Page 3 of Off Season

I don’t want to answer questions about how I feel, or what we can do better, or what the morale is like in the locker room, or what I will miss most about this group of guys.

Sometimes I think they purposely ask stupid questions to see if they can get a rise out of me.

Once showered, I throw on a team-branded dry-fit t-shirt and athletic shorts and slip my feet into my slides. I follow Colleen out to the press area, where there are at least two dozen reporters looking at me with sympathetic faces.

I want to tell them all and their sad-looking faces to fuck off, but I don’t. I can’t. I’ve been trained better than that, and I know they’re not really sad. They’re vultures waiting to strike at the first sign of weakness.

Instead, I sit down at the table behind a microphone and cast a sideways glance at Colleen, trying to tell her without words that I don’t want to be here. The anguish must be evident on my face because she sends a genuine apologetic smile my way.

I don’t need to harp on about how shitty this feels, because while the pain is immeasurable right now, I know losing is only temporary.

Thankfully, they accept my grunts and grumbled answers—yeah,it sucks we lost. I’m proud of the team. I’m disappointed our season ended this way. Yeah, we’ll review tape in a couple of days. This group has played some great hockey. Yeah, the morale is low, but we’ll bounce back stronger next season,blah blah fucking blah, and finally, after a long, torturous hour, I’m parking my car in the underground parking lot beneath my apartment building.

The door to my apartment slams behind me, and I let out a heavy sigh into the empty space. The only sounds I can hear are sirens in the distance and the blood rushing in my ears. After tossing my bag on the floor and my suit jacket on the kitchen island, I pour myself two fingers of scotch before throwing myself onto the couch. I stare aimlessly out of the window, zoning out as the sea of car lights on Lake Shore Drive rush beneath me.

It’s moments like these that make me wish I wasn’t alone. That I had someone to come home to, someone to talk to. Someone I could lose myself in to stop my brain from drifting into those negative spaces I told Elliot to resist.

Do as I say, not as I do.

I didn’t say I was good at taking my own advice.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and another sigh escapes my lips at the sight of my mom’s name on the screen.

“Why won’t anyone let me be miserable in peace?” I grumble, but because I’m a good son and would never dream of ignoring my mom, I swipe my finger across the screen to answer.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her. It’s more to do with not wanting to talk toanyoneright now.

“Hey, mom,” I say as her face fills the screen.

She swipes her fingers under her tired, watery eyes, giving me a shaky smile. “Hey, honey. I’m so sorry about the game. I’m so bloody proud of you, though.”

The emotions that have been simmering inside me since the buzzer sounded begin to bubble to the surface. My mouth twists from the tangy, bitter taste that travels up the back of my throat. My mom is the only person I allow to see me like this. To see the raw, vulnerable feelings that I keep locked away from everyone else.

“Don’t blame yourself, Ethan. You were amazing out there. You all were. I think it came down to pure luck that they scored. You’ll see it when you review the tape, but please,pleasedon’t let this eat away at you.”

A choked noise gets trapped in my throat as my resolvebegins to crumble. Of course she would know what I’m thinking.

“We