Page 6 of Comeback
What have I done to this poor girl?
Chapter 4
Jack
Like every other morning, I ate breakfast on my back porch overlooking the blue waters of Lake Huron. The gentle rush of wind rustled the surrounding trees in my wooded lot. A flock of a hundred or more blackbirds roosted in the towering willow tree in my backyard, loudly chattering the late morning away with their musical trill.
People came to Bayfield to vacation, to escape the grind of their jobs, to lose themselves in a small slice of paradise. For two years, that’s exactly what I’ve done, too. Bayfield has been my getaway.
You might think it’d be hard for an ex-NHL player to hide out in a small town without anyone knowing who he was. But when you don’t have anyone to look for you in the first place, it’s not hard to stay hidden.
I bought this house back when I was engaged to Megan. The multi-million dollar lakefront house was going to be a surprise wedding gift to her. It was supposed to be our private getaway in the years to come. Where we’d spend our honeymoon. A place we could take our kids to vacation in during the off-season. A place we’d always cherish and make memories to last a lifetime.
Now? I lived here. Alone. All this space and nothing to fill it with, no one to share it with. Like living in the empty husk of the life that was taken from me.
Megan didn’t even know I bought this house. No one did—I even kept it a secret from the boys. If you know anything about hockey locker room culture, you’d know that’s a pretty big goddamn deal, because the boys don’t keep secrets from each other.
Well. I guess that’s not entirely true, is it?
Is it, Soupy?
“Aaaargh!” I yelled, squeezing my temples between my hands. I stood suddenly, shoving myself away from the patio table and knocking my chair over in the process. It hit the deck with a crash. Frightened, the blackbirds darkened the blue sky as they took flight.
I tore off my shirt and sprinted down to the beach, and into the lake. I waded into the warm water until it was deep enough to swim. I swam further, until the water was deep enough to dive.
I took a big breath and let my body sink, plunging through the warm water and down into the cold depths of the lake. I reached the bottom and planted my feet into the sandy loam of the lakebed. I squatted and held my breath for as long as I could. Until the pounding in my chest began to slow, and a tremendous pressure began to crush my lungs.
When I couldn’t last another second underwater, I gave a push and shot to the surface, racing against time.
My head poked through the surface of the water and I gasped, choking on the air that filled my lungs.
The thing I loved about Bayfield at first was that I couldescapethe thoughts that were haunting me.
Lately, it’s getting harder to do.
***
Later that afternoon.
I went to the garage, laced up my rollerblades, and grabbed my stick and gloves. I tossed a plastic outdoor puck to the pavement and took off, whipping the puck from left to right as I coasted down my driveway.
I picked up speed, charging down the street with the puck on the end of my stick. My house disappeared behind me.
Don’t think I was doing this because I was eyeing an NHL return, by the way, because that was never happening. Truth is, this was how I’dalwaysspent my afternoons, ever since I was a kid. I guess I thought it’d be easier to give up hockey entirely. But old habits get ingrained in our behavior, like how a small trickle of water can carve valleys out of granite. And as it turned out, I didn’t know what else to do with my hands but fling pucks around.
I might’ve kept my skills sharp, but I could never go back to hockey. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I couldn’t face the boys after what happened. Not only did I let them down, I’d have to tell themwhyI let them down.
And I just couldn’t do that to an old friend. Even ifhehad no problem stabbing his best friend in the back.
I raced through Bayfield’s quiet streets, grunting and huffing for air as my skates pounded the pavement like the thunder of horse hooves. I blew through town, practicing my puck handling until I was drenched in sweat and my shoulders ached.
Besides—the boys probably wouldn’t forgive me. These days, I didn’t pay much attention to the league, but I’ve seen enough to know what has become of the Dallas Devils. I knew about Dane’s struggles as the new captain; how the media has unfairly pinned the team’s collective failures on him. I’d read about Reavo’s injury-plagued seasons. I knew the team had plugged their roster holes with inexperienced rookies, struggling to stay afloat. And I knew it isn’t working.
The boys needed me in the worst way. And where was I? Nobody knew. Because I hadn’t told a soul.
If I were in their shoes, andmyrunaway captain came back with his tail between his legs and pitched some sad sob story to justify his cowardice … well, I probably wouldn’t forgive him, either. Everyone in that room was hurt by what happened. What did that have to do withwinning?
Once upon a time, winning was all I cared about, too—until the two people closest to me betrayed me in the worst way.
