Page 6

I’ve woken up in worse conditions before but never feeling this hollow.

Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows and onto this empty bed.

The sheets beside me are cold, like my dream woman has been gone for hours.

I sit up, running a hand through my hair, and scan the room for any sign of her.

A note, her clothes, anything to indicate last night actually happened.

Nothing.

“Fuck.” My voice comes out rough.

I sit up, head pounding in rhythm with my pulse, and that’s when I see the smudged ink on my forearm. A name? Numbers, maybe? I squint, trying to make sense of the blurred letters and digits, but they’re already fading, victims of sweat and sleep.

Christ, I can’t even read her name. Chelsea? Charlie? Something with a C. Her friends had been shrieking her PhD at the bar, but I’d been too focused on the way she moved, all confidence and attitude, to pay attention to details like names.

I trace what’s left of the numbers, trying to reconstruct them through sheer force of will. A 3 maybe? Or an 8? A 0 or a 6? The harder I look, the less sense it makes, like trying to remember a dream that’s slipping away with consciousness.

Shit.

I grab my phone and try different combinations, but each attempt goes straight to voicemail or some random person that definitely isn’t her. After the fifth failed attempt, I throw the phone down on the bed in frustration.

She’s gone. Really gone. And I have no way to find her.

The knock on my door comes at exactly eight AM, followed by someone’s voice booming through the hallway. “Hendrix! Get your ass up! Team breakfast in twenty!”

I drag myself to the shower, trying to wash away the disappointment and the lingering scent of her perfume. But I’m careful not to remove the smudged name and number. I need to keep trying these combinations.

By the time I’m dressed and heading down to meet the team, I’ve almost convinced myself that last night was just a really vivid dream.

Almost.

“Well, well, well,” Tony Ricci grins as I slide into the booth next to him in the hotel restaurant.

I reach for the coffee pot while they watch me.

“Late night?” Marcus asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “You finally get laid, and you don’t look too happy.”

“Did she disappear before you woke up?” Tony laughs.

“How do you know she disappeared?” I counter.

“Because we’ve never seen you so…” Danny Clark laughs from across the table. “You have that look of regret written all over your face.”

“It wasn’t regret,” I snap, then immediately regret the defensive tone. The guys’ exchange looks.

“Ooh, Hendrix’s got feelings,” Tony singsongs. “Was she special?”

“Drop it.”

“At least tell me you didn’t do anything stupid like propose,” Marcus says. “Because honestly, after last night’s performance, that would be exactly your luck.”

“What performance?” I ask, confused.

“Your boy Danny here lost two grand at the blackjack table,” Tony explains. “And Marcus tried to convince a cocktail waitress to marry him.”

“I was not trying to marry her,” Marcus protests. “I was just saying she had beautiful eyes.”

“You asked if she wanted to go to a chapel,” Danny points out.

“Well, at least nobody actually got married,” I say, taking a long sip of coffee.

My phone buzzes with a text, and for a split second my heart jumps, thinking it might be her. Instead, it’s my brother Matty’s name on the screen, and the message makes my blood run cold.

Matty: Need to talk. It’s bad this time.

I know exactly what bad means. It means Matty’s in deep with the wrong people again. It means another sleepless night wondering if my little brother is going to end up with broken legs or worse. It means more money I don’t really have going to cover his ass.

Reed: How bad?

Matty: $100k. Maybe more. I know you said last time was the last time, but…

I don’t bother reading the rest. One hundred thousand dollars. Jesus Christ.

“Everything okay?” Marcus asks, noticing my expression.

“Fine,” I lie, shoving the phone in my pocket. But it buzzes again almost immediately.

Matty: They want it by Monday or they’re going to make an example of me.

Monday. That’s tomorrow. And I know exactly what kind of example these people make.

My phone rings, and Matty’s name flashes on the screen. I consider ignoring it, but the guys are already looking at me weird, so I step away from the table.

“What the fuck, Matty?” I answer, keeping my voice low.

“Reed, thank God. Listen, I know what you’re going to say—”

I storm out of the restaurant. “Do you? Because what I’m going to say is that I’m done. Done covering for you, done enabling this shit, done pretending like you’re going to get better.”

“This time is different—”

“It’s always different!” I hiss, walking toward the lobby for privacy. “Remember last time when it was ‘different’? That was sixty grand, Matty. Sixty grand that I worked my ass off for while you were sitting in some back room pissing away money you don’t fucking have.”

“I had a system—”

“You have a problem!” I’m raising my voice now, and a few hotel guests are starting to stare. “And I’m done being part of it.”

“Reed, these aren’t the kind of people you just ignore. They know where I live, they know where Mom lives—”

The mention of our mother makes something cold settle in my stomach. “Don’t you dare drag her into this.”

“I’m not dragging anyone into anything, but if I don’t pay them—”

“Then you should have thought about that before you bet money you didn’t have.” I close my eyes, trying to push down the fury that’s building in my chest. “I can’t keep doing this, Matty. I won’t.”

“So you’re just going to let them kill me?”

The question hangs in the air, and I know he’s playing dirty by putting it like that. But I also know that if I keep paying his debts, he’ll never stop gambling. And eventually, there won’t be enough money in the world to cover what he owes.

“I’m going to let you figure out how to be an adult,” I say finally. “Find another guy, Matty. Because I’m done.”

I hang up before he can respond and immediately turn my phone off. The team is staring at me when I get back to the table, but I don’t offer any explanations.

Three hours later, I’m in the locker room suiting up for the game, and my head is anywhere but on hockey.

