Page 1 of Misconduct Zone

Chapter 1—November

Lars

Ihave to focus on Dylon and not on the blood covering the front of his jersey. The self-loathing for not recognizing the signs will come later. Right now his survival is the most important thing. The sirens and the activity around us fade into the background as I watch his eyes flutter and his chest rise and fall. One of the EMTs told me that without the naloxone spray, he would be… I cannot even think the words. A metallic tang sticks in the back of my throat after inhaling, and I can taste it.

The other EMT, who looks at me with kind eyes, whispers in my ear that Dylon is young and strong, so he’ll fight and survive. His muscular six-foot-one frame dwarfs the stretcher, but I know that physical strength is no match for drugs.

“Please don’t sell this story.” My voice cracks. The tabloids would pay more than their yearly salary for confirmation of Lucky Felix, the Enforcers NHL hockey star, being rushed to the hospital for an overdose.

His partner speaks up. “There are laws against that.”

“When there is money involved, the law doesn’t seem to matter.” I stare him in the eye and then into his partner’s. They might mean it now, but money has a way of corrupting morals.

“We’re fans.”

I do not reply. Time will tell.

I had become so focused on Dylon’s shoulder injury and the way he pushed himself beyond the recommendations of the doctors and trainers that I had missed the signs. None of that matters right now.

“Am I going to be okay?” Dylon croaks.

“I am going to make sure of it.” History might be repeating itself, but I won’t let him die. Not on my watch.

“Talk to me,” he begs, reaching for me with icy fingers. Dylon’s warmth has been sucked away, and I would do anything to replace it.

My distraught mind comes up blank for anything upbeat or encouraging. The ache to comfort him grows in the absence of my words. I push a piece of his sweaty brown hair out of his terrified eyes so it’s not plastered to his forehead. The ambulance passes some early Christmas decorations, and they remind me of childhood stories of the Tomten in my home country of Sweden. They are similar to mischievous elves who care for homes and farms. I begin my mother’s favorite fairy tale, but I am so muddled I mix Swedish and English.

“You’re doing good. He’s calmer,” the EMT reassures me.

I grunt and focus back on Dylon. His career seemed charmed and his nickname, Lucky, appropriate until his injury placed him on long-term injured reserve. Last year, everything went his way; he was the leading goal scorer for the team, All-Star, and the media loved him.

I should have immediately noticed he had become irritable and withdrawn. He avoided social situations, which I selfishly liked. I assumed he was upset about his shoulder injury, which kept him from the sport he loves. Grayson, our trainer and friend, asked me to monitor his workouts so he didn’t worsen his injury. I got lost in the details and neglected his overall health. But I’ve lived through this before and know better. This time, the outcome will be different.

Dylon’s eyes go wide, and he grabs my hand right before he has a seizure. My heart stops along with his, and it feels like I won’t be able to breathe until he can. I’m shoved out of the way but keep holding his hand. If any part of him can sense it, I need him to know I’m still here.

I’ve witnessed horrible things happen in hockey, but never to someone I’m so close to. He’s my teammate, my friend, my…

The machine stops blaring, and Dylon’s chest expands with a huge inhale.

After a few minutes, he turns to me. “I’m sorry. Don’t leave me.”

“I am not going anywhere,” I promise, but his hazel eyes turn brown in the dim light and fill with doubt. “I am not leaving you. You will have to kick me out.” I squeeze his hand as the ambulance backs up to the emergency room. The words are true, and he knows it, but he has no idea of the depth of my feelings for him. Inappropriate affection I willingly shove down to ensure he’s happy and healthy.

They wheel him out, and I will forever associate the smell of antiseptic with this night. I spot his baseball cap that’s fallen off and pick it up. I am not making the same mistake twice. Dylon is going to recover and get back to hockey, even if I have to personally sit by his side to prevent him from using again.

This is not how his story ends. This is his new beginning.

The words in my head sound hollow as I notice his blood on my shirt and close my coat to hide it from the view of the paparazzi cameras a few feet away. The words of his recovery become a mantra on repeat, and if I say it enough, I will believe it.

Chapter 2—August

Dylon

“Dude, stop worrying about me.” I give Lars a bro hug and hold on a second too long. “I’m so sick of you. It’ll be a great break for the two of us.” I smile through my lie. “Tell Mama Drakenberg I say hi.”

He cringes and, in a monotone voice, says, “I will not say that.” Lars doesn’t move to open the door to his apartment even though he has a white-knuckle grip on his suitcase handle. He’s taken care of me long enough and needs to do something for himself.

“She loves me. She’ll love it.” My real grin spreads in response to his skepticism. “Look at this face.” I frame my head with my hands. “She adores this face.”

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