I really, really fucked up.
There's a knock on my door. “Nova. Team meeting in ten.”
I still have a Stanley Cup to win. Even though I might have just lost the only thing that actually matters.
I drag myself to the shower, trying to wash away the smell of stale alcohol.
Avery is right. I threw away months of progress for one night of feeling like my old self.
And now I don't know how to fix it.
Or if she'll even let me try.
28
Liam
Three weeks.
It's been three weeks since that morning. Three weeks since Avery hung up on me, and I realized I'd fucked up the best thing that ever happened to me.
Trouble is trying to steal my phone, his tail wagging like this is the best game ever. Princess is curled up in my lap, her head resting on my thigh like she knows I need the comfort.
I should be getting ready. We have the Stanley Cup Final tonight. Game seven against the Denver Kodiaks, at home. It’s the biggest game of my career. The moment every hockey player dreams about.
Instead, I'm scrolling through social media, looking at photos from last night that make me want to throw my phone across the room.
There I am, at some club in Manhattan with a few teammates. Laughing uproariously, beer in hand, looking like I'm having the time of my life.
Nova spotted out before the biggest game of his career!
The comments are overwhelmingly positive. Fans saying they're glad the real Nova is back. That they missed this version of me. That whoever tried to change me failed.
They're talking about Avery. Even if they don't say her name.
The irony is crushing.
I was at that club for exactly one hour, and I agreed to go because my teammates cornered me after practice, saying I'd been a miserable bastard lately and needed to get out.
So I went. Ordered one beer. Smiled for photos.
And I was miserable the entire time.
Every second, I was thinking about Avery. About how she'd see these photos and think I hadn't learned anything. About how I was proving her right. That I'd rather have public approval than her.
But here's the thing I'm finally understanding: the praise means nothing.
These people don't know me. They don't love the real Liam Novak. They love the bad boy. The party animal and the guy who doesn't take anything seriously.
That's not who I am anymore.
I'm not even sure it's who I ever was. Maybe that was always just armor. A way to protect myself from getting hurt after my dad left, after my mom chose her new family, after every person who was supposed to love me unconditionally proved that love always comes with conditions.
Public adoration isn't real. It's fickle and shallow and based on a version of me that doesn't exist.
And whoever I am now, whoever I'm becoming, I don't want to do it without her.
I don't need strangers online telling me I'm fun or exciting or worth paying attention to.
