Page 31

Tequila tastes like terrible decisions, which makes it the perfect drink for watching my life implode in real-time.

I’m three shots deep at some upscale bullshit bar in River North, the kind of place where investment bankers go to feel dangerous and hockey players go to feel normal. Neither is working for me tonight. All I feel is raw, like someone took sandpaper to my nerve endings and forgot to stop.

The crowd’s thin for a Thursday night—suits unwinding after another day of making money, a few women in designer dresses pretending they don’t know who I am while absolutely knowing who I am.

My baseball cap’s pulled low, but it’s useless.

Everyone’s seen the photo by now. Everyone knows I’m the asshole who fucked the coach’s daughter and torched his team.

“Another?” The bartender’s young, probably fresh out of college, trying to be professional while obviously wanting to ask about the scandal.

“Keep ‘em coming.”

My phone’s been buzzing all night. Jerry calling every twenty minutes like a concerned parent. Teammates in the group chat pretending everything’s normal. Unknown numbers fishing for quotes. And nothing—absolutely fucking nothing—from Chelsea.

Shot number four burns less than the first three. Good. I’m aiming for numb.

The bar’s TV is tuned to ESPN, volume low but closed captions running.

They’re doing a segment on “professional boundaries in sports,” using our situation as a case study.

Chelsea’s headshot appears next to mine—her official team photo where she looks composed and untouchable.

Nothing like the woman who came apart in my arms.

“Tragic,” someone says behind me. “Really thought she looked classier than that.”

I turn slowly. Three guys in expensive suits, probably finance bros judging by their aggressive networking energy. The one talking is tall, blond, everything I used to be before life kicked my teeth in.

One of the guys laugh and mumbles something I don’t hear.

“The therapist. Clark, right?” He takes a sip of his craft cocktail, completely oblivious to the danger he’s walking into. “Seems professional. Smart. Turns out she’s just another puck bunny with daddy issues.”

Shot number five goes down like water.

“Coach’s daughter rebels by screwing the team troublemaker. Tale as old as time.” He laughs, his buddies joining in. “Bet she’s freaky too. All those uptight types are.”

I’m off my stool before conscious thought kicks in. My hand fists in his designer shirt, slamming him back against the bar. Drinks crash to the floor. His friends scramble backward.

“What the fuck—”

“You don’t know her.” The words come out low, dangerous. “You don’t know shit about her.”

“Jesus, dude, relax—”

“Relax?” I shove him harder, and he goes down, taking a barstool with him. “You want to talk about her like she’s some piece of ass? We can discuss it outside.”

Security’s moving before his friends can react. Two guys built like bouncers, all muscle and no patience for drunk athletes making scenes. But I’m beyond caring about consequences, beyond thinking past the red haze of rage.

The blond guy scrambles to his feet, nose bloody, suit ruined. “You’re fucking insane!”

“Yeah. I am.”

I swing at him again, but security’s faster. Strong hands grab my arms, lifting me off the ground like I’m furniture they’re rearranging. The room spins—tequila and adrenaline making everything blur together.

“Out,” one of them grunts. “Now.”

They drag me through the crowd, past phones recording everything, past witnesses who’ll post this on social media before I’m even outside. Another viral moment. Another nail in my career’s coffin.

The alley behind the bar is cold, wet from earlier snow. They deposit me next to a dumpster with all the ceremony of taking out trash.

“Stay out,” the bigger one warns. “Come back, and we call cops.”

They disappear back inside, leaving me alone with my bleeding knuckles and the taste of regret. My phone’s buzzing again—probably Jerry having an aneurysm over something else.

I don’t check my phone. Don’t want to see the damage, the commentary, the slow-motion replay of my latest meltdown. Instead, I lean against the brick wall and try to remember why I thought defending Chelsea’s honor would help anyone.

Because that’s what I was doing, wasn’t it? Defending her against assholes who think they know her story. Who think she’s just another cautionary tale about women who want too much.

The irony’s not lost on me. Chelsea’s career is destroyed, and I’m still out here fighting her battles like some white knight with anger management issues. Like violence can fix what we’ve broken.

My phone finally stops buzzing. Then immediately starts again.

Jerry’s name flashes on the screen, and I know I can’t avoid this conversation forever.

“Before you say anything—”

“You’re done,” he says without preamble. “Not suspended. Done. That video’s already trending. Three separate angles of you assaulting some investment banker over your therapist girlfriend.”

“Jesus Christ. Already? What the fuck. It’s been like five minutes! He was talking shit about—”

“I don’t care if he was pissing on her grave. You can’t assault civilians, Reed. Jesus Christ, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

“No shit. You know what the league’s going to say? What every team’s going to think? That you’re uncoachable. Unstable. A liability who puts personal drama above professional obligations.”

