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Still, once I finished dry-heaving, I got up and dragged myself to class. Even though it sucked.
It’s obvious I’m not feeling too hot when I skip running for the day. But the only way I would go on a run today is if someone pushed me in a wheelbarrow. My stomach feels icky, and my head is pounding. And I’m reminded why not drinking for so long had its advantages.
It was never about fearing I was an alcoholic. I knew that I wasn’t. But I was using alcohol—among other things—to numb feelings. And I know if you keep numbing feelings just to avoid them, they’ll bubble up all at once. And that’s a damn disaster.
When I saw my Jeep in the parking lot this morning, I panicked that I’d driven home drunk. But Tate assured me that I hadn’t and that she had seen me at Club 83 and brought me home. I was glad I hadn’t driven while intoxicated. But I’d had the most realistic dream that Brody was in bed with me, holding me close. And when I learned that wasn’t real, I couldn’t stop my heart from sinking.
I don’t understand how I can miss him so much, someone I’ve only known for a matter of months. I try to convince myself that I’m over it and that it’s for the best, yet my chest constantly feels heavy. Every single part of me is missing him. And I can’t do a thing about it.
I used to think people came into our lives for a reason. Now, I’m not so sure. Because if that were true, what would the reason for Brody be? For me to find the one person I feel like makes life worth living and I can’t even have him? I’d really like to know whatever the cruel reason is behind the universe teasing me with him.
Brody
“Well, you sucked today. Go home, get rest, be back here tomorrow, ready to actually work,” Coach LaConte barks, sweeping his gaze around to the entire team. “Get the hell out of my face. Go shower and wash that stench off. You’re making my arena smell like ass.”
We head toward the locker room, unaffected by his words. We didn’t suck; he just enjoys telling us that. I think it’s a fucked up way of bonding for him.
“O’Brien, stay back,” Coach LaConte calls out.
Turning toward him, I hold my arms out. “I guess you’ve finally found out after all this time that Addison and I are actually the ones madly in love. Go on, Coach. Bench me.”
“Ha-ha. So funny.” He rolls his eyes, looking at his clipboard. “Don’t even joke about that. Hardy will start crying.”
I chuckle, following him out of the arena and into his office.
“Close the door behind you,” he says, sitting down at his desk.
“Fuck, how much trouble am I in?” I grumble, shutting the door.
“For once in your life, O’Brien, you aren’t in trouble.” He leans back in his chair, grinning. “The GM for the Tampa Bay Lightning called me yesterday. They’ve got their eye on you, boy.”
“Wh—really?” I narrow my eyes. “Are you fucking with me?”
“Yep. Sure am,” he says, annoyed. “No, Brody. Why the hell would I joke about this shit? They are sending someone out to watch the game next weekend.” He taps his pen on the desk. “So, you know what that means?”
“I shouldn’t try to fuck any of the wives or daughters of those on the Tampa Bay Lightning?” I shrug until he gives me an irritated look, and I grin. “Coach, I’ll show up and do my thing. I promise.” Nodding, I tip my chin up. “You made this possible, you know? With you on board, we’re twice the team we were. So, thank you.”
“You’ve done the work, O’Brien. And they’ve been watching you for a while. But now, they are in a position where a good defenseman is crucial for their next season. You’re one of the best. So, just show up to the game and do what you usually do.” He frowns. “Well, maybe don’t get kicked out of the game.”
“That was, like…twice.” I shake my head. “And they deserved it.”
He laughs. “Yes, well, try to just keep your ass in the game.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Get on out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” I start heading out. “Thanks again.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You gotta wow them first.”
Grinning, I walk out of there and into the locker room. Ever since I was in seventh grade and our hockey team got tickets to watch the Carolina Hurricanes versus the Boston Bruins, I knew I wanted to be on that ice one day, playing for the pros. And now, it looks like it might be closer than I thought.
Only I don’t have a damn person to share it with. Other than a bunch of grown-ass men who are most likely headed to the same place anyway.
Opening my locker, I glance at my phone to see I have a missed call from my grandmother’s nursing home and a voice mail.
Knowing they won’t leave any big news in a message, I skip the voice mail and dial the number back and walk out into the hallway, where it’s quiet.
“Hello. Seaport Nursing Home. How may I direct your call?” a lady’s voice says.
After I give her my name, she sounds a little uncomfortable before transferring me to the head nurse.
