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thirty-two

RHETT

Eleven Years Ago

Chicago, IL, USA

I forget when it shifted.

When it went from something I was doing to something that I’ve become.

I had a feeling that first night I met Sid. That strange, unexplainable little flutter in your gut when you meet someone for the first time and just know—on some instinctive, primal level—that your life is about to change.

For better or worse, you can’t say. You just feel it.

Sid felt it too. Said it out loud, actually, only minutes after we met. Right after that first hit—right after everything started to blur in the kind of haze that doesn’t just steal your mind but steals your future too.

“I have a feeling this is the start of a beautiful friendship,” he said.

It was the start of something, alright .

We partied hard that night.

And the next.

And again.

For the next two months, really.

The memories bleed together into one big, fucked-up blur of neon lights and hotel rooms, pill bottles and powdered mirrors, blackouts and half-forgotten hookups.

I was down bad before this—dug so deep into a hole of loneliness, depression, and self-pity that I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to claw my way back out.

But somehow, here I am. Still breathing. Still skating.

Hockey hasn’t gotten any better—if anything, it’s worse. The faster I spiral, the harder it is to find the fire I used to have. You’d think that would make me feel something.

Shame. Rage. Desperation.

But I don’t.

Not since the Oxys.

The steady supply hasn’t been hard to maintain. A couple of gorgeous, ethically flexible doctors in the city were more than willing to keep the prescriptions flowing after the team doc cut me off. I’ve gotten good at smiling through the lies. Good at saying what they need to hear.

And thanks to them, I’ve been feeling…

Nothing at all.

I tell myself it’s just temporary. That it’s social. Recreational. The coke, especially—I only use it when I’m desperate.

I’m in control.

Same with the drinking. It’s for the team. For appearances. For the nights I can’t sleep.

The Percs, though…

That’s different.

I don’t know.

I’m not sure I could stop even if I wanted to .

But the truth is, I don’t. Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

That’s how I live now. One day at a time.

One more pill.

One more line.

One more shot.

One more meaningless night.

Some nights, I honestly wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t wake up.

I can’t think beyond the next step, the next distraction, the next numb. Because when most of your nights are spent in a haze of drugs, booze, and women, thinking becomes optional.

Somewhere along the way, my once-ever-present winning smile—the one the media used to love, the one that made endorsements roll in and parents buy their kids my jersey—has faded into a half-hearted smirk.

Or, some days, just a quiet scowl.

And just like that?—

The sun sets on the golden boy as his hot streak runs cold.

That’s the actual headline I woke up to this morning. Front page. Top of a major sports site. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hit something deep inside me. But not deep enough to spark any real change.

I watch the printer spit out the article, the words still sharp, the ink still wet. I grab it the second it’s done, smearing the print with my thumb as I slice away the excess paper with the edge of my credit card.

I walk over to the oversized bulletin board in my living room—my only form of wall art.

A corkboard of failure.

A shrine to every headline that’s called me out.

The Captain That Could Have Been.

From Top Prospect to Tabloid Fodder .

Golden Boy or Burnout?

I told myself, once upon a time, that I’d use them as motivation. That I’d look at them every morning and remember who the fuck I was.

But that’s not how this works.

That’s not how I work.

Instead, like the last three headlines, I roll this one up between my fingers, turn, and kneel to snort a line of powder off the glass coffee table. Some of it’s crushed pills. Some of it’s coke. Some of it’s whatever the hell Sid left behind last time.

Doesn’t matter.

It burns all the same.

Only then do I pin the article to the board—adding it to the pile of failed motivators.

I rub at my nose, still kneeling, still buzzing, and rock back onto my heels to examine my work. A crooked collage of everything I’ve destroyed.

I could laugh.

I don’t.

A knock sounds at the door—sharp but lazy.

Then the handle creaks open without waiting for an answer.

“Yo,” Sid calls. His voice is light. Carefree.

Like we’re not both in freefall.

Like none of it matters.

“Hey,” I reply without turning around.

“How was the game last night?”

I snort. “Sucked.”

“Damn,” he tsks. There’s a pause. I can hear the sound of him dropping his keys on the counter. “Wanna go out?”

I blow out a slow breath, still staring at the headlines. Still not seeing them.

Still not feeling them .

The ache, the disappointment, the fear—it’s buried somewhere too deep now.

I spin around to face him, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

“Yeah,” I say. My voice is calm. Hollow.

“Yeah, I do.”

I turn back to the coffee table. Flip open the old wooden jewelry box with faded flowers painted on the lid—the one I thrifted to make it look like harmless decor. I grab what’s left of my stash, shoving it into my pockets without a second thought.

I don’t even ask where we’re going.

I just follow Sid out the door.