Page 2 of Like A Daydream
He’s in his house in Raleigh, a place he hasn’t left in the two weeks since he had blown their chances at a title. Beyond team things, he’s been holed up inside, , retreating to the deepest parts of the house so that people with long-lens cameras wouldn’t have a chance of seeing him. He’d even had his agent pick up his groceries for him because for some reason, he needed to eat.
His phone is turned off across the room, silent in the dark of night.
His breathing is slowing down, and his heart isn’t racing anymore. He releases a heavy sigh, feeling the tension leave him even though the memory stays. A few times in the past few days, the relief of waking in his own house as the panic subsides has made him cry, but he doesn’t feel the familiar burn of tears coming on.
His year-old sable German Shepherd, Roscoe, leans his chin on the edge of Andrew’s bed and looks up at him with sad eyes.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” he says, more to himself than to Roscoe. He hits his hand against his mattress so the dog knows he can jump up next to him, and he lays back into his pillows, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Their season is over, and there isn’t a ring on his finger. They won’t be engraved onto the Stanley Cup. His existence on the team is probably in limbo at this point. He doesn’t want to leave this team, they’re his home.
Raleighis home. Has been since he’d been drafted out of college in Boston, spent two years on a farm team, and then moved there.
He’d left his whole life behind to chase his NHL dreams.
And now, twelve years later, he’s in bed, nose buried in his dog’s fur as he tries to calm the racing of his heart again. Slow his mind back down and out of the spiral he’s been edging for the last two weeks.
Roscoe presses his paw into Andrew’s shoulder, tilts his head with inquisitive eyes.
“I’m alright, bud,” Andrew says, mustering a smile. “I’m alright.”
Roscoe sighs, stands up, turns three times and then lays down, stretching so the entirety of his back is pressed against Andrew’s side.
He supposes he could call home, but his dad is more than likely still grieving the loss, his dream dying with Andrew’s, and his mom would just ask him to come back for a visit. His dad had never made it to the NHL, even though he had been good enough.
His parents had had him instead, a happy accident, his mother had told him once. It never stopped Andrew from missing the longing in his father’s eyes as he watched Andrew’s career take off.
Andrew loves his parents but Minnesota just isn’t where his life is anymore. He’d had spent half of his adult life wondering if his dad resented him, or if he was just happy to see his son live the dream he’d never been able to.
He’d left at seventeen for Boston University and hadn’t looked back since. His career has carried him across the country and back again, to the Olympics once, before he had decided North Carolina was the only place he wanted to be.
Sure, playing for the country had been great, but not when he could pull on red and black andknowit was his team.
Andrew starts counting in his head, mumbles a prayer, and finally,finallyhis breathing slows again and he falls asleep.
He sleeps until ten, and drags himself out of bed so that he can get to PNC Arena on time for their last team meeting before their vacation starts. The last two weeks had been a circus between media stunts and interviews, and he’s looking forward to not having to think about hockey for a little while.
Which is a thought that he never would have imagined having at the beginning of the season. He’s lived and breathed it for so long, it’s who he is.
But this… this has taken a toll on him that he had never thought possible. It’s been a constant mix of grief, disappointment, anger, and anxiety, and he’s nervous to even walk into PNC in case he gets triggered.
He definitely should have brought Roscoe, but it’s too late now. He’s already in the player’s lot, F150 parked next to Petrov’s Benz.
Two of his teammates are out on injury, getting surgeries and going through recovery in the off-season. His friend, Catalina, had always told him that they only get paid so much so they could take care of their injuries.
It’s a little cruel, but probably accurate. He’s been lucky that he’s only had to have one. He’s also lucky that that means there are two less people he’ll have to face when he walks into the locker room.
A few of them are still seething that they lost the Cup, and Andrew doesn’t blame them in the slightest. If he hadn’t been so busy having constant panic attacks, he’d probably be mad too.
Andrew doesn’t look at any of them as he walks in, bag over his shoulder, baseball cap pulled low so they can’t see how bloodshot his eyes are. Contrary to popular belief, this hasn’t been easy for him, either.
It’s probably been the hardest two weeks of his life, and he had once been a Division One athlete at Boston University.
Even with the sleeping pills his therapist had prescribed him, he hadn’t slept a full night in two weeks. The boys didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need to see him as more of a failure than he already is.
He’d already cost them too much.
And the press has been constantly reminding him of it, as have the podcasts, and the fans who have decided to single-handedly ruin any sanity he had left.