The phone number on my arm has faded even more, and every time I look at it, I get angry all over again.

I’m pissed that my dream girl left without a word.

Livid at Matty for being a selfish addict.

But mostly mad at myself for caring about either of them.

“You good, Hendrix?” Coach Williams asks as I’m lacing up my skates.

“Yeah, Coach. Ready to go.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Keep your head in the game tonight. Vegas is always looking to start trouble, and I need you focused.”

Focused. Right. I can barely remember what focused feels like.

The game starts rough and gets worse. By the second period, I’ve already taken two penalties for unnecessary roughness, and Coach is giving me looks that could melt ice.

But I can’t seem to dial it back. Every hit feels personal, every check an opportunity to work out the frustration that’s been building since I woke up alone.

Then Vegas player Ryan McKinnon decides to open his mouth.

“Hey Hendrix,” he says during a face-off, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. “Heard your brother is a heroin addict. What were the headlines?”

“Shut your mouth, McKinnon.”

“Must be rough, having to babysit a gambling addict while trying to keep your own act together.” He grins, and I can see the malice in his eyes. “How long before you can’t afford to cover his debts anymore? Or before you turn into a drug addict just like him?”

Something snaps inside me. The puck drops, but instead of going for it, I go for McKinnon. My gloves hit the ice first, then his, and suddenly we’re throwing punches in center ice.

But this time, I don’t stop when he goes down.

This time, I keep swinging until three different players are trying to pull me off him, until the refs are blowing their whistles so hard I think they might pass out, until the crowd is on its feet screaming and I can taste blood in my mouth.

When they finally separate us, McKinnon is on the ice holding his face, and there’s blood on my knuckles that isn’t mine.

“Hendrix!” The ref’s voice cuts through the noise. “Game misconduct! You’re done!”

I don’t argue. I skate off the ice to a chorus of boos from the Vegas crowd and the stone-faced disappointment of my coaching staff.

In the tunnel, I can hear the announcer explaining that I’ve been ejected from the game, that this is my third major penalty this season, that the league will likely be reviewing the incident.

In the locker room, I sit in my stall with my head in my hands, the adrenaline finally starting to fade. My phone, which I’d turned back on before the game, shows seventeen missed calls from Matty and a text from my agent that just says Call me. Now.

I know what this means. I know that what happened out there was the final straw, that the team has been looking for a reason to cut ties with me for months. I know that my reputation as an enforcer has finally crossed the line into liability.

And I know that somewhere in this city, my dream girl is going about her life, completely unaware that the man she spent the night with just destroyed his career in a fit of rage over a gambling debt and a smudged phone number.

Last night, for the first time in years, I felt like someone other than number forty-seven. I felt like just Reed, talking to a beautiful woman who saw something in me worth spending time with.

And now, number forty-seven is going to be ripped away from me too.

They say I have anger issues, but that’s bullshit. I just have a low tolerance for people who can’t keep my family’s name out of their fucking mouths.

By the time we travel back home, and I reach my apartment, #HendrixAssault is trending, complete with slow-motion video of me rearranging that guy’s face.

I pour three fingers of whiskey and settle in to watch my career implode in real-time.

The league moves fast when you embarrass them on primetime. By morning, I’m suspended indefinitely pending review. The official statement uses words like “unacceptable” and “dangerous” and “comprehensive evaluation required.”

Translation: I’m fucked.

“Media training starts Monday,” my agent, Jerry, informs me over speakerphone while I ice my knuckles. “Anger management Tuesday and Thursday. Team-appointed therapist on Wednesdays.”

“I don’t need—”

“You need to shut up and do exactly what they say if you want to play hockey again this season. Or ever.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. But knowing doesn’t make swallowing this bullshit any easier.

“There’s more,” he continues, because of course there is. “The press is digging into your family. Your brother’s situation is about to become very public.”

My stomach drops. “How public?”

“Front page of the Tribune public. They’ve got photos, Nic. Meeting with known bookies. The works.”

I drain my glass and pour another. My little brother, the genius who was supposed to be better than me, reduced to a scandal that’ll follow him forever because I couldn’t keep my fists to myself.

“Can we stop it?”

“Not anymore.” Jerry sighs. “Best we can do is control the narrative. No comments, no interviews, nothing that can make this worse.”

After he hangs up, I sit in my empty apartment and let the silence swallow me. No practice tomorrow. No games. No team. Just me and whatever bottom I’m racing toward.

I flip on the TV, scrolling past highlights of my meltdown to find old game footage. Better times, when I was just a hot-headed player instead of a liability. The whiskey makes everything fuzzy around the edges, softening the sharp pain of reality.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number, and for one pathetic second, my heart races.

But it’s just another reporter, fishing for a comment about my brother.

I throw the phone across the room, listening to it shatter against the wall with satisfaction.

Tomorrow I’ll start my humiliation tour—therapy and training and groveling for forgiveness.

Tomorrow I’ll pretend to be sorry for defending my family.

Tomorrow I’ll begin the long climb back to respectability.

But tonight, I remember a ghost in a black dress sneaking out of my room, wondering if she ever regrets leaving.

If she knows my name now, splashed across every sports site in the country.

If she’s glad she left when she did, before I became a cautionary tale with split knuckles and a suspended license to play the only thing I’ve ever been good at.

My phone screen goes dark, and I’m alone with my consequences and the echo of what that rookie said about my brother. Words that started a fire I couldn’t control.

Just like her.

Just like everything in my life lately. Burning bright and leaving nothing but ashes.