Page 40 of Her Puck Daddies

Atticus Henley is old school, which means he’s pushing seventy. He’s a damn good coach, and I respect the hell out of him. But he comes from a generation that thinks psychiatry and psychology are a bunch of woo-woo bullshit. Therapy, too. To him, mental health is something you "fix" with a six-pack, not by talking to someone with a medical degree.

And I get it. I’m not exactly lining up outside Dr. Robert Baer’s office beyond the two mandatory check-ins a year, just like every other player. But maybe because he reminds me of my grandfather before he passed, Dr. Baer is easy to talk to. He doesn’t poke at wounds unless it’s necessary. And he always throws in a joke or two to lighten the mood if he senses timidness.

I’ve told him things I’ve never told Sven or Eric— how much I miss my parents, who are stuck in a senior center, fading away to dementia; my estranged sister in Florida who barely speaks to me or my parents; and why I don’t think a real intimate relationship will ever work for me.

Butthisstays locked up. I’m not talking about it. Not to Dr. Baer. Not to anyone.

“It’s not a shrink thing. I’m just… struggling. I’ll get my mojo back come hell or high water,” I promise.

“You’d better.”

But despite all my efforts, I don’t. Each of the practices between the Sabres game and the upcoming one against Minnesota go to hell in a handbasket, and my second worst fear comes to pass. Coach benches me and puts in Steiner. It’s one thing when this occurs due to an injury or illness. That can’t be helped. But to have it take place due to my general suckage?

That’s humiliating.

It’s times like these when I remember being a teenager, back when my parents never missed a game. No matter how bad I played, they’d be there afterward, telling me they were proud of me. That I’d bounce back. That one rough night on the ice didn’t define me. Now, they barely remember any of that. And even if they did, what would I even say? That I got benched because I can’t get my head straight after screwing the team’s massage therapist?

What stings even more is knowing Ava is helping out Eric in the same way, yet it hasn’t thrown him off his game at all. He’s still playing like the All-Star he is, while I’m spiraling. Why can’t I just compartmentalize? Why can’t I shove this into the part of my brain that deals with sex and move the hell on?

And the worst part? I’m not just benched, I have to sit there, in full gear, playing the role of backup goalie while Steiner takes my place. I have to watch as he lets in only two goals, securing us a win. It should make me feel better that we got the victory, but all I feel is worthless. Like I’m dead weight. And I have no clue when, or if, that’s going to change.

The next day at practice, Coach gives me another shot, but the first puck that comes at me slips right past. He doesn’t even hesitate before pulling me off the ice again. I don’t get to run drills with the first line—Sven, Eric, and the guys I’ve played alongside for years. I barely get any time in net at all. Instead, I watch as Steiner stops everything, solidifying that he deserves the spot I’m supposed to own.

I swear I’m losing my sanity. And my position right along with it.

I haven’t had a massage. I should care, but I don’t. I’m sinking lower and lower every damn day. Sven and Eric have tried everything to snap me out of it—drinks, dinner, endless calls and texts, but I ignore them all. Until they come pounding on my door.

“Levi, open up, you bastard,” Sven yells through the door.

“We’re not leaving, not even if we have to break down this goddamn door.” And there’s Eric.

I should holler at them to take a long walk off a short pier, but like before, I just don’t have it in me. I’ve never been so depressed in my damn life. It’s so bad that I noticed someone has scheduled me an extra appointment with Dr. Baer. So much for my reputation of being rock steady. That’s totally gone now. And I’m not sure if it’s ever coming back.

So, I open the door without a word, not even bothering with a half-assed greeting. Instead, I pivot on one heel and head straight back to my recliner. The TV flickers with an old Gretzky game, the volume low, the commentary a dull hum in the background.

“Man, what died in here?” Eric asks, hurrying over to open all the windows despite the autumn chill. I don’t answer him. If it smells in here, I haven’t noticed.

“How long has it been since you cleaned up this place, Spandex?” my captain asks.

I shrug. I have to pause for a moment, really think about it. I’ve got a housekeeper who swings by once a week, and usually, I keep things tidy. But lately, I don’t give a damn.

So, what if I haven’t tossed out the takeout boxes from the Chinese place or the burger joint in a few days? Who the hell is it hurting?

“All right,” Sven starts, and I can already hear the tone in his voice—he’s about to drop one of his infamous captain speeches. “We’ve had enough of this bullshit. It’s time to let the cat out of the bag, whatever it is.”

I don’t, though. Why should I? It won’t help. Nothing will.

Eric stalks over and plants his massive frame right in front of me on the floor. It’s a bold move, considering how grimy the place is right now. The floor hasn’t seen a vacuum in almost a week. He stares at me without needing to make eye contact, and then, out of nowhere, he reaches over and pinches my foot through my socks, hard enough that I can feel it. It stings.

“What the actual fuck?” I ask, jerking away from him.

“You’re hiding something,” Eric says.

Onething about Eric’s dyslexia is that he compensates for it by being hyper-aware of everything else around him. I should’ve known better than to think I could hide it from him… or Sven.

“Spill the beans, already, asshole,” Sven shifts to tough love mode, his tone hard and no-nonsense. I can tell he’s been here before—done the same thing with Eric a couple years back when he was struggling. “We’re not letting you wallow, and we’re not leaving until you snap the hell out of this.”

I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the shitstorm my life has become, or the pressure they’re putting on me. Maybe it’s just the crushing realization that my career’s spiraling down the toilet with no way out. But before I can stop myself, the truth slips out.