Page 110 of The Fine Line
Eventually, I stopped trying. Stopped trying with them. Stopped trying with everything.
You can only push for so long before something breaks. And for me, that something was me.
Practices, once my favorite part of the day, became unbearable. Games, my escape, became torture. My new apartment wasn’t a home—it was cold, silent, and empty.
So I found relief the only other way I knew how.
I became the party boy again.
Only this time, I didn’t know where fun ended and chaos began. And that made it hard for anyone to stick around.
Anyone but Sid.
It was about a month into the season, and we had a rare four days off from games and travel.
I should’ve been grateful for the break—especially given how packed hockey schedules were—but even more so because I was apparently spending it nursing an injury.
In our game that night, I caught an edge in the third period and went down hard. I was so trained to pop right back up and keep playing that I didn’t register the excruciating pain in my ankle until I was hobbling to the locker room.
Turned out I’d partially torn one ligament and strained another. Any other athlete would’ve been out for at least three weeks—but not a hockey player. And definitely not me.
The team doctor gave me pain meds and told me to elevate my leg over the break. Seemed simple enough.
Except I was two hours into what felt like house arrest, already going stir-crazy.
It didn’t help that music had been blaring from across the hall since I got back. I glanced at the clock. Nearly one in the morning.
I’d tried to sleep. I’d tried TV. But nothing held my attention.
Finally, when the music reached a volume where I could make out every lyric, I couldn’t take it anymore.
Something—irritation, curiosity, or something else—got me to my feet. I winced as I half-hopped to the door and yanked it open.
I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t someone standing directly in the doorway across from mine.
“You kids get home safe,” the guy called after a group heading down the hall. “Or don’t. I’m not gonna tell you what to do.”
I peered past him, catching glimpses of the party—people packed inside, flashing lights, enough smoke to choke the hallway. It looked like a good time.
The guy in the doorway caught me staring. He adjusted the beanie over his dark hair and looked me over. “Hey, man.”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Rhett.”
“Sid.” He nodded toward my apartment. “That your place?”
“Yeah.”
A crooked grin spread across his face. “Well, hey, neighbor.”
Before I could respond, he stepped past me into my apartment.
“Uh, what are you?—”
“You have, like, nothing on your walls, Rhett,” Sid said from the middle of my living room. “What’s your deal? You an undercover cop or something?”
I blinked, as my brain scrambled to catch up. “Or something,” I said. “I play hockey.”
“Like, all the time?”
