“Four penalties, Zee?” Maddison throws his sweat-soaked jersey in the collection bin sitting in the center of the visiting locker room.
“Ask me if I give a shit.”
In case he couldn’t tell by the void look on my face or the dried blood on my lip from one of my fights tonight, the answer is “I don’t.”
Any other day, Maddison would give me his usual Captain lecture about letting the team down by giving Seattle so many power plays. He’d remind me that we just lost on the road, and now we’re only up by one game in the third round of playoffs. He’d tell me to get my head out of my ass and straighten out my priorities.
But he doesn’t say any of that because he knows where my priorities lie. I’m not thinking about hockey. I’m not thinking about my contract. I’m just thinking about the girl who’s missing from my life because I didn’t want my reputation to hurt her anymore.
Maddison’s eyes stay locked on my pinky as I unwrap the athletic tape from around Stevie’s ring that I’ve refused to take off the last three games. It’s thin and delicate enough I’ve somehow gotten away with wearing it, the refs assuming my finger is taped for medical reasons. But I’ve worn it, clinging to it like some sort of lifeline. As if having it on my finger symbolizes that she’s still in my life.
But the way she was looking at me on the plane yesterday, as if I were a stranger she wanted nothing to do with, reminded me that I’m not. I’m not in her life anymore. So, I’m going to wear this fucking cheap-ass ring until the metal disintegrates around me because it’s the only part of her I still have.
Maddison’s apologetic gaze cautiously finds me before he looks down at my finger again.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I remind him as I grab a towel and head to the showers.
Suited back up in my pre-game fit, I follow the boys out of the locker room to the bus waiting for us through the back entrance of the arena. Plenty of eager fans greet us with outstretched posters and pens, secluded behind the roped-off barrier on our short walk. Most of the guys take their time, signing autographs and snapping pictures with fans, but I keep my headphones over my ears and my emotionless gaze locked on the bus ahead of me.
Opposite the fans, reporters line the walkway, cameras flashing, calling out our names, and hoping for a piece of nothing they could contrive into something. It takes all my willpower not to lift my hand and flip them off as I walk by. To be fair, it’d pair perfectly with the image Rich wants me to project, but it’s enticing because I partially blame them for my life going to shit just days ago.
Chicago wanted their resident bad guy again? Well, here he is. I’m back to my typical dirty fights, not giving a fuck about anyone else, including the fans who are begging for my attention. They got what they asked for, so if they could hurry up with my fucking contract extension, that’d be great.
“Zanders.” My arm gets pulled back, causing my focused stare to leave the bus, finding a small hand holding on to my forearm. The hand belongs to a chick wearing a flirtatious smile. I pull my headphones away from my ear, wondering what the fuck she wants and why she thinks it’s okay to touch me so casually. “I’m Coral.”
I pull my arm from her grasp. “Great,” I deadpan before continuing to the bus.
She chases me down, the heels of her shoes clicking against the cement before she grabs me again. “No, I’m Coral. Rich sent me.”
Yanking my arm from her more firmly this time, I warn, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Confusion and a touch of embarrassment cover her face as she looks around, chuckling a small laugh while she fixes the hem of her dress.
“I don’t give a shit who sent you. Do not touch me again.”
“Okay.” Maddison cuts between her and me, swinging an arm over my shoulder and leading me to the bus. He uses his body to shield mine from the cameras, but even if they didn’t see the interaction, they sure as shit heard it.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I quietly say for only Maddison to hear.
“I know, man.”
Two in the morning, and I can’t sleep. No fucking surprise there. I’ve barely slept all week, thanks to an empty bed and Rosie whimpering in the middle of the night from Stevie’s absence. To be fair, Rosie isn’t the only one awake, hurt from missing her.
It’s like part of my soul is gone, and I don’t know how to survive without it. Everything I did, I did because I chose to put her first. It wasn’t fair to her to put her through the wringer just because she’s associated with me. She shouldn’t have to endure the criticism and hate because she’s with me. She’s too good and too sweet and too kind to have to live with that kind of hate continually finding her.
I was trying to put her first, and I assumed that would make things easier to digest. Since I did this for Stevie, I figured I would be able to handle the heartbreak I brought on myself.
But there hasn’t been a moment of reprieve. Since the second I walked out of Stevie’s apartment when I threw up on the side of her building from doing something no part of my body wanted to do, all the way to this very moment, the pain has become exponentially worse.
Grabbing my glass from the coffee table in my hotel room, I take a swig of the whiskey I poured an hour ago. I have a strict no-drinking policy during playoffs, but I’ve done plenty of things this week I never thought I’d do, so having a drink after a game seems pretty tame in comparison to the other choices I made.
Two in the morning, and I’m sitting on a couch in Seattle, drinking warm whiskey and scrolling through every picture I have of her while reading every text we’ve ever exchanged, needing to fill the hollow void in some way. I screenshot every one of Stevie’s Instagram photos the night the paparazzi found us before we jointly decided to unfollow each other as a way to keep her name out of the press. I’ve stared at those images this week more times than I could count.
