Page 3 of Your Biggest Downfall
The last eight months had been brutal with relentless practices and games. But I had stepped up as the team’s superstar when my new stepfather retired. After spending hours putting in the work, I was coined the league’s youngest top scorer with close to sixty-three goals and more assists than I even remember.
“How do you feel leading up to the Stanley Cup? You’ve been on a two-game win streak, but do you think you’ll be able to pull it off against Minnesota next week?”
I let out a dry laugh. Who was this guy? Of course I was going to pull it off. I didn’t build my reputation by not being ready for this. I had something to prove.
That had always been the story of my life—constantly proving to my mother, grandmother, and kids my age that I wasbigger, better, smarter, and worked harder than anyone else. The pressure was relentless.
I was fucking exhausted all the time, and the only moments I felt alive were when I was either fucking or partying. Not even winning a game was affecting me anymore.
“Fuck, yeah, I’m ready,” I said and nodded before turning back toward my car.
I remembered what my mother used to say to me in situations like this. She would chastise me as if I were still a kid, relentlessly reminding me that she moved out here to help my career. Yes, she married the team captain and was now at home nursing their newborn, but she never let me forget the sacrifices she made for me. Her constant reminders were both a burden and a motivation, pushing me to succeed even when I was overwhelmed. It was her way of showing love, though it often felt suffocating.
My mother had been through a lot in her life, and I rarely blamed her for anything. But after it being the two of us for so long, Ledger’s arrival made me feel a bit sidelined. Maybe this space was healthy, and the way she babied me wasn’t, but it all happened so suddenly, and I still hadn’t processed it.
It seemed like no one was in my corner and she’d stopped loving me.
Last year, I’d tried to use a fake ID at a bar. I hadn’t even played a single game yet. I was eager to fit in and join my teammates in their nightlife, but things went south quickly. I got caught by the bouncer, arrested, and had the fake ID chopped up right in front of me. The whole incident was humiliating.
I did get another fake ID afterward, but the fear of getting caught again lingered. It was easier and felt safer to rely on whatever booze my teammates would bring me. They understood the risks and were more than willing to help me out,keeping me supplied without the need to step into a bar and risk another run-in with the law.
After the incredible win we had tonight and knowing I didn’t have to play for another week, the bar at home was calling my name. I could practically hear it begging for my attention, and I couldn’t get home fast enough. The adrenaline from the game was still coursing through my veins, and I needed a way to unwind and celebrate. The thought of pouring a drink, feeling the burn of the alcohol, and letting the tension of the past few months melt away was all I could focus on.
I dialed Perez, one of the right wingers who played for the Ravens, and he picked up on the second ring.
“Bring me a brunette tonight. Maybe two?” I said without a hello.
“Roger that,” Perez responded and then hung up.
I got in the car and let out a pent-up breath.
Before turning onto the road toward my apartment building, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the headrest. I was chasing a high, and truthfully, I didn’t even know if there was an end in sight.
3
nova thatcher
“I need a venti Americano with an extra shot of espresso and cold foam on top,” my boss, Iris, huffed as she shoved me out of her office.
We won the game yesterday against Minnesota, meaning we were leading into the finals of the Conference. I’d assumed Iris would be in a good mood after the win, but she was as grumpy as usual.
I’d been a social media intern for the Chicago Ravens publicity team for a couple years, likely longer than any other intern because I was too scared to ask for a full-time position. Despite the low pay and long hours, I stayed—this was my dream job, and with my mother dying, I needed to be near her.
Somehow, I thought Iris was calling me into her office to promote me or congratulate me since the team was doing well in the playoffs and a few videos I’d posted had gone viral. But I should’ve known better. Regardless, I did what I always did because this job was a door, an opportunity to move forward in my career.
“Of course, Iris,” I said, hesitating as my gaze drifted out toward the rink.
Her office, perched at the top of the stadium, boasted expansive windows overlooking the ice. The space was modern, with sleek wooden accents that softened its professional tone. As head of PR and publicity, Iris commanded respect equal to the coaches.
“Do you need something?” she snapped, not looking up.
“Sorry,” I stammered, lowering my head. “I was admiring your view.”
I reached for the large wooden door, but with my hand on the knob, I paused. Something held me back. Maybe it was the desire for her to finally see me as more than just the intern—or perhaps I was tired of being invisible.
Turning slowly, I glanced back at her. She sat poised, her curls piled high, glasses perched low on her nose, and her crisp button-down still pristine as she scribbled notes. She didn’t notice me lingering.
“Did you see the videos I posted this week?” I ventured, keeping my voice steady. “They went viral. Austin Hart’s definitely a hit with the ladies—it’s driving some real traction on socials.”
