Chapter 3
Theo
September…
I stare at the text, wishing it would evaporate.
Willing it to stop existing. Praying to whatever Gods actually exist to make it go away.
But it stays there. Four words that bring fear, pain, anxiety, and crushing guilt.
I black out my screen and place my phone face down on the coffee table.
Then I grab the remote and decide I’ll give myself a time-out.
Watch a little television. Allow myself a second to zone out and ignore the text.
That numbing quality booze always brings would be fucking epic right now.
The TV comes to life, and it’s a Sports News show on TSN, because of course it is.
It’s training camp for the NHL, and everyone is talking hockey.
The first preseason games will start in two weeks.
It’s going to be heartbreaking to watch the season start without me, but it’s also what I deserve.
“The Riptide’s going to come so close this season, just like last season.
But the simple fact is, they have a hole in their defense that I think will continue to keep the Cup out of their reach.
” The broadcaster’s lamenting, like they always do before a puck has even dropped.
They act like they can predict the whole damn thing.
They’re rarely ever right, but no one seems to remember that by the end of the season.
“Their lines are filled with rookies or guys who are one injury away from retirement. They need a couple solid players in their prime to go along with Casco, Conner, and Grady Garrison.”
“I think Vegas is in the same boat,” the other announcer adds, and I close my eyes because I know what’s coming. “Losing Richard was a big blow.”
“Not like they had a choice there. Can he even still play? His injuries were nearly catastrophic,” the other guy replies.
“And no one is going to spend three mil a year on a risk that big. If Richard wants to keep playing, he can do it in Europe and then maybe in a year, if he stays on track there, an NHL team will consider him a safer bet.”
I turn off the TV and sigh. He may be right, but I’m not going to Europe.
I don’t feel solid enough in my sobriety to disrupt my life that much.
I need familiarity at the moment, which is why I’ve been renting an Airbnb in Portland, Maine.
It’s familiar. I want to play hockey, but I can’t risk my sobriety.
So… I’m here, renting ice on my own and running drills and considering reaching out to farm teams to see if anyone will have me, or at the very least let me practice with them.
I reach for my phone again, but I ignore the text and doom-scroll Instagram instead.
And that’s when I see the podcast bros. I fucking hate this particular podcast. A bunch of pretty boys who failed at hockey and now make a living making snide comments and jokes about guys who did make it.
So why do I let the video clip play without scrolling?
Because I see my cousin Grady Garrison’s name in the caption.
They wrote, “How will Garrison and Casco handle the homophobia?”
“Look,” the guy with the skinny, angular face and accountant haircut says, “I’m not saying it’s right because of course it’s not, but hockey has fostered a don’t-ask-don’t-tell culture when it comes to being gay.
And now, they’ve told. There have been videos all summer of fans burning their Casco and Garrison jerseys.
There’s a petition online to have them traded or waived.
How do you handle that pressure? It’s gotta be tough. ”
“First of all, it’s important to note that the petition only has a couple hundred idiots who signed it,” the dude with unkempt bleached hair adds.
“And people have been burning jerseys for lots of stupid reasons over the years. If I were Grady Garrison or Landon Casco, I would use the hate as fuel. And that includes the hate toward Theo Richard for outing them in the first place.”
I suck in a breath.
“We don’t know if there’s hate there,” the third podcaster in this trio pipes in. “I mean, aren’t Garrison and Richard related or something? Garrison said in an interview right after it happened, one of the only times he’s addressed it, that his only concern was that Theo get healthy.”
“Oh, trust me, assholes, there is hate,” I mutter and close Instagram, which I watch through a burner account I called PuckingLoser000. There is hate. I hate myself so much for what I did that sometimes it keeps me up at night.
It’s one thing to get wrecked and decide to climb up on my roof to “chill” and then fall off of it and break my bones and ruin my career.
But it’s another thing to do it while live-streaming on Instagram because I wanted to show everyone the stars and ramble on like I was some kind of Shitfaced Yoda, giving slurred advice on how to handle pressure, which I clearly wasn’t handling.
