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“Oh, people were hurt,” she says. “These kids don’t have a place for their program until it’s fixed; that hurts them. I have to figure out how to spin some tale justifying your reckless endangerment on the road and tens of thousands of dollars of property damage caused by wrecking a luxury sports car while driving with a busted foot, that doesn’t finish off your career and make you look like a selfish, irresponsible prick.”
“How about emphasizing that I wasn’t drunk driving? I never drink and drive. I feel like I should get brownie points for that.”
“There are no brownie points!” she yells, eyes wide. “There is nothing redeeming about your behavior, Gauthier. You’re sure as shit paying for all damages, but the facility is unusable until the repairs are made. Even throwing money at them, this will take time to fix, and the story will linger. If this were your first misguided offense, that would be one thing, but it’s not. You already broke your foot in the world’s most pointless of bar fights—”
“He took a swing at me. I had to defend myself.”
“You didn’t have to let it devolve to a full-on brawl with someone wearing steel-toed boots, a James Bond-level chase across the bar, and you jumping off the bar’s rooftop patio into a dumpster! I thought it couldn’t get any worse,” she says sharply. “But now, you, one of the team’s highest scorers and most pivotal players, had to go and crash your car into a community service building and bruise your nearly healed foot again because you drove when you shouldn’t have. You were about to start preseason conditioning and kick off a huge press junket.”
“I hardly need preseason conditioning anyway,” I tell her, plucking a piece of lint off my dark jeans. “I’ll pick up right where I left off. And I’ll be fine to do the press junket with my foot. It’ll be healed up soon.”
“I can’t.” Frankie stands slowly out of her chair, like always. She has rheumatoid arthritis, and transitioning from standing to sitting, I’ve observed, takes her a little longer than it does most. “I cannot with you. I’ve never throttled a client, but I am so close to it right now. Pazza!”
At being beckoned, her white and black Alusky, Pazza, bounds down the hallway, straight toward me, and jumps onto my throbbing foot.
I grunt in pain as I shove the dog away. She pivots back, licks me from chin to forehead, which is disgusting, then twirls, chasing her tail a few times. Finally, she parks her ass in front of my face and blows a violently loud, foul fart.
“Good girl.” Frankie snaps her fingers, yanking open the sliding door to their back patio, which Pazza bounds onto, then slamming it shut with surprising force.
A painful, echoing silence ensues. Ren clears his throat, stirs whatever’s in the pot one more time, then sets down the spoon he was holding.
After crossing the open-concept space from his kitchen to the couch, Ren drops onto the chair Frankie vacated and leans forward, elbows in his knees. “Seb, you know I love you like a brother.”
I shut my eyes. “Ren—”
“And you love me like a brother.”
“The only thing I love,” I remind him pointedly, “is—”
“Hockey,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Yes, I know. Even though you have this funny way of doing loving things that protect me and look out for me, like that check late in the season that got you concussed, which you threw yourself into so I wouldn’t get hit—”
“I tripped,” I say offhandedly.
“Uh-huh. The fastest, most agile skater in the league ‘tripped’ into a concussive hit. Sure. My point is this: though you clearly cannot stand to admit it, you are capable of good things. You aren’t beyond redeeming yourself.”
A hot, sharp pain carves down my chest as I meet his eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong. Even Frankie thinks so.”
“Nah.” Ren stands, then gently squeezes my shoulder. “She didn’t say you’re irredeemable. Frankie said that fixing this is going to be hard, that it’s going to take time. Good things, healing things, that lead to growth, are often like that. Victories are won with patience, endurance, and tiny, incremental steps. You know this, already, Seb. You’ve lived it. Yes, you’re talented, but you’re also profoundly dedicated—look at how hard you’ve worked, day after day, for two decades, to become the elite hockey player you are, to get where you are professionally. You’re telling me you don’t think you’re capable of that personally, too?”
That sharp pain’s hotter and deeper, burrowing dangerously close to the shriveled-up organ in my chest that’s best left unacknowledged. “Is there a point to this motivational speech?”
When Ren speaks, his voice is unusually somber. “My point is, Frankie can help you as much as possible, but ultimately, this is up to you, your motivation, your belief in yourself. You’ve got to dedicate yourself to making the changes that will turn this around, Seb.”
I groan and rake both hands through my hair. “Yes, I know.”
“I think you need to cut back on drinking,” Ren warns. “Or preferably, stop entirely.”
I grimace. “That seems a little extreme.”
“And no carousing.”
“Carousing?” I snort. “What is this, the nineteenth century?” I’m walloped with a pillow. “Fine,” I grumble. “No ‘carousing.’”
Ren stands, arms folded across his chest. “If you keep to the straight and narrow for a while, heal your foot, give Frankie some time to figure out a way to rehab your image, you’ll be back in the team’s good graces in no time—”
“And my sponsors’,” I remind him. “Let’s not forget the sponsors.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’d be fine money-wise, even if you lost a few sponsors.”
