entrance carrying equipment bags and coffees. Staff members rush between offices. Trainers are already setting up for the day.

Everything feels normal. The thought unsettles me. The world doesn't stop because you're falling apart. It expects you to clock in anyway.

I make my way toward the locker room and slide into my stall. The conversations around me are easy and familiar. Fantasy football, video games, plans after practice.

I keep to myself, nod along when someone tries to be polite and include me.