Page 32 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)

When my dad died suddenly in a car accident, Mom lost her mind. She started taking drugs, or maybe she just increased her intake—I can’t be sure with no one around to ask.

Within months of Dad’s death, we lost everything: house, job, car, friends. Without hockey, I probably would’ve fallen into the same type of life. Instead, it gave me motivation. It toughened me up and made me work harder to get out.

While Gastown is hipster heaven—artsy, trendy, up-and-coming—DTES is where people go to die, literally.

A large, hairy guy with weathered skin bumps me with his elbow as we pass each other on the street. We both glance over our shoulders, each giving the other a cold, hard stare.

No apologies. No smiles.

Though most of the people here won’t give anyone a hard time, there are some who will. In the States, there’s an ongoing joke about stereotypical Canadian kindness. They don’t know anything about this place.

Holding my head high, I keep trudging through the streets as if I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing. I do, but that would be my general advice for anyone walking in DTES—or any other rough neighborhood.

Keep your head up and exude confidence. If you look like you can’t be intimidated, you won’t be—in theory. But it’s a theory that’s worked for me since I was eleven, so I stick with it. You never want to look weak in DTES.

I sidestep garbage, used syringes, and other discarded drug paraphernalia littering the streets.

Addicts shoot up here and drop needles on the spot.

Homeless people line the sidewalks and live in neighborhood parks.

Junk is everywhere, a sad parallel to the people who make up the neighborhood and what goes on every day.

This is where Vancouver sends the junkies, mentally ill, poor, and abused—among others. People can do whatever they want here. The city feeds them, gives them housing and medical attention, and cleans up after them. It’s the harm-reduction model of dealing with the poor, mentally ill, and addicted.

Some people claim it’s helping the homeless population keep their dignity, but I don’t know if I agree.

It’s corralling them like fucking cattle into one area so every neighborhood doesn’t have a pocket of hell.

You can’t charge ridiculous real estate prices if you have junkies and hookers on the streets, right?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop to pull it out and check the screen. It’s from my best friend, Gabe Carbonneau, the closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother.

Hey, man! I saw Lockwood’s post on Instagram about meeting you at Purebread. Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?

Quick trip. In last night. Out tonight.

Where you at?

DTES.

My phone rings immediately, as I knew it would. I’ve always had amazing relationships with my teammates through the years, but Gabe is the one person who knows everything about me and my past. He looks after me like a big brother would.

“Hey,” I answer.

“How’s Kat?” Gabe asks as soon as I pick up.

“Haven’t seen her yet. I’m just passing the Regent now.”

My feet pound the pavement, harder and faster, as if by escaping the shadow of the hundred-year-old building looming over me, I’ll escape the memories of living in it.

A short time after Dad died, Mom and I moved into a relatively nice place that housed women who had children and were trying to get back on their feet.

But Mom couldn’t play by the rules, so she got kicked out.

After two weeks of sleeping in a tent in Oppenheimer Park, she moved us into the Regent, an SRO, which stands for single-room occupancy housing.

An SRO is similar to a hostel that you can live in, except the rooms are dirty and roach-infested and have broken plumbing.

Maybe all SROs aren’t like that, but that’s how the Regent was when we lived there.

My neighbors consisted of prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, and junkies. Mom fit right in. I didn’t.

“Fucking A, Luke,” Gabe says.

“I’m just walking down Hastings, man,” I explain. “She said to meet her at the flea market.”

Gabe doesn’t have to worry. There’s no way in hell I’m ever setting foot in the Regent again. Not unless someone calls to tell me to pick up Mom’s dead body there.

“Why don’t you cab her to Yaletown or something? You don’t need to keep going back there, Luke.”

“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I’m sure Mom is gonna fit right in at Yaletown. That wouldn’t be uncomfortable for either of us.”

Yaletown is one of the ritzy neighborhoods in Vancouver. It’s the area I’d take the boys to hang out when we were in town playing the Canucks. Lots of high-profile people shop and eat there. It’s not a place I would take my junkie mom.

“Bad suggestion,” Gabe concedes. “You got time for an early dinner before your flight?”

“I should. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

“Call if you need me, brother.”

