Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
My eyes focus outside on the rising sun as my mind wanders back to that day four months ago and how much my life has actually changed.
No one ever intends to overdose. No one ever intends to do so much cocaine that they are hanging onto the ledge by the tips of their fingers. No one ever wants to be so fucking far gone that all we can do is watch ourselves from above.
For two years, I pretended I was just having fun. Hey, I was riding the fucking wave. I had just won the Stanley Cup at nineteen as a rookie. Hockey was in my blood from the minute I was born. My father was a star in his own time. Though he was not as lucky as me to be drafted, he did play in the States. He met my mother at one of his hockey games. After he picked her out of the crowd, they dated for a whole three weeks, and then he married her. Nine months later, I came into the world at the same time my father’s hockey career was taking a nosedive, at least for American standards.
He then took on teaching roles and coaching, which had us going around the globe and never staying in a city longer than a few years. Teams switching up coaching staffs often.
When I was seventeen, the KHL in Moscow drafted me twenty-fifth. My Russian father was pissed that I was drafted so late, especially after I had spent the year in Chicago and was drafted first into the Ontario Hockey League. I didn’t care where I played; I just wanted to fucking play. He worked my ass to the bone. Skate harder, push faster, move your feet, feel the puck. No one likes a quitter, Viktor. It was every single day. Not just when we were on the ice and not just when it was the two of us. No, he would tell me in front of whoever was there. He didn’t care. He thought it would make me better and make me stronger, but I just resented him.
One year later, the NHL drafted me third overall. At eighteen years old, I was living in Los Angeles with no one looking over my shoulder telling me what to do or how to do it. I knew I was going down the wrong path, but I did it anyway.
Four years later, my drug problem was out of control. If I’m honest, toward the end I didn’t even try to hide it. We didn’t even make it to the playoffs, and on the last game of the season I was high on the ice. I cringed when I saw the replay in my room a month into rehab. Watching myself skating around and around the fucking puck and then falling, was embarrassing to say the least.
Coach benched me for two periods, and I still didn’t give a shit. That night, I pushed too far and did too much. When I finally woke up or came down from my high—whatever you want to call it—they gave me the ultimatum. It was either go to rehab or never play again. So I went to rehab, but it was for them and not for me. Then I got traded. I didn’t even understand after everything that I did, why any team would want me, but apparently, Matthew Grant fought for me.
When we walked off the plane last night, I expected him to nod at me, say, “Don’t fuck up,” and then take off. Instead, Matthew got into the car and drove me to my new place. I didn’t even look around last night before I dumped my carry-on and went to bed.
I roll out of bed now, trying to forget yesterday. Think about today. I remember what the therapist said. Tomorrow is not something you can change, but today, today is the day to change what you would have done differently yesterday. I used to groan inwardly when he said it and think it was a crock of shit. But each day the fog would be lifted just a touch. The days got clearer, it made more sense.
As I pull on a pair of shorts from my bag, I’m thinking with the time change, I should still be asleep, as I walk out of the bedroom and head to the kitchen.
I walk into the spacious kitchen right off the living room. The island is stark white with black countertops and stainless-steel appliances. I open the cupboards, looking for anything that will make me coffee. Another thing I do now is see things differently. Whereas before I didn’t give a shit, now I have to fill my mind with other things or I’ll go crazy. Filling the gap of emptiness keeps me from thinking about the drug that still lingers at the back of my mind and almost made me lose it all. I’m stronger than the pull.