A quiet knock on my door sounds, and like the sad fucker I am, a moment of hope flashes through me, thinking it might be her. But even though we may be in the same city, she’d never come and find me, and I don’t blame her one bit.
Maddison stands on the other side of my door, looking as exhausted as I do, his brown hair disheveled and his eyes laced with sleep.
“Can I come in?” he asks as I open the door. He eyes the whiskey on the table between us. “What happened to your no-drinking rule?”
“Been doing a lot of things I never thought I would. Figured having a drink was nothing in comparison.”
“Pour me one then.” Maddison nods to the bottle.
I grab another crystal glass and pour some warm amber liquid into it. Cheersing, he takes a swig.
“This is disgusting.”
“I know.” Taking the seat on the couch, I lean forward, draping my elbows on my knees with my head hanging low.
“You’ve got to stop punishing yourself.”
My head snaps up. “You think me being too lazy to go get ice is a form of punishing myself?” I blow out a half-hearted laugh.
“That’s not what I’m referring to, and you know it.”
“If you’re here to talk about Stevie, I don’t want to hear it. It’s two in the fucking morning, so you should go.”
“I don’t really give a fuck what you do or don’t want to talk about. I can’t sleep because my best friend is in the worst shape I’ve ever seen him, so yeah, we’re going to talk.”
I lean back on the couch, casually crossing one ankle over my knee before taking a swig of my warm whiskey. And I do it all while wearing a smug as fuck grin, silently saying, Good luck getting me to talk, asshole.
“I fired Rich.”
Well, that’ll do it.
“What?” Leaning forward, I place my glass back on the table before I accidentally drop it in my state of shock.
“I fired Rich,” Maddison repeats. “I’ve been wanting to do it for a while, and that shit he pulled on you with the paparazzi was my final straw.”
“We don’t even know if that was him, though.”
“You know that was him. He’s been getting a side cut for tipping off the press for years. I can’t prove it, but we all know it’s true. It’s the only thing that makes sense for why he wants your name plastered in every headline or why reporters always seem to find you.”
I know he’s right. Deep down, I’ve always known, but it’s never affected me all that much. This time, though, it was too far, and not only did it hurt me, but it hurt the person I care about most.
“I know things are different for you right now with needing a new contract, but Logan and I jointly decided for me to cut ties.”
“He’s never fucked with you, though.” My brows furrow in confusion. “You’ve been successful off exactly who you are.”
“Zee.” Maddison exhales a weary breath. “You’re our family, man, so him fucking with you is the same as if it weren’t happening to me.”
My head drops down between my shoulders as I attempt to hide the glossy film covering my eyes before I nod my head, unable to speak.
Firing your agent is no small feat. Most athletes go their entire career working with the same agent, as long as said agent keeps making you money. Maddison has been extremely successful in the time he worked with Rich, so him doing this for me is not a small act of loyalty by any means.
“You know I can’t do that right now,” I remind him. “Firing Rich would essentially tank my entire career. I’d have to represent myself, and teams can’t talk to me while I’m in season.”
“I know. You’ve got to do what’s best for you, but I want you to know where I’m at. I’m over the whole game we’ve been playing into. You’re as good of a man as me, if not better, and I’m tired of people not knowing that. I’m sorry for playing my role all these years by allowing fans to think I was any better than you. Fuck, you’re a huge reason why I am who I am now.”
A sly smile creeps across my lips as I look at him, needing to break up the serious tone of this conversation.
“What?” he cautiously asks.
“You gonna try to kiss me now after that love confession or what?”
“Dick.”
“Asshole.”
I hold my glass out for him to connect his own. “That means a lot, man. Thank you.” Settling back in my seat, I exhale a deep, resigned sigh. “Regardless of Rich being a prick, I still can’t be myself. Chicago fans don’t want me. The small glimpse they saw had them trolling the internet and talking shit.”
“So go play somewhere else where the fanbase will support you.”
My head jerks back, eyes narrowing.
“You saw a small portion of shitty people online trashing you,” Maddison continues. “Overall, I think any fanbase will be stoked to have the real you, Chicago included, but if you think they truly don’t want you or that you can’t be yourself there, go play somewhere where you can.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Why is he asking? He knows the answer.
“Because your family is in Chicago. I’m not leaving you and Logan. And I’m sure as shit not leaving Ella and MJ.”
“Zee.” Maddison sits forward, his tone completely serious. “It doesn’t matter where you are or what team you’re playing for. You’re always going to be a part of our family. You don’t need my permission to go, but if for some reason you think you do, well, you have it. I just want you to be happy. We all do.”
My chest tightens. It’s something I knew, but it helps to hear it reaffirmed. Especially now, so close to the end of the season, not knowing if it’s my last one in Chicago, and not knowing if I’ll be leaving them in a few short months.
I nod my head repeatedly, unable to speak, emotions thick in my throat. When I look up at Maddison, it seems he’s having the same issue, his brown eyes glossed over as he rapidly blinks.
“Oh fuck.” I laugh to break the tension, squeezing the bridge of my nose with my thumb and pointer finger. “We’re pathetic.”
