“I’m doing okay.” His tone is guarded. “Still some post-concussion symptoms but getting better.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Really. I called to apologize for what I did. I…I’m not making excuses, just trying to explain. I lost my focus. Things have been a bit messed up for me lately, and…that doesn’t excuse it. At all. I just want to say I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate that.”
“I want you to know it wasn’t deliberate. I would never do that.”
He sighs. “I don’t know you. But you don’t have a rep as a dirty player. That said, I’m still kind of pissed.”
“I don’t blame you. I just hope you’re feeling better and back on the ice soon.”
“Thanks. And…thanks for reaching out.”
We end the call. I sit for a few minutes with the discomfort of that. I deserve it.
The other thing I have to do is face the media.
I make myself go to practice the next day and then afterward, sitting in front of cameras, microphones, and cell phones, I begin. “First of all, I just want to say I’m glad that Brent is going to be okay. Concussions are no fun, but I’m relieved that he was okay after, and that’s the most important thing.” I rub my face. “I reached out to him yesterday and apologized on the phone. And I’m apologizing again now. I’m sorry my play injured him.” I pause for a steadying breath. “I know that my intent doesn’t change the result, but I want to say that it was never my intention to injure him. I would never do that. I was trying to prevent a goal, which is why I was skating so fast. It wasn’t until the last second when I got to the net that I decided to make the hit, and I thought it was a clean hit.”
I’m trying to keep my chin up, my shoulders square, and my voice steady. I’ve been super emotional about all this, and I don’t want to break down in tears on TV.
“I also want to apologize to the team. And to management. And to the fans. I know I’m letting everyone down by not being able to play during this important stretch. The suspension decision is made, and I’ll live with it. Regardless of my personal feelings about the length and severity of the punishment, I accept it. I won’t be appealing it. What I don’t think is fair…” I pause, swallowing. This is the hardest part. “…is my family being attacked because of what I did. That is not right. They’ve been attacked online and bullied in person. I get that fans love their team, but that is not acceptable.”
That’s been the most horrendous part of all this—that people, complete strangers, have attacked my family. They’ve said disgusting things about me, but I can live with that. That’s part of the deal. But not going after my family.
As someone with a bit of fame, I’m fair game. I get that. And the internet gives people a sense of protection or safety when they say horrible things about people. People who are real, live, eating, breathing people. People with feelings. It fucking sucks.
It goes too far when fans think they own us. When they think they can say someone—another human being—should be hurt or killed. That’s just not right.
It makes me furious, but mostly because what the hell can I do about it? Nothing.
I get some attention from Robby, our head athletic therapist. In the hit on Schneider, I also hurt my shoulder. It’s not bad, but I’ve been ignoring it, and he does some ultrasound therapy then works on stretching and mobilizing my shoulder joint.
I skip lunch with the guys. Just not feeling it. I drove myself here today, so I drive home.
Was Emerie watching the press conference?
It doesn’t matter.
I miss her.
Too bad. Toughen up, fluffy.
Some hot, rough, sex would be nice right now.
No.
That’s not what it was about with Emerie.
I hope she’s okay.
Never mind her. Stop thinking about her.
Yeah. That’ll work.
At home, I meander aimlessly for a while. I walk into my office and stare at Emerie’s stuff. I gaze out the window. I grab a bottle of water, drink some of it, then wipe off the kitchen counter. Things were always messier when Emerie was here.
Fuck, I miss that, too.
I heave a sigh and pick up the book I’m reading. Stretching out on the couch, I try to read. My mind won’t stop, though.
I love you.
She might as well have reached inside and ripped a hole in my gut.
She can’t love me. Not when I’ve screwed up this bad.
Despair swamps me.
How did this happen? How did I manage to destroy everything? How could I have fucked up so badly when I’ve worked so hard?
I’m so fucking pissed at myself. At that moment, I hate myself. My jaw locked, I let out a hoarse, strangled noise of pain.
Talk about your brother.
What for? He’s gone. And talk about him to whom? Like my parents would want to talk about that. Or anyone would. Millsy lost his brother, too, and I doubt he wants to hear my sad story.
27
Owen
I wake up to banging on my apartment door.
Groggy, I open my eyes. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m on my couch. I’ve been sleeping here a lot lately.
More knocks reverberate through the apartment.
“What the hell?” I yell, swinging my legs to the floor. My book thuds to the rug, and I lurch over to the door like I’m hammered.
I yank it open and see my teammates standing there—Millsy and Hellsy. And Millsy’s dog.
“Hey.”
They squint at me. “What were you doing?”
“I think I fell asleep.”
They push past me to enter my pad, not waiting for an invitation. Otis is jumping around, excited to see me. I bend down to rub the guy’s head. He had a rough start in life, but he’s got a good home now with Millsy. I kind of love the little dude.
“Were you drinking?” Millsy asks.
“No. But in hindsight, that might have been a good idea.”
“You don’t drink,” Hellsy points out.
“Sure, I do. Sometimes.”
“Where’s Emerie?” Millsy asks.
I swallow. “She moved out.”
He nods.
Somehow, I get the feeling he already knew that. I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”
“Why’d you do that?” he asks, taking a seat on the sectional.
Hellsy sits too, in one of my chairs. Otis sniffs around the apartment.
“Is he going to piss on my floor?” I ask Millsy, pointing at the black and white Frenchie.
“Nah. I just took him out.”
They look all casual and laid back. Like my life isn’t a huge goddamn goat rodeo and they’re sitting in front row seats.
“Do what?”
“Dump her.” Millsy crosses one ankle over his knee. “You seemed really happy with her.”
“After what just happened, you can ask that?” I shake my head. “She doesn’t need to be part of my shit show of a life.”
“Ah. So you were doing it for her.”
I give him the dirtiest look I can. “What are you saying, Mills?”
“Okay, fine. If I have to explain it in one-syllable words, I will. You can’t break up with someone for their own good. That is totally patronizing and arrogant.”