I force the thought away. I can’t spiral down that rabbit hole again.
My life has always been a battle with my mental health, but during my injury and the months post-surgery, I hit a new low. I fell into a dark pit that I’d thought I was done visiting after losing Carly. But I got reacquainted with the heaviness of those shadows.
For a lot of days, getting out of bed was the hardest thing I’d ever done. My meds—the same ones I’ve been on since the car accident—weren’t helping much anymore.
My doctors upped the dosage of my Zoloft, which helped a little bit, but it didn’t cure me, like I had hoped. Apparently, I had to save myself, so that’s exactly what I did. God, it took me nearly two years to dig myself out of that hole. I’m scared that I’ll slip and fall back into it if I need knee surgery.
I need to tell the Nighthawks medical team about my pain, but I haven’t even told my teammates. I’ll tell them later, eventually … probably. Maybe the pain will heal and go away altogether.
In the meantime, I have the rest of the third period in this game to play, and in order to get through it, I’m going to deny to myself that anything’s wrong. We’re tied and there’s no way I’m pulling myself from this game.
I’m a defenseman for the New York Nighthawks, number sixty-six. My sole purpose in this world is to play hockey. That’s how it’s been and how it’ll always be.
“JD!” Brett “Burnsy” Burns—one of my closest friends and a forward for the Nighthawks—calls my name as we skate toward the bench for a time-out. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod my head a bit too enthusiastically, causing Brett to cock his head to the side with suspicion. “I’m fine.”
Looking into Brett’s puppy-dog brown eyes almost has me spilling the beans, but I refrain, clenching my jaw to keep my secret from slipping out.
Assistant Coach Hartwell spends the next minute going over the game plan on how to keep the Eagles at bay for the remaining few minutes of the period. We’re up by one, but they’ve been ruthless since the puck dropped at the start of the third. They are fighting like their lives depend on winning, and we have gotten comfortable in our lead.
It’s time to change the momentum, and we have to find a way to do it.
Hopping the board with my defensive partner, Reed Larinski, we change out with the pair coming off the ice while the forward line skates into the offensive zone with the puck.
Kos passes the puck to Burnsy, who sees me coming past the blue line. Burnsy passes to me and I slap it to Reed.
Hockey players and dedicated fans have a sixth sense you can feel when the stars are aligning on the ice, when their team is about to score, and it feels like magic humming in the air. It’s not a guaranteed feeling, obviously, but I certainly never get it when we’re about to be scored on or mess up a play.
Reed dishes it back to me, and I pull it right, drawing the defender along with me, knowing that Brett is working to slide into place behind the net. Cam “Costy” Costello, number nineteen and a forward, sinks deep into the zone in the left wing, right at his sweet spot.
Closing the last piece of the puzzle, I chip the biscuit to Alec “Kos” Kostelecky—a center and Captain for the Nighthawks—who’s resting between the two face-off circles, at the same time that Brett wraps around the net, opposite of Costy.
Kos passes to Burnsy, and in one smooth motion, Burnsy swings the puck through the Eagle’s players’ legs perfectly. Costy pulls back and glides his stick down and through the puck right as it reaches him. The goalie is completely blindsided with his back to Costy, his attention on Burnsy, our bait.
The puck sinks into the back of the net, and cheers erupt throughout the rink after our flawless fucking play.
“Fuck yeah!” I scream as our guys group together, all patting Costy on the helmet. “That was fuckingdirty!”
Burnsy skates into the group, howling. “Are you kidding?! Costy, that was nasty!”
Costy leads the line of us back to the bench, and we bump gloves with our teammates, who cheer us on, smacking their sticks against the boards.
“That’s what I’m talking about, boys!” Assistant Coach Hartwell shouts, proud of the setup we just worked on at morning skate today.
With only seconds left in the period and game, we burn the clock, passing it back and forth to each other while the clock runs out. The Eagles know and have accepted their fate, not challenging us for it as the buzzer sounds and the Nighthawks arena roars to life, celebrating our win.
This is all I need in life, all I’ve ever worked for and earned. Nothing compares to the high that pumps through my body after giving every ounce of effort on the ice and leaving it with a win. Yet there’s still an emptiness in my chest, a coldness that hasn’t warmed for years, where happiness never quite reaches. But I’ve learned to live with that ache and still enjoy the victories when they come.
Since it’s a home game win, that means one thing: we’re all heading to The Penalty Box bar to celebrate. It’s a Nighthawks tradition to go there after a win. The owners even have a section reserved for us for when we get there, roped off and guarded with security.
There are pros and cons for having a known and established bar as a pro hockey team. Pros are that we chose it and love the staff and owners. Cons are that, sometimes, paparazzi show up to try to get photos or videos of us and our company.
Worse than that, puck bunnies try to wiggle their way into our section. Some of the players don’t discourage the behavior, using it as their own personal dating app. I couldn’t care less. I’m here to play hockey, not fuck around. I don’t need any added distractions in my life.
After a few too many drinks, I’m finally sliding into my bed in my New York penthouse, my body sore and tender. I’m feeling the damage of the game tenfold with my knee tonight. It’s like every muscle in my body is compensating for its sudden weakness, and it’s really starting to wear on me.
Unlocking my phone, I read a text from Matt MacArthur, our starting goalie and one of my other close friends.
