Page 42 of Doc Defence

For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a purpose. He had spent so long being a hockey player that he became his job. He knew it was all coming to an end. But why did it have to end like this?

He had pictured his farewell game in Australia, which was meant to be an exhibition game between his old team, the Vancouver Vultures and his current team, the Burra Wombats. It would have been an amazing send-off to a fifteen-year career.

Staring around his rental house, which had nothing of his own in it, he felt adrift. He should phone his agent and discuss the coaching opportunity he had been offered in the NHL, but at the moment, he couldn’t face it.

Grabbing his crutch, he dragged himself up, wobbling slightly as he balanced on one foot. Then he hobbled into the kitchen. Stumbling over the doorway, he put his full weight onto his broken leg, and pain exploded, setting his whole body on fire.

Standing still, he drew in deep, ragged breaths, waiting for the sensations of red-hot pokers being shoved into his leg to recede. When he could hop again, he went straight to the kitchen counter and grabbed the bottle of drugs he had been given by the hospital.

Taking two tablets, he eyed the bottle of whiskey sitting out. He never drank spirits during the hockey season. But this bottle had been a gift from Star—no Patricia—when she had done a collaboration with a distillery.

He snatched a glass down from the cupboard and poured a small shot of the amber liquid into it. Raising the glass to his nose, he sniffed deeply, inhaling the peaty warmth of the excellent whisky. The first sip slid down so smoothly that he took another. When the glass was empty, he refilled it, but this time to the top.

And as he stood in the kitchen, drinking gulp after gulp of whisky, the pain in his leg receded, replaced with a pleasant numbness.

Searching around, he found a backpack. Filling it with snacks, his pills, water, and the bottle of whisky, he made his way slowly up to his bed.

Sleep didn’t come easily, and he lay there, tossing and turning as every position hurt his leg.

The look of disgust on Hel’s face crossed his mind again, and he reached over to his bedside table, pouring himself another glass of whisky. He didn’t even taste it this time, but it worked and sent him into the oblivion of sleep that he had hoped for.

When Frost woke the next morning, half the whisky bottle was gone. He picked up his water and took a long swallow, easing the parched feeling in his throat.

When he got out of bed, he meant to leave the bottle behind. He didn’t mean to start drinking again. But the pain rocketed through him, worse now in the cold light of dawn.

Gritting his teeth, he took two more of his pills and washed them down with alcohol.

He hesitated for a moment. He had never been someone who dealt with issues this way, but then he never had the opportunity.

You get blind drunk in the job he had, and you lose your edge. Soon, you don’t have a job any more in the NHL, and you find yourself traded back to the AHL. And if you keep drinking, you’re back down in the EHCL and need to work a second job to make ends meet. He saw it happen to some good players who could have been great. So, he always avoided excess alcohol.

But now, it didn’t matter anymore. He was done. Washed up with an injury.

His brain tried to grasp at the light, reminding him he had already retired from the NHL and this season was to make a documentary. But the bleak part of him pushed any hope down and snatched the half-empty whisky bottle off his bedside table, packing it into his bag of things to take to the living room.

Frost pulled a pair of sweatpants on and an old tank shirt. He had been planning on showering and getting dressed properly so that when Hel dropped in his food, he would be presentable. And maybe they could talk some more, and maybe this time she would sit a bit closer to him.

But the sneer she gave him as she left replayed in his mind, and he snatched the whiskey bottle back out of his bag, pouring himself a shot.

It really didn’t matter. Nothing he could do would impress her. What would a high-achieving woman want with a has-been? The words Patricia threw at him, which had seemed so funny when the influencer said them, didn’t feel so funny anymore now Hel thought them too.

The alcohol slid down so easily that he poured himself another shot, and when the bottle was empty, he realised he wanted another.

Searching through his kitchen, he found champagne, champagne, and more champagne. It was Patricia’s favourite drink, and he always made sure he had plenty in stock for her. But no whisky, and he wanted whisky.

He knew it was a stupid idea, but he grabbed his wallet, phone, backpack, and other crutch, then headed out to get some more alcohol.

By the time he arrived at the bottle-o—they seemed to love their abbreviations ending in an o in this country—he was exhausted. It wasn’t far, it was only three blocks, but on crutches, it felt like a marathon.

When the door opened and the blast of air conditioning hit him, he sagged in relief and hopped inside. His leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but he didn’t hesitate, instead making his way straight to the liquor aisle, where he quickly selected another bottle of whisky. Then thought better of it and grabbed two, dropping them into the basket he had hooked over his crutch.

When he got to the counter, despite the cold of the air-conditioning, he was pouring with sweat, and his leg was on fire.

He managed to keep it together to pay, but as soon as he made it out of the shop, he slumped onto a bench. Rifling through his bag, Frost’s heart sank when he realised he had forgotten his painkillers.

Well, there was only one thing for it. Pulling out one of the bottles of whisky, he unscrewed the cap, not even hesitating before he took a long pull on the peaty spirit, then another. Waiting for the burn of the alcohol to overtake the burn of his injury.

He ran his hand over his head, wincing in disgust at the greasy feeling of his hair. Another sip of the liquid fire soon made him forget his dishevelled state.

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