Page 24 of The Has-Been

Reid and Brennan’s families are incredibly wealthy, so they can afford the two larger bedrooms. Leaving me the room that’s not much more than a spare closet, but I don’t mind, I pay a fraction of the rent because of it.

“Come on,” he presses, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

It’s Saturday night, and when I look at the clock, I see it’s 7 p.m.

“Shouldn’t you be headed off to some party?” I ask, putting down my textbook on Functional Anatomy. I’ve been trying to keep my mind off next week and the start of the season by studying and preparing myself both mentally and academically.

“Eh,” he sounds, making his way to my closet and shuffling through my belongings. “You know I try to lay low when the season starts.”

“I do?” I joke, and he gives me a mocking look. Standing from my desk, I ask, “What are you looking for?”

“Ah,” he announces, reaching for something in the back. “I knew you’d keep them.”

When he turns, I shake my head at what he holds.

My old skates.

I open my mouth, but he shoves them in his bag, throwing me a sweatshirt off my floor.

“We’re going to the arena.”

“You can. I’m not.”

I’ve had my fair share of ghosts of Liam’s past for one week. Next week I’ll face some more. But tonight, I’m not moving from this fucking room.

“Yes. You. Are.” He pronounces each word through clenched teeth.

“No. I’m. Not.” I shoot back, my arms crossing over my chest. He’s tried for the last year to get me back on the ice. When is he going to take ‘no’ for an answer?

Never, apparently, because he’s the most stubborn person I know.

“Look—” he replies sternly. “I’ve let you have your time. I’ve let you mope around and hide away for the last year. It killed me that I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry I didn’t do more. I’m so sorry that I was too distracted to see you struggling.” I look away, not wanting to have this conversation with him. “And I get therapy is good for you and all,” he blurts with controlled composure, a rare gesture from him. “But⁠—”

Ah, and here it comes…his typical asshole remark.

“I know how us hockey guys are…” He pulls my winter coat from the hook on my wall. “And I know we respond better to a tough-ass hit than soft words about feelings.” He snaps his mouth closed. “Not that I’m discrediting that. But…can we at least try and do this my way?”

“No,” I say plainly.

“That wasn’t a question. Now, get your fucking ass up.” If it wasn’t my best friend saying those words, they’d be enough to start a fight. “The first game is in one week, and you think you’re honestly going to be able to go in there and watch from the sidelines?”

His words are like ripping off a band-aid. Quick, sudden, pulling on the threads of hair and causing just enough pain to make you wince a little.

I look at him, and I know I don’t need words to admit what he sees.

“Get up.” He orders one last time.

I surprise myself when I stand and do as he says.

Reid has been skating around the ice for over an hour.

It took me about twenty minutes to find the courage and enter the arena, completely sprinting by the light pole I’m not even close to being ready to face.

Another twenty to force myself down to the ice, instead of watching from afar.

And only thirty minutes to stop having a flashback every time Reid’s shot hits the net, and to not mistake it for the sound of my leg snapping in half.

So overall, this is a real success, which is totally pathetic because I’m barely holding it together.