Chapter Six
Travis
I almost told her.
Sitting in her kitchen with coffee I didn't deserve, watching her face while she talked about her grandmother's trust, I almost opened my mouth and said everything.
I'm not who you think I am. I'm not just some guy who works out in the mornings.
I'm Travis Howe, and if you Google me, you'll find a video of me beating a man bloody outside a hospice.
But I didn't. Because I'm a coward, and because she was looking at me like I was worth something, and I wasn't ready to watch that look disappear.
It's after midnight and I can't sleep. The cottage is dark and quiet and too small, the walls pressing in on me the way they do when my head gets loud.
I've been lying in bed for two hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every conversation I've had with Kelly and thinking of all the ways I've lied to her.
The gym. That's what I told her. I go to the gym.
Technically true. The rink has a weight room. I use it sometimes after I skate. But that's not what she was asking, and we both knew it.
I throw off the covers and get up, pulling on jeans and a hoodie. The floor is cold under my bare feet as I pad to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. I don't usually drink alone—too easy to let it become a habit—but tonight I need something to take the edge off.
The back window looks out at the main house. Kelly's bedroom light is off. She's asleep, probably, dreaming about fictional serial killers and oblivious wives. Not thinking about me at all.
Good. That's good.
I take my beer to the couch and sit in the dark, letting my eyes adjust. The cottage is sparse—I never unpacked much, never let myself settle in.
A duffel bag in the corner with most of my clothes still in it.
A few books on the shelf that I've read twice.
The TV I never turn on because I'm afraid of seeing my own face on ESPN, some highlight reel followed by commentary about my "troubled history" and "anger issues. "
Anger issues. That's what they called it. Like I just snapped for no reason, like there wasn't a man standing outside my grandmother's hospice with a camera and a smirk, asking me how it felt to lose everything at once.
I close my eyes and let the memory come. I've been fighting it for months, pushing it down every time it surfaces, but tonight I'm tired and lonely and Kelly's words are echoing in my head. Maybe you should let other people decide what you deserve.
Maybe I should let myself remember what I did.
It was March. The season was almost over, and we were out of playoff contention for the first time in five years.
My fault, mostly. I'd been playing like shit for months, distracted, making mistakes I hadn't made since juniors.
Coach benched me for two games. The sports blogs were calling for a trade.
I didn't care. My grandmother was dying.
She had a stroke in January. A bad one. The doctors said she might recover, might regain some function, might be able to go home eventually.
But she didn't. She just got worse, slowly and then quickly, until she couldn't speak anymore, couldn't squeeze my hand back when I held it, couldn't do anything but lie there and breathe.
I visited every day I wasn't traveling. Drove two hours to the hospice, sat with her for as long as they'd let me, drove two hours back.
The team knew—they had to, I was missing practices and showing up exhausted—but nobody said anything.
Professional courtesy. You don't hassle a guy whose grandmother is dying.
The photographer didn't get that memo.
I don't know how he found out where she was. Someone on the staff probably, selling information for a few hundred bucks. That's how it usually works. There's always someone willing to trade privacy for cash.
He was waiting for me in the parking lot when I came out. Late afternoon, gray sky, a day that feels like it's already over before it starts. I saw him and knew immediately what he was—the camera, the eager stance, the way he moved toward me like a predator who'd spotted easy prey.
"Travis! Travis Howe! Can I get a comment on the season?"
I tried to walk past him. I was exhausted and hollowed out and my grandmother had stopped recognizing me that morning, just looked at me with empty eyes like I was a stranger. I didn't have anything left for this guy. I didn't have anything left for anyone.
But he followed me. Kept pace, kept talking, kept pushing.
"What about the trade rumors? Any truth to those? Think you'll be back next year?"
I got to my truck. Unlocked it. Was about to get in when he said the thing that broke me.
"Must be tough, losing your season and your grandma at the same time. You think God's trying to tell you something?"
I don't remember making a decision. I just remember the feeling of my hand closing around his collar, the look on his face when he realized he'd miscalculated. And then I was hitting him, once, twice, three times, his camera falling to the pavement, his blood on my knuckles.
Someone pulled me off. A nurse, I think, coming out for a smoke break. She was screaming at me to stop, and I did, because her voice sounded like my grandmother's voice and for a second I thought—
I thought she was still alive. I thought she was watching me become this thing I didn't recognize.
The photographer pressed charges. Of course he did.
His lawyer sent a letter to my agent within forty-eight hours, demanding seven figures and a public apology.
The video was everywhere—someone had filmed it from a car in the parking lot, thirty seconds of me beating a man who was half my size, no audio, no context, just violence.
NHL enforcer assaults photographer. That was the headline. No mention of my grandmother. No mention of what he said. Just me, the monster, doing what monsters do.
We settled out of court. My agent handled it, kept the number confidential, made it go away as much as something like that can go away.
The team suspended me indefinitely. The league launched an investigation.
