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“Buck, I’m in fucking rehab. They probably used their life savings to get me here.” I throw my hands up. “Why the fuck would she be proud?”
“Because you’re still here.” He smiles. “You’re an adult. You know you could have left, and you didn’t. You’ve stayed here. Do you have any idea how big of a deal that alone is?”
Guilt consumes me, just like it always does. If I had to choose one word to describe myself that would be etched into my forehead, guilt would be it. And the worst part is that the guilt I feel is what always makes me want to use again. I can blame my addiction on the knee injury, but the real reason I’m here is because I can’t stand to be in my own fucking skin day in and day out. And the only thing that made it bearable was getting high.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I’m here because I chose to do drugs, Buck. So, at the end of the day, who cares if I’m still here? I got me here.” I pound my palm to my chest. “Me. No one else.”
He tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes a smidgen, and I know that look. He’s figuring out my shit. Or trying to.
“And you feel bad about that?”
“No, I feel fan-fucking-tastic,” I deadpan. “Yes, Buck. Of course I feel fucking bad.”
“Well, until you understand that you can’t change the past, that you can only create whatever future you long for and be the man you actually want to be and not the person you think you are just because of past shit, until then … you will not beat this,” he says so straightforwardly. “I promise you that. If you keep thinking you’re a pillhead, fuckup, loser, lowlife … that’s all you’re ever going to be.” His lips turn up. “But the fact that you are sitting here, feeling bad and putting in the work, well, that means you’re none of those things, brother. Are you an addict? Yes. Are you always going to be an addict, even when you’re sober? Yes. Are you going to have to change the way you live and work hard every day to stay clean? Hell yes, you are. But you love your parents. You love your coach, your friends, and your teammates. And guess what. They love you too. They don’t think of you as Cade, the drug addict. I know that.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “How would you actually know what they think of me?”
He leans forward, his eyes smiling right along with his mouth. “Because, Cade, since you’ve been here, I can’t tell you how many phone calls we’ve had from your friends and teammates, checking on you. We didn’t tell you because for the first few weeks or until we see fit, we don’t allow contact with the outside world.” He taps his fingertips on his desk mindlessly. “The phone calls we’ve been getting, they aren’t from people who think you’re a loser or a pillhead. They are people who loveyou, man. You are blessed. And you have the support system to beat this thing—I promise you that.” He reaches across, pointing toward my chest. “Now, you just need to believe that.”
A lump forms in my throat, and my lips tremble. I know he didn’t ask to hear about what first started my addiction, but suddenly, I feel the urge to do something I never have before.
Talk about Eli.
“When I was seventeen, the hockey team I was on beat our biggest rival. Not in just any game, but in the championship.” My voice is barely a whisper as I look down at his desk instead of at his eyes. If I look at his face, I’m afraid I’ll stop talking. And somehow, I know I need to get this out. “My best friend, Eli, and Iwere pumped. Together, we were unstoppable. I’d never had chemistry on the ice with anyone else as much as I did with Eli. It was like he knew my next move before I did. And vice versa.”
The same picture flashes in my brain. Eli in my arms, bleeding out while I screamed for help.
“Later that night, we went to a convenience store just outside of town and closer to our rival school. He wanted to try to buy beer with a fake ID someone had made for him. His entire body was buzzing from our win. We were on a high that had absolutely nothing to do with drugs or liquor.”
I pause, feeling my chest tighten. That entire night has replayed in my mind so many times. I know every single detail of that store. The clothes Eli wore. The sound the door made when the group of guys walked in, all wearing the colors of the team we’d just beaten.
“Some people—fans from the other team—strutted in and started talking shit.” My voice grows hoarse, and I barely recognize it. “Just telling us we were nothing. That we sucked. Things like that.”
In my brain, I see the asshole’s face. “One of them walked up to Eli and shoved him backward into the aisle and against thebagged chips. Eli wasn’t really a fighter. Sure, on the ice, he was aggressive and all, but off of it, he was a happy-go-lucky dude.” I inhale a shaky breath. “I wasn’t like that. I’ve always had a temper. Always quick to throw a punch or make a threat when someone wrongs me or someone I love.”
I don’t even realize that I’m crying like a bitch, my entire face soaked, until he hands me a tissue. I take it and wipe under my eyes and nose.
“I had that one guy by the throat. Reaching back, I landed a solid punch right in his nose. But then the clerk yelled that he was calling the police.” I shrug. “We didn’t want to get in trouble, Eli and I. So, we started to run.”
My throat closes in, and I grab my chest as I sob. “The guy that I punched … he yelled something at us, and we turned around real quick and saw he was holding a gun, pointing it at me. When Eli saw he was going to shoot me, he jumped toward me and pushed me out of the way.”
I shake uncontrollably, and before I realize it, Buck is in front of me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.
“He shot him in the chest,” I whisper, feeling like I’m going to throw up. “And he died in my arms.”
Buck pulls me against him, and I bury my face in his shoulder without knowing what I’m even doing.
“I should have been the one who died that day, not him.” I sob uncontrollably. “It should have been me.”
I lie on my back, looking up at the fan slowly turning above me. My face feels swollen from crying so much. And my abdomen is actually sore from shaking. I planned to get a second workout intoday, but after meeting with Buck earlier, I’m too exhausted to even move.
I don’t know if my teammates know about my past, but I know Coach LaConte does because when he first started watching me play, it was right before Eli was murdered. He told my coach he was interested in recruiting me, just like other colleges did. And then after Eli died, I went off the deep end. I walked away from hockey. I drank too much. I started experimenting with drugs. And finally … I ended up in rehab. Word got out, and a lot of college scouts stopped asking about me. Not LaConte though.
I think back to the first time I officially met him. I was fresh out of rehab and looking at my final season of high school hockey, feeling like a fish out of water.
He showed up at my third game, walked up to me after we won, and bluntly said, “When you ended up in rehab, you fucked up your future with a lot of colleges, Huff. But … not with Brooks. Not everyone there will be on board with offering a scholarship to a kid who just got out of rehab. Lucky for you, I don’t really give a shit what other people think.”
And after we talked for a few minutes, he shook my hand, gripping it harder as he leaned in and said, “Don’t make me regret it, Cade. I’ll be watching you like a damn hawk watches a little mouse in a field.”
