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twenty-six

RHETT

Eleven Years Ago

Chicago, Illinois

I can hear it now, just like it was yesterday.

Back when I was a preteen, one of my hockey coaches went off on one of his usual motivational rants and said something that stuck with me.

“No one actually wants to achieve their dreams.”

I remember Bennett and me exchanging a glance, thinking, What the hell is this guy talking about?

But then he explained.

No matter what it is—an achievement, money, fame, a woman, even something material—the chase is what keeps us going.

We romanticize the feeling we think we’ll get once it’s ours, how it’ll change everything.

And that’s the trap. Because nine times out of ten, the anticipation ends up being more exhilarating than the actual moment.

And the comedown? It can hit harder than if you’d never gotten it at all.

Because you realize that thing you worked so hard for? It didn’t fix you. It didn’t change your life. Not really. Everything around you might look different, but at the end of the day, you’re still you.

I have to admit, that part made me pause.

But anyway, the point he was trying to make was that you should always aim higher than what’s attainable. Dream the impossible. That way, you’ll never reach it—and you’ll never lose the passion to chase it.

I thought it was bullshit.

And yet, somehow, I ended up doing exactly what he said. Falling right into the trap I created for myself.

My dream was always the NHL. It’s the dream every kid with a hockey stick has, but only a few ever make it. Most give up—once they start getting outplayed, benched, overlooked. Once the fire dies.

But for me, that didn’t happen.

I was one of the lucky ones. The older I got, the faster I rose. The tougher the competition, the harder I pushed. I adapted, outplayed, dominated. I spent more time on the ice than anyone. I became the best. I got used to being the best.

And then it happened.

I got drafted to the NHL.

I reached the goal I’d obsessed over my entire life. The one thing I believed would finally mean something. The achievement I thought would make me feel whole. The one that would make my parents proud. The final piece of the puzzle I’d been building since I was a kid.

But what I learned is—even a completed puzzle doesn’t feel whole. The lines between each piece never disappear. They’re fragile, waiting for something—or someone—to come along and scatter them. Break the image. Cram it all back in the box .

And there I was. That’s what I became.

Growing up, I got good at performing a role. I was the fun guy. The party boy. The friend who didn’t take anything seriously. The easygoing one who always had a joke. The golden boy with the hot streak.

It took twenty years to build that version of me. And only a few months in Chicago to destroy it.

By Christmas, the only parts of the puzzle still intact were the ones I was least proud of.

Because I was drafted to the NHL.

And Coach was right.

It didn’t change anything. Not in the way I hoped.

If anything, I felt less worthy than ever.

Getting selected early in the draft is supposed to be an honor. But what people forget—or conveniently ignore—is that the top picks usually go to the worst teams.

That’s how I ended up with the Chicago Blizzard.

And even there, even on one of the worst teams in the league, I felt out of my depth.

My whole life, I’d been the best. Or tied for best, if Bennett was on my team. I’d admit that. But now? I was surrounded by every team’s best. I was no longer the standout. Not even on a team struggling to win one game out of five.

At first, I was angry. Determined. I wanted to earn my place. I wanted to prove myself.

But I was just a rookie voice drowning in a sea of veterans who were as tired and frustrated as I was.

And Holt? He made it his mission to make my life hell.

If it were up to him, I’d have been benched for good.

But the team had invested too much in me for that, so instead, he did everything he could to make playing under him miserable.

And it worked .

I felt powerless. Worthless.

I guess Dad was right all along.

And he certainly let me know it the two times I managed to get my parents on the phone in the first three months I’d been in Chicago. That didn’t feel great. But somehow, them not answering felt worse. And it only hurt more every time I tried.

Eventually, I stopped trying. Stopped trying with them. Stopped trying with everything.

You can only push for so long before something breaks. And for me, that something was me.

Practices, once my favorite part of the day, became unbearable. Games, my escape, became torture. My new apartment wasn’t a home—it was cold, silent, and empty.

So I found relief the only other way I knew how.

I became the party boy again.

Only this time, I didn’t know where fun ended and chaos began. And that made it hard for anyone to stick around.

Anyone but Sid.

It was about a month into the season, and we had a rare four days off from games and travel.

I should’ve been grateful for the break—especially given how packed hockey schedules were—but even more so because I was apparently spending it nursing an injury.

In our game that night, I caught an edge in the third period and went down hard. I was so trained to pop right back up and keep playing that I didn’t register the excruciating pain in my ankle until I was hobbling to the locker room.

Turned out I’d partially torn one ligament and strained another. Any other athlete would’ve been out for at least three weeks—but not a hockey player. And definitely not me.

The team doctor gave me pain meds and told me to elevate my leg over the break. Seemed simple enough .

Except I was two hours into what felt like house arrest, already going stir-crazy.

It didn’t help that music had been blaring from across the hall since I got back. I glanced at the clock. Nearly one in the morning.

I’d tried to sleep. I’d tried TV. But nothing held my attention.

Finally, when the music reached a volume where I could make out every lyric, I couldn’t take it anymore.

