Page 125 of The Stud

We’ve been practicing a little here and there between pracky.

On the plane.

In passing.

And during meals…like the one we’re sharing now with Becks who had two choices when he finally came to the morning after his concussion, which were “get to rehab” or “get out of Tanner’s apartment”.

He chose the former.

And I’m grateful for it.

Turns out, his little episode was much bigger than we realized.

It was a suicide attempt gone awry.

Hemeantto drink the amount he drank.

Hemeantto pop enough pills to stop a fucking lion’s heart.

Hemeantto slit his wrists yet fumbled the blade due to his shaky mitts.

Trying to retrieve it is what caused the fall that Tanner heard that had him rushed to the hospital where his system was pumped, and suicide watch mandated.

I can’t imagine what would’ve happened had henotbeen there.

Not heard that noise.

Not provided that apple.

The apple no one else – not even his fucking family in Canada – seems to care enough to provide.

I know post league life can be difficult.

Not knowing where to go.

Not knowing what to do.

Not knowing who you are or why you are.

But having to go through all that basically alone?

That’s shitty.

And I wish there was a program for that transition.

Something to aid players who were forced out of the game into early retirement, regardless of if it was through injury or addiction.

Most of them still need the boys…a team…to help them get through the tough shit, especially in the beginning.

They can’t do it alone.

And they shouldn’t have to.

No one should.

“How were the roadies?” Becks inquires on a bite of a seasoned curly fry. “Games not the bunnies.”

“Clarification not needed,” Tanner retorts, scooting a little closer to me. “Arden knows I’ve happily been slayed.”

---