“I will. Thanks, man.” I hang up and slide the phone back into my pocket. Talking to Gabe always gives me a sense of calm. It’s not like he shares any big pearls of wisdom. It’s more about the comfort of that person who knows everything about you—and still loves you in spite of it.

The way I hope Bree will feel about me someday.

A kid pops up out of nowhere and grabs my forearm, jolting me from my thoughts. “She’s upstairs,” he says. He can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. His jeans are ripped and covered with blood, dirt, and other things I don’t even want to think about.

I shake his hand off my arm. I have no clue who he’s talking about.

“She needs you, man. Help her. She’s upstairs.”

Our eyes meet for a split second, and I freeze. I could’ve been this kid. Track marks in my arms, wearing the same filthy clothes for days on end, shooting up in the street, stopping strangers because my girl either OD’d or was going through withdrawal.

I’ve seen it all. Hell, I’ve imagined every life scenario that could’ve happened if I hadn’t put every ounce of my effort into hockey—and been talented enough to ride it through.

Instead, I think about how far I’ve come. After my surgery, it would have been easy to come back here, get mixed up in this mess, and become an addict myself. Where there’s nothing to do but get drunk and high or try to become friends with the only people who make money there—drug dealers.

But hockey saved me.

Hockey and Gabe’s dad, who was my dad’s best friend.

They were both professors in the Pharmacology program at the University of British Columbia. After Dad died, Mr. Carbonneau paid for me to play hockey in the North Shore Winter Club, the same program Gabe played in. He called it a scholarship. I called it a lifesaver.

“What can I do?” I ask the kid. Junkies are people. I’m the odd man here, invading the streets they call home. The least I can do is try to help, right?

“She needs a hit,” he pleads as his vacant brown eyes look through me.

My stomach sinks even though I knew what he’d say before he said it. Part of me hoped it was something I would be willing to help with. “Sorry, man. Take her to Insite,” I tell the kid and keep on walking.

Insite is a legal, supervised drug injection facility. Not only does the program assist in helping people shoot up safely but they also provide resources like first aid for overdoses, addiction treatment, and mental health services. Every junkie in DTES knows about Insite.

When I get to the corner of Hastings and Columbia, I cross over to Hastings Market.

I weave through tables of goods ranging from clothes to electronics and everything in between. Some of it’s stolen, some of it’s junk straight from dumpsters, and the rest, handmade goods from people who actually have talent.

I pick up an iPhone and turn it over, just browsing. Behind the table is a burly Indigenous man with thick, gray hair tied into two long braids; a quick nod tells him that I’m setting it down without purchase.

Being in DTES doesn’t scare me. I wandered these streets for five years looking for my mom, or walking to school, or trying to catch a bus to the rink.

I don’t remember much about the years before Dad died, but I remember every moment afterward. It’s almost like I subconsciously blocked any memories of happy times to make me hungrier to get out.

If I loved hockey before Dad passed, I was obsessed after. Hockey was my ticket out of this living hell.

My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I see you.

Katherine “Kat” Daniels wins the award for creepiest text ever. Well played, Mom.

I lift my head and scan the faces of the people at the tables surrounding me. Hers is not one of them. My phone buzzes again.

I’m across Columbia. In front of the Mini Mart.

Taking a deep breath as I tuck my phone away, I steel myself to see her. It doesn’t get easier as the years pass. She looks less and less like herself every time. I want to lift my eyes and see the warm smile, tanned face, and stylish haircut she rocked fifteen years ago.

When I finally look across the street, I catch a glimpse of a skeleton with straw hair against the backdrop of a mustard-yellow building with thick, black bars covering the windows.

An old-school Canucks sweatshirt and ripped skinny jeans hang off her bones.

The sight brings tears to my eyes, and I bite my lip to keep from breaking down.

The sweatshirt used to be mine. My parents bought it for me at one of the last Canucks games we attended as a family.

In a normal world, I’d assume Mom wore it because she knew she’d be seeing me today. That’s what any kid wants to believe, right? That deep down, there’s some sentiment in her apparel choice today. Too bad I know better.

Because DTES isn’t a normal world. It’s not cold today. She’s probably hiding track marks and multicolored bruises, from both needles and “boyfriends.”