Leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator, I let my eyes fall closed and scrub my hand over the stubble covering my jaw. I need a haircut and a shave, but I don’t give a fuck about either. It’s not like maintaining my image is a priority right now.
My knee is aching, of course. I’m past due for my painkillers. Doc would shake his head at me if he knew. I hate those fucking pills. I don’t want to dull the pain. That pain reminds me I’m still here, even if my life is crumbling apart around me. Besides, even I’m not fool enough to mix painkillers with alcohol, and right now the emotional numbing the whiskey could bring is more important than the physical numbing of the painkillers.
Making it to my front door, I’m juggling my keys as my phone starts to ring in my back pocket. Whatever. There’s no one I want to talk to right now. I push open the door and drop my keys on the table just inside, carefully averting my gaze from the bag of hockey gear that hasn’t moved from my front entryway.
I’m becoming an expert in avoidance. And with Doc’s crushing words threatening to snuff out the sliver of possibility that I might suit up again, I can’t bear to look at that bag.
The emptiness of my apartment feels way too much like the emptiness of the arena. Picking up my phone, I see the missed call is from the girl I’ve been casually seeing for a few months. Shelley’s not the love of my life by a long stretch, but she was fun for a while, and after my injury, she stuck around to help.
Would I feel any better about what Doc said if I wasn’t alone tonight? Who the fuck knows. But as soon as I’ve poured the amber liquor that will hopefully numb things for a while into a glass, my fingers dial her number.
“Hi, Jude.”
She sounds off. Detached, somehow. I push my hair back, suddenly questioning my decision to call her back. I’m not exactly good company right now and having her over feels like it’s gonna be a lot more work than I want to deal with.
But I’m not a quitter. In anything.
“Hey. You wanna come over tonight? Grab some takeout or something?” God, just saying that feels wrong. Awkward, forced, and not at all what I need right now. For a few seconds, there’s silence on the other end. Then I hear her intake of breath.
“No, Jude, I’m not coming over tonight.”
“Okay.” I mask my relief at her answer. But Shelley keeps going, her next words coming out in a rush.
“I know this is bad timing, but I can’t hold it in anymore. I think we need to end things.”
I run my hand up and down my face. Part of me expected this, the other part is saying what the fuck. But Shelley continues before I can say anything.
“The thing is, Jude, this isn’t what I signed up for.”
There’s not a shred of remorse in her tone, but a heavy weight settles over me, pushing me down even further. I don’t bother hiding the bite in my voice when I finally reply.
“What, caring for someone when they’re injured?”
“Yes! No.” She huffs out a sigh. “Come on, think about it from my perspective. I’ve tried to be patient, but all you do is go to physical therapy, then come home and sit on the couch.”
“So, you’re missing the parties and dinners out. That’s what this is about?” I scoff, picking up my whiskey and draining the glass.
“I miss the life we used to have. The future I thought we could share.”
I almost choke as the whiskey burns down my throat. Future? She’s making it sound like we had plans for forever, while I figured things were casual. Guess we were on different wavelengths. A month ago, I might have felt bad about the possibility I’d led her on, but right now, I just feel angry. One more person walking away because I can’t be who they want me to be.
“You’re off the team, so where does that leave us?”
“I’m not off the team, Shelley. I’m on the injured list.”
“Come on, Jude, don’t make me the bad guy here.” She sounds irritated. At what? The fact that I busted my knee playing the game I love?Jesus Christ.
“How are you not the bad guy, Shell? You’re walking away because I got injured.”
“I’m walking away because my life is in Montana and yours most likely isn’t anymore.”
That statement is like a knife driven straight through my heart, carving away the protective layer I’d built around my deepest fears. My current contract with the Blaze is up next year. Before this injury, I would have laughed at anyone who dared suggest I might be traded or have to move. There was not a doubt in my mind that I’d be in Montana for the entirety of my NHL career. I just never expected that career to come to a screeching halt so soon.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I don’t even want to fight her on this anymore, I just want to be done with this conversation and drown my sorrows in whiskey.
“What are you saying? Just spit it out.”
“I’m saying I have to focus on what I want and need. And you can’t give me that anymore.” She pauses, and just when I think she’s hung up on me, she speaks again. Only this time, for the first time in the entire conversation, I hear a shred of the compassionate woman I thought she was. “I’m sorry Jude.” But then she hangs up.
