Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Thanks, I’m doing well.” She smiled tentatively, angling her chin toward the man who approached and set a proprietary hand on her shoulder. “Smitty, this is my husband, Ben.”
“Nice to meet you.” I barely looked at the guy. Nothing against him, but I couldn’t take my eyes off his wife’s stomach. My ex-wife. “So…wow?”
“Yeah. I have a few months to go, but it’s going well.”
Her smile wobbled and I could have sworn her eyes welled, but I wasn’t gonna stick around for that. No fuckin’ way. I was not going there.
“Glad to hear it. Good luck and…take care of yourself.” I pasted a friendly expression on my face as I dug into my pockets, grateful I hadn’t left my keys or phone in the house.
And like the coward I was, I turned on my heels, leaving a vapor trail in my wake.
Yeah, big bad me. The D-man with a rep for casual violence on the ice was quaking in his boots. I couldn’t get away from the five-foot two pregnant woman fast enough. It was embarrassing.
My fingers trembled as I sent a quick “Sorry, had to run” text to Jimmy and revved my engine to life.
I didn’t want to explain my angst to Jimmy. He knew.
Rachel knew.
I knew.
And there was nothing left to say. I couldn’t do anything but drink the pain away.
I woke up with the mother of all hangovers the following morning and five missed messages from my actual mom, who wanted more money.
Fuck my life.
Three days later, the constant stab of pain wasn’t going anywhere with Advil and ice baths.
Five days later, I felt as if I were bleeding and I couldn’t find the wound. I hurt all over—my knees, my hips, my knuckles, my eyes. Everything.
It wasn’t just physical, though. It was inside and out, radiating in my skull, making it difficult to hold conversations for long. All I wanted to do was skate…freely. Like I had as a kid before my dad got sick and my mom started drinking. I wanted to go and go and go.
The day after summer camp was officially over, I wasted no time packing up my shit and pointing my truck toward Toronto. My shrink said healing happened with time and distance. She probably didn’t mean literal distance, but I couldn’t wait to put some miles behind me.
I rolled out of St. Clair Shores, passing Nine Mile Road, Eight Mile Road, the skating rink in Morningside, and the aquatic center as I headed into the city. I neared the Ambassador Bridge, ready to cross into Canada just as a vicious wave of déjà vu hit me like a hammer to the skull.
It was just like it had been on the drive here, reliving the bleakest memories…except in reverse. I remembered the thin ice on the roads the morning after my dad’s funeral. I remembered clenching the steering wheel, fighting tears.
And I remembered the drive on the day after Rachel’s last doctor’s appointment. It was winter and the roads were icy again. I remembered thinking bad things always happened when the ice was too thin. I hadn’t bothered fighting tears then. They’d cascaded down my cheeks like someone had turned on a damn faucet. I’d sobbed, guttural and ugly…sorrow like I’d never felt.
Christ, I wanted to cry now. And what the fuck was that all about?
There was nothing wrong with my life. Those chapters had been closed years ago, and obviously, Rachel was doing well. I didn’t have to worry about her anymore.
I wondered if this was a delayed reaction to retirement. That was understandable. The life I’d driven to for so many years was gone now, and no one needed me until October. It was normal to feel disassociated, right? I didn’t have a place to be or anyone who’d give a fuck if I got there safely.
That should have felt liberating. I didn’t need those ties. I could do whatever I wanted, go wherever I pleased.
It was still August. I had months of freedom. It was summertime, baby. I could turn this truck around right now and head west. I’d never been to Death Valley or Yosemite. I could cross the Golden Gate Bridge, go hike Mount St. Helens.
Or…
I could go to Vermont. What was that town called? The one with the quaint streets and church steeples. Elmville or Elmtown or…Elmwood.
I pulled into a gas station and scrolled for Riley’s message. No, I wouldn’t stay. But it would be cool to check it out. Maybe I’d bump into Bryson. I hoped so. I could use a friendly face of someone who didn’t know me all that well, and I definitely needed a change of scenery.
Only for a night or two.
5
BRYSON
“Hey, hey, hey! We’ve got a real-life NHL dad in the house. Give it up for Bryson Milligan,” Vinnie Kiminski announced in a booming sportscaster voice.