“Maybe they’re right.”

“Maybe they are. But that doesn’t mean you have to prove it by beating up random strangers in bars.” His voice softens slightly. “Look, I’ve been working phones all day. There might—might—be options in Europe. Smaller leagues. Fresh start.”

“Europe?”

“KHL. Maybe Sweden if we can convince them this was a one-time thing. But Reed, this is your last shot. One more incident, and you’re selling vacuums door to door praying for a sale.”

He hangs up before I can respond, leaving me in an alley with my thoughts and the growing certainty that I’ve fucked up beyond repair.

The walk home takes longer than usual—partly because I’m drunk, partly because I keep stopping to lean against buildings when the world tilts too far sideways.

My apartment building’s lobby is empty except for the night security guard, who pretends not to recognize me. Good. I’m not in the mood for small talk or sympathy or whatever passes for human interaction when your life’s a public disaster.

The elevator ride to my floor feels like ascending to purgatory. Everything here reminds me of Chelsea—the hallway where we argued, my door where I stood watching her leave, the walls that separate my apartment from hers but never felt like enough distance.

I’m fumbling with my keys when footsteps echo down the hall. Heavy, purposeful. Probably a neighbor tired of my drama affecting property values.

“You look like shit.”

I turn to find Dez leaning against the wall, still in street clothes despite the late hour. The rookie who I mentored, who I taught to trust his instincts. Now he’s here watching me fall apart like some cautionary tale.

“What are you doing here?”

“Damage control. Team meeting tomorrow morning. Coach wants to address the latest incident before it gets worse.” He studies my face, takes in the split lip and swollen knuckles. “Though I’m guessing it’s already worse.”

“Probably.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Too bad. We’re talking anyway.” He pushes off the wall. “Your place or the hallway?”

I let us into my apartment, which still shows signs of Chelsea’s last visit. Overturned furniture I never bothered fixing. The kitchen counter where everything changed. Evidence of destruction everywhere but her.

Dez surveys the damage with rookie’s eyes that miss nothing. “Jesus, Nic. What happened here?”

“Life.”

“Try again.”

I pour water because my head’s already pounding, and tequila’s done enough damage for one night. Dez settles on my couch like he belongs here, like this is a normal social visit instead of an intervention.

“You know what’s funny?” he says after a moment. “Everyone keeps talking about how you destroyed the team. How you’re a distraction, a liability, all that bullshit.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You know what you are? You’re the guy who taught me hockey could be more than just survival. Who showed me how to channel intensity into something useful instead of just destructive.”

“That was before—”

“Before what? Before you fell for someone you weren’t supposed to? Before you chose feeling something real over playing it safe?” He leans forward. “Nic, I’ve been watching this team for two years. You know when we played our best hockey?”

“When?”

“When she was around. When you had something worth playing for beyond just not getting sent down.” His voice gets serious. “And you know when you’ve been at your worst?”

I don’t answer because we both know.

“Since you’ve been trying to stay away from her. Since you’ve been fighting what you actually want instead of fighting for it.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. She’s destroying her career for—”

“For what? For you? Or for the possibility of something real in a world full of fake bullshit?”

“She lost her job, Dez. Her father won’t speak to her. She’s getting death threats from hockey fans who think she’s a home-wrecker.”

“And you’re getting blacklisted from the only career you’ve ever known. So what? You’re both adults who made choices.”

“Bad choices.”

“Says who? Your coach? The media? Random assholes in bars?” He stands, pacing to my window. “You know what I think? I think you’re both so scared of disappointing people who don’t actually matter that you’re willing to disappoint yourselves.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. You love her. She loves you. Everything else is just noise.”

“You don’t know that she—”

“Dude. Everyone knows. The way she looked when they talked about transferring you. The way you’ve been playing since she’s been gone. Whatever it is, it’s real. The question is whether you’re going to fight for it or let it die because other people think it’s inconvenient.”

He heads for the door, leaving me with thoughts I’m not ready to process.

“For what it’s worth,” he says at the threshold, “I’d rather have a teammate who fights too hard for something real than one who doesn’t fight at all for anything.”

After he leaves, I sit in my destroyed apartment and stare at my phone. Still no messages from Chelsea. Still radio silence from the one person whose opinion actually matters.

But Dez’s words echo in the quiet: You’re better when she’s around. You’re worse when you’re not.

Can’t argue with that.

The question is whether being better together is worth the chaos we create apart.

Whether love really can survive when the whole world wants it to fail.

Whether fighting for her is worth losing everything else.

My reflection in the dark window doesn’t have answers. Just split knuckles and the taste of tequila and regret.

But for the first time since this started, I’m not thinking about what I’m losing.

I’m thinking about what I’m willing to fight for.