“You’re my brother.” Maddison’s voice breaks as he wipes at his face. “Where you live isn’t going to change that. My family will always be yours, but for the first time in a long time, you’ve got your own family. I can’t watch you throw that away because you’re worried about having to move away from us.”
“I can’t take Stevie away from Chicago.”
“Did she say she wouldn’t leave?”
I shake my head. “Quite the opposite, actually. She said she’d follow me anywhere, but I don’t want to take her from her brother or the dog shelter. That’d be fucked up.”
“Zee, for once in your life, stop trying to protect everyone around you. She’s trying to give you an out of this persona you’ve played into. She’s telling you she’ll move wherever you need. Let someone else have your back for once.”
“Fuck, Maddison.” The tears are flowing now. Granted, they’ve barely stopped all week, but I usually do it in private. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” My voice cracks. “I was trying to shield her from all the celebrity bullshit, but I can’t even think straight. I miss her so much.”
“Why would you break up with her then?” he gently asks, though I can tell he’d much rather curse me out for my mistake.
“As I said, I was trying to protect her from everything.”
He stays silent, allowing me to continue.
“I was trying to protect her from me,” I add in realization.
Looking up at him, it’s clear he knew this as his lips lift in a sad smile.
“I left her before she could leave me.” A disbelieving breath escapes me. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you, Zee.”
“Yes, there is!” I yell in frustration. “I was so sure she was going to break up with me after seeing all that shit about me online that I did it before she could.” I bury my face in my hands. “I thought she was going to abandon me just like every else did.”
I had three fucking sessions with Eddie last week, and he couldn’t tell me what I was doing? It took a middle-of-the-night conversation with my best friend and some warm whiskey to figure out I’m still dealing with shit from my fucking mother?
“Stevie loved you even when you were trying to show her your worst. But your best? Who you really are? You have to trust that she loves you enough to stick around.”
“She doesn’t love me.” I shake my head, quickly brushing him off.
“Bullshit.” Maddison laughs condescendingly.
“She doesn’t.”
“Zee.”
I try to look up, but it’s difficult to make eye contact. Maddison can’t and thankfully never will understand me in this way. He has family love, and he has soulmate love. He’s never been without it to understand the mindset I’ve had to create for myself just to survive.
No one has ever loved me. No one could or ever would love me, so I had to love myself enough to make up for it. What he’s asking of me, to trust someone else to take on that responsibility, is too big a task.
I heard what Stevie said when I was leaving her apartment last week, but in all honesty, I thought that was a tactic to get me to stay or to take it all back. My own mother couldn’t love me. In what world would I expect someone else to be able to?
“Zee,” Maddison repeats. “My kids love you. My family loves you, and you believe it. So, why the fuck can’t you trust that Stevie loves you too?”
I stay silent, too many emotions, memories, insecurities flowing through me to allow words to come out. Love is a scary idea, and I’ve spent my entire adult life convincing myself I don’t need it. That I can love myself enough so I don’t have to seek it from others, but that fragile belief has quickly started crumbling since Stevie’s been gone.
“You love so hard, but you need to start believing you are loved.”
Fuck.
“Trust me from experience,” Maddison continues. “All of this”—he motions around the hotel room—“the fame, the money, the fans. None of this is worth it if she’s not a part of it.”
I nod in agreement but have no idea how to fix it. I don’t know how I could dream of fixing things with Stevie when I need to mend so much of the past that haunts me and holds me back.
“She can’t handle the media bullshit anyway. She stayed away from it with Ryan, and here I come into the picture.” I shake my head, remembering why I ended things, why I gave her an out. “She doesn’t deserve the kind of hate you get from being associated with me.”
Maddison rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you let her decide what she can and can’t handle.”
I narrow my gaze before breaking the heavy tension. “You’re spending too much time with your wife, getting all wise and shit.”
“I’ve learned a thing or two over the years,” he laughs.
“Say something hockey-related in case someone sees you leaving my room so we can say we weren’t just crying and drinking whiskey.”
“That’ll give them some headlines, huh?” Maddison stands from the couch. “You’re going to get your shit together and are winning on Thursday. Then we’re going home and winning this series in five in Chicago. And next, we’re winning the fucking Stanley Cup.”
I stand with him, putting my hand in his, swinging the other around his back, and tapping his shoulder with my fist. “Deal.”
“You’re the best guy, Zee. You deserve good things, but you’ve got to accept them when they come into your life.”
I nod my head, agreeing but still trying to convince myself.
“I love Eddie, but for fuck’s sake, fire him and put me on retainer!” Maddison laughs to himself in the hall as he heads back to his room.
For the first time in days, I laugh. I smile. My mind has clarity.
But as I lay in bed with the blackness surrounding me, I pull a couple of pillows into my side, needing to hold something like the sad fuck I am. It’s something, but it’s not her, and my muscle memory misses the feel of her in my arms every night.
Anxiety runs through every nerve in my body, flowing through every fingertip, refusing to allow rest to find me. My throat is thick as I attempt to swallow, and my lungs are shallow as the realization hits me.
What happens when you learn you need love, but then you don’t have it?
