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My knees then give out on me. Luckily, the jackets on the floor don’t mess up my knees as much as they should, or maybe I’m just numb. Looking at the baggies in my hand, all I can do is sob until it becomes too much. Even staying on my knees is a feat, and I’m on my side in a daze, my body limp, but my hand holding tight around the baggies I found. Blinking and looking up at the empty closet, all that remains is the hangers, some still moving from when I ripped the clothing off them. The emptiness of it all puts pressure on my chest. I don’t know how long I lie here surrounded by his clothes. I don’t know how I get the energy to get up to my knees and then to my feet. I hold the walls as I walk out of his closet and toward the bedroom door. The whole way down to the kitchen, I have to make sure I’m holding on to something so I don’t fall on my face.
Standing at the kitchen sink, I look over to the couch I found him lying dead on. The memory of his white face looks back at me. Holding out my hand, which is holding on tight as a vise to the drugs that took my husband away from me, I turn the water on. As the baggies fall into the drain, a couple of them miss, so I have to shovel them in there. When nothing is left in the sink, I turn on the garbage disposal, my eyes blurred from the tears. I softly tune it out and then turn the water off. I take one more look at the couch before I make a mental note to get rid of it.
I walk back upstairs to his closet, get back on my knees, and fold everything to place in the garbage bags. I have to go back down for three more bags, and by the time I’m done, they’re filled and placed in the middle of the room. I put my hands on my hips before making my way out of the room. Stopping one more time, I take one more look at the room before turning off the light.
CHAPTER FIVE
christopher
I turn in to the parking garage, taking off my pass before scanning it, and the white barriers go up as the black garage door slowly opens. Moving down the slated underground parking garage, I make my way over to my parking spot.
I toss the pass on the passenger seat before I turn the truck off. I grab my keys and phone, then step out. As I look around, the garage is half empty, but my eyes automatically go to Benji’s spot behind mine. It sits empty, though the nameplate on the concrete wall with his name and number is still mounted there. I exhale the deep breath I didn’t know I was holding before turning and walking toward the silver door.
Stepping into the arena, I hear people talking and look into the offices that have their doors open. “Hey,” I say to a couple of the office staff.
It’s been my home for the past eleven years. Drafted second overall when I was eighteen, I thought I was the king of the world. Until I realized we were a club that was on a rebuild. Not going to lie, it fucking sucked in the beginning. We sucked. Period. We finished at the bottom of the standings every year for three years straight. It was all the new up-and-coming kids. The few veterans didn’t give a shit about anything since they had a contract and were going to retire. We were a bunch of rookies who looked amazing on paper, but when put together, we each wanted to be the hero. It took a while to see that in order for one of us to be the hero of the game, we had to play like a team.
The pictures lining the hallway toward the locker room show the last seven years of learning how you find success working as a team. Pictures of different game moments through the years. My eyes almost want to avoid the picture of Benji and me during our rookie year. It’s the night we both got our names on the score sheet. Me for my first goal, and Benji for the assist on the goal. I stop in the hallway as if I just walked into a wall. My eyes are on the picture; both of us have the same picture in our house. But this one is blown up to the size of the whole wall.
It's me about four feet off the ice, jumping to celebrate the goal with Benji skating to me. You can barely see my face, and all you see of Benji is his back. But that moment is a moment we’ll never forget. It’s when Benji and I bonded. We were line mates and roommates. We shared an apartment and even hotel rooms until we could get our own.
“How are you doing?” someone says, and I look over at Cole who walks toward me. He’s wearing the same thing I’m wearing. Black gym shorts with the matching T-shirt. Only difference is I have my baseball hat on—backward of course.
“I’m good.” I lie to him because what the fuck can I say to him. “You?”
“I’m still in fucking shock,” he admits, looking at the picture. “Fucking asshole.” He shakes his head. Looking down, he slaps my shoulder, then moves on to the locker room.
“Yeah,” I whisper, putting my head down and following him toward our locker room.
When I walk into the locker room, the black carpet looks freshly washed, the team logo of a factory, buildings with a bridge over it in the middle in white, black, and gold. The same logo on the ceiling lights up. “Hey.” I look around the room and see a couple of the rookies already here. The wooden bench sits in a half circle around the room. Each cubby has our jersey hanging there, with our name in gold on the shelf on top with our number. Another shelf on top of that has our helmet with our number on it, and then above that is a picture of us. Four words go around the top of all the pictures—accountability, passion, one goal.
“Yo,” a couple of them call to me as I make my way over to my stall.
I place my phone and keys on the top next to my gloves. “I can’t believe summer is over already,” Andreas, our goalie, whines. “It was gone in a blink of an eye.”
“Did you go home?” Connor, a defenseman, asks. Andreas came from Sweden and was drafted a little over five years ago.
“For a bit,” he says, “then came back.” He looks over at me and then looks down. The whole team came back for the funeral. There wasn’t one player, one coach, one member of the team who wasn’t there for the funeral.
I sit here almost like I’m not here, which is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. Usually, I’d be in here, undressed and ready to hit the ice in fifteen minutes. A couple of minutes of chitchatting but my ass would be on the ice. But now it’s like I am stuck to this seat and have no motivation to get the fuck up.
It’s been over a month since Benji died. Thirty-seven days, to be exact. Thirty-fucking-seven days I’ve been in this daze. Thirty-seven fucking days of nothing but questions that can’t be answered. “You going to work out before getting on the ice?” Cole asks as he shakes his pre-workout drink in a plastic bottle.
“Might get on the bike.” I tap the bench under me. “Maybe hit the weights.” He stands there like he’s waiting for me. “I’ll meet you there.”
It takes me about five minutes to move my ass, take off my baseball hat, run my hands through my hair—which is longer than I usually keep it—before I walk over to the gym. I train with Cole, side by side. Neither of us says anything, and instead, we get lost in our own thoughts. I wonder if he is thinking that it feels fucking weird without Benji here working out with us. I wonder if he’s thinking we should have fucking done something. I wonder if he’s thinking maybe I could have changed it.
The only time I shut off my brain is when we are on the ice. It was instilled in me when I was a kid that whatever happens out there, happens out there. When you get on the ice, you focus on the game. Focus on helping everyone around you. Focus on the play. I’m one of the last ones on the ice after Andreas, who was working with the goalie coach in the corner.
Practically no one is left here once I get out of the shower. I get dressed, sliding my hat back on my head before picking up my phone and keys. I walk out with my head down, avoiding the picture on the wall.
The tightness in my chest starts as soon as I sit in the truck and back out, looking over to his spot. I’m driving out of the parking garage when my phone rings. Looking at the center console screen, I see Dad calling.
Reaching over, I press the green button. “Hey,” I say once it’s connected.
“Hey yourself.” He chuckles. “What’s up?”
“Not much, just left first day of practice,” I tell him even though I know he knows because we spoke last night before I went to bed. After the funeral, it took a week for everyone to stop watching me. It took Stone two weeks to get back to his life, and he only left because Ryleigh had to get back to work. It took three weeks for my father to leave, begrudgingly, because he had to attend his hockey camp for underprivileged players. Even though he said I wasn’t going, I got on the plane with him. I stayed at home for a couple of weeks and then came back alone.