And then, in that rambling, I reference how proud I was that my cousin Grady could handle anything that came his way, like being traded all the time, fighting for a starting position every season as a goalie, and being a step-parent to his partner Landon’s baby.
Yeah. I just threw all that personal private information up on an Instagram live seconds before I lost my footing and fell two stories, crashing into the backyard and narrowly missing being impaled on a patio umbrella.
Thank God I had woken my neighbors, and they saw it happen.
They called 9-1-1 immediately, and so did a bunch of people watching it on Instagram, apparently.
I look at my arm now, because I’m still in a tank top from my early morning visit to the gym.
The scar is fucking gnarly. I was given this gel stuff to help it heal faster and fade better, but I didn’t use it.
I want to have the constant reminder of how badly I fucked up everything. I don’t deserve to forget.
My phone alerts me to another text. Grady’s name flashes across my screen again, and my chest constricts painfully. I look at it because he doesn’t deserve to be ignored.
GRADY
Answer me, T. Come on.
The text I was ignoring was Grady asking if we could meet up and talk. Before I can muster up the courage and the words to respond, he texts me again.
GRADY
We just finished practice and I’m still downtown. I know where you live. Are you home?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
GRADY
I also know you’re reading this so answer. Don’t make this worse when I’m trying to make it better.
I close my eyes and exhale. Then I inhale slowly, deeply, clench my jaw, and respond. It’s time. Whether I like it or not—and I really fucking don’t like it.
THEO
Yeah. I’m home. Standard Baking Company?
GRADY
Yeah. Good. Ten Minutes?
THEO
See you there.
I get off the couch and walk into the bathroom.
My hands are shaking so much I drop my phone trying to put it on the vanity.
It doesn’t crack, thankfully. I bend to pick it up and immediately get dizzy.
My stomach lurches as a wave of nausea crashes over me.
I don’t make it to the toilet and end up puking up my recently consumed protein shake into the shower because it’s closer and the door is open.
Ten minutes later, I’m still on the bathroom floor, but I’ve got control of my breathing, and I’m not puking, so it’s progress. I find my phone on the floor and text Grady again.
THEO
Sorry. Can you come to mine? 1221 Commercial. Front door code is 1410. Top floor. Door on the left.
I feel slightly better. Yeah, I have to face Grady, but doing it in private is better than in public. In case I puke again. Or in case Grady’s going to tell me he hates my guts and he wants me to leave Maine forever. I would do it if he asked. And I wouldn’t blame him in the least for asking.
Grady only texts back with a thumbs-up. So I get myself on my feet, splash water on my face, and quickly gargle some mouthwash.
I’m rinsing out the shower when there’s a knock at the front door.
My heart pounds as I turn off the water and walk through the open-concept loft to the door.
I swing it open like tearing off a Band-Aid.
And there he is, my six-foot-six redheaded wall of a (former) best friend and (emotional if not biological) relative. He’s holding two takeaway coffee mugs.
“You still drink caramel lattes?” He holds one out to me.
I take it, careful not to touch any of his long fingers, because if we touch, I think I’ll barf again. “Thanks. Come in.”
Grady steps through the front door, and I close it behind him, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to run out the open door and leave him there alone.
I don’t think I can do this. I know I have to, but…
fuck. Is it a good sign he’s here, forcing this confrontation?
Or is it a bad one? My nervous system is too busy melting down to give me any kind of gut feeling.
“Nice place,” he says as his hazel eyes dart around the space, which is nice.
It’s all brick and exposed pipes and beams. The wall facing the water has floor-to-ceiling windows.
There’s a small balcony on the left side of the loft, which takes up the whole front of the building.
He walks past the kitchen, past my bed, and through the dining area to the living room. He stares out the window. “Nice view.”
“It’s an Airbnb,” I say. “I’ve got it until December.”
“And then?” Grady turns from the view to look at me. I’m still standing at the entry, the coffee cup in my hand, which is shaking no matter how hard I try to make it stop. Grady notices. “Theo, I’m not mad so you can relax.”
And now I can’t look at him. I turn away, take a couple tentative steps into the kitchen, and set the latte down on the quartz countertop. “But I am. I’m furious with myself.”