My grandmother died three days later, and I wasn't there because I was in a meeting with lawyers, explaining for the fourth time that I wasn't a danger to anyone, that I just needed a break, that I was sorry even though I wasn't, not really, not for what I did to that man.
I found out from my mother. A phone call while I was sitting in a conference room surrounded by men in suits who were supposed to be helping me. I saw her name on the screen, and I knew before I answered. You always know.
"She's gone, Travis. About an hour ago. They said it was peaceful."
Peaceful. Like that was supposed to make it better. Like anything could make it better.
I don't remember much after that. I remember leaving the meeting, walking out in the middle of someone talking about liability and public statements.
I remember driving, but not where. I remember ending up at a bar somewhere and drinking until the bartender cut me off, then sitting in my car in the parking lot until the sun came up.
The funeral was small. My parents, my sister, a few cousins, some people from the church my grandmother had attended for sixty years. I stood in the back and didn't speak to anyone. My mother kept trying to catch my eye, but I couldn't look at her. I couldn't look at any of them.
They blamed me. Not out loud, not directly, but I could feel it. If I hadn't gotten into that fight, if I hadn't been in that meeting, I would've been with her when she died. I would've held her hand. I would've told her I loved her one more time.
Instead I was explaining to lawyers why I hit a man who deserved it.
I'm still not sorry.
That's the part I can't explain to anyone.
I know what I did was wrong. I know I should've walked away, should've been the bigger person, should've done any of the things they teach you to do when someone's trying to get a reaction out of you.
But I'm not sorry I hit him. I'm sorry I got caught.
I'm sorry my grandmother died without me there.
I'm sorry I let one bad moment define everything I'd worked for.
But I'm not sorry he bled.
My beer is empty. I don't remember drinking it.
I get up and throw the bottle in the recycling, then stand at the window looking out at the main house. Still dark. Still quiet. Kelly is in there, trusting me, thinking I'm a good person because her grandmother said so.
Her grandmother didn't know about the video. She knew I needed somewhere to hide, knew I was hurting, knew my grandmother had been her friend for fifty years. But she didn't ask questions, and I didn't volunteer answers.
Maybe if she had asked, she would've turned me away. Maybe she would've seen the headlines and the video and decided I wasn't worth the risk. I'll never know.
What I do know is that I can't keep lying to Kelly.
She's going to find out eventually. Someone will recognize me, or she'll Google my name, or I'll say something that doesn't add up and she'll start digging.
The longer I wait, the worse it's going to be.
Every day I don't tell her is another day of deception, another brick in a wall I'm going to have to tear down eventually.
But I'm not ready. That's the pathetic truth. I'm not ready to see her face change, to watch her pull back, to become another person who looks at me and sees a cautionary tale.
I like who I am when I'm with her. I like that she doesn't know what I've done, that she sees me as the guy who fixes things and gives decent book advice and makes her laugh sometimes. It's not real—it's built on omission and half-truths—but it feels more real than anything has in months.
With Kelly, I'm just Travis. Not Travis Howe, NHL enforcer, the guy with the temper and the highlight reel of fights.
Not the cautionary tale coaches use to warn rookies about media training.
Just a guy who showed up at the right time, who needed a place to be quiet, who happens to be good with his hands.
She makes me feel like I could be someone else. Someone better. Someone who didn't ruin everything with one bad decision in a parking lot.
Yesterday, when she touched my arm and asked me to stay for coffee, I felt something I haven't felt in a long time. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it. The possibility that maybe I'm not just the worst thing I've ever done.
That's dangerous. I know it's dangerous.
But knowing doesn't make me stop.
The next morning I'm at the rink by six, skating harder than I have in weeks.
Sprints, stops, crossovers, the same drills I've been doing since I was a kid.
My legs burn and my lungs ache and for a little while my brain goes quiet, nothing but the sound of my blades on the ice and the rhythm of my own breath.
Frank watches me from the boards for a while, then shakes his head and walks away without saying anything. He knows something's going on with me. He's too smart not to. But he's also been around hockey long enough to know that some things you don't ask about.
Afterward, I sit in the locker room for a long time, just staring at my gear. The bag with my team logo on it, the logo I might never wear again. The skates that have carried me through hundreds of games. The gloves that have thrown more punches than I want to count.
This is who I am. This is all I've ever been. I don't know how to be anything else.
But maybe that's the problem.
I shower and change and walk out to my truck, the cold air sharp in my lungs. My phone is sitting on the passenger seat where I left it. Three missed calls from Dave. A text from my mother that I don't open. And a message from Kelly.
Good morning. Coffee's on if you want some.
I read it twice. She just woke up and thought of me. That means something. I don't know what, but it means something.
I stare at it for a long time, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I should tell her no. I should keep my distance, stop letting her in, protect both of us from what's coming. The smart thing, the safe thing, would be to stay away until I figure out my life.
I type back: Be there in twenty.
Then I start the truck and drive back to her.