Something—irritation, curiosity, or something else—got me to my feet. I winced as I half-hopped to the door and yanked it open.

I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t someone standing directly in the doorway across from mine.

“You kids get home safe,” the guy called after a group heading down the hall. “Or don’t. I’m not gonna tell you what to do.”

I peered past him, catching glimpses of the party—people packed inside, flashing lights, enough smoke to choke the hallway. It looked like a good time.

The guy in the doorway caught me staring. He adjusted the beanie over his dark hair and looked me over. “Hey, man.”

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Rhett.”

“Sid.” He nodded toward my apartment. “That your place?”

“Yeah.”

A crooked grin spread across his face. “Well, hey, neighbor.”

Before I could respond, he stepped past me into my apartment.

“Uh, what are you?—”

“You have, like, nothing on your walls, Rhett,” Sid said from the middle of my living room. “What’s your deal? You an undercover cop or something?”

I blinked, as my brain scrambled to catch up. “Or something,” I said. “I play hockey. ”

“Like, all the time?”

“Pretty much. I… uh… I play for the Blizzard?”

“No shit?” He spun around. “Why do you live in such a shitty apartment?”

I shrugged. “Why do you?”

“Touché.”

He flopped onto my couch like he owned it.

“Well, just make yourself at home?—”

“Thanks, man,” he said, already flipping through TV channels.

“Um… aren’t you throwing a party?”

“Sure am.”

“Should you not, like… be at it?”

“Hey, look!” He motioned to the TV, grinning.

I turned just in time to see my own face on the sports highlights—followed immediately by the clip of me crashing to the ice in that night’s game. On loop.

“Sheesh,” Sid winced. “That looked like it hurt.”

“Well, it kinda did.”

He eyed my ankle. “You benched?”

“Nah.” I shook my head. “Just resting it while we’re off. Keep it raised, ice it, take pain meds, repeat. Doctor’s orders.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

“The thrill of my life.”

Sid laughed, then shut off the TV and stood. “I’ve got a couch and a coffee table too. Want to keep your leg up at mine?”

My brows shot up, and for the first time since moving to Chicago, a rush of warmth flooded my chest.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “That would be great.”

He patted my shoulder. “Mi casa es tu casa.”

“Let me just put on my shoes.”

I hobbled to the front door and began slipping into my sneakers, struggling to not topple over in the process .

“These the pain meds your doc gave you?”

I looked up to see Sid holding the orange prescription bottle that was sitting on my kitchen counter, reading the label.

“Yeah.”

“Damn,” he whistled. “Oxys? You must’ve really jacked yourself up. Doc gave you the good stuff.”

I limped over, brow scrunching as I read the label. “Percocet?” I only recognized the name from past injuries.

“Oh yeah,” Sid nodded, then tilted his head. “You take one yet? You still look like you’re hurting.”

“Not yet. I was gonna wait ’til morning.”

“Oh no,” he clicked his tongue. “My friend, there’s no need to suffer when you’ve got the elixir of life right here.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Sid was already holding up the bottle. “May I?”

I assumed he was just going to pour one out for me, so I nodded. “Sure.”

But then, before I could register what was happening, he dumped several pills onto the kitchen counter and grabbed the bottle of tequila sitting nearby.

“Uh, I don’t think you’re supposed to mix those with alcohol. I can grab some water?—”

“You’re not mixing them,” he said. “Though, honestly, I’d recommend it.”

“What do you?—”

He brought the bottle down and crushed the pills into powder.

“What the fu?—”

“Buddy,” Sid grinned, clapping my shoulder. “We’re buddies now, right?”

I swallowed, meeting his eyes.

Who was I to deny a buddy of any kind?

“Yeah. We are. ”

“Then let me help you out.” He grabbed an old receipt off the counter, rolled it into a tube, and held it over the pink powder. “Have at it,” he said, nodding toward the pile. “You’ll feel right as rain. Or better yet—high above the clouds.”

I glanced between him and the powder.

Then I blinked.

Fuck it.

I bent over, pressed my nose to the paper tube, and snorted as Sid guided it across the counter.

My head jerked up the moment I couldn’t take in any more. First came the burn—deep, sharp, cutting through my sinuses.

Then it hit.

A wave of euphoria crashed over me, hot and intense. It scared me for a second—then it settled. And I just felt… good. So fucking good. In one breath, the chaos in my chest and the noise in my head quieted more than they ever had, even during my longest benders.

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

“Attaboy,” Sid said, patting my back.

We grinned at each other. And I couldn’t remember the last time I smiled like that.

“You mind?” he asked.

I barely registered the question until I saw him nodding toward the rest of the powder.

A little confused by his request, but not able to think clearly enough to care, I told him, “Go ahead.”

He leaned down and polished off the rest in one smooth motion. His head flew back, and I could tell he felt it too.

“You just take them for fun?” I asked.

He slung an arm around me. “Oh, Rhett. I have so much to teach you.”

I’m not good at taking instruction, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. But I ignored it, mostly because I was too busy laughing for no reason.

“Okay then,” I chuckled.

Sid laughed too. “I have a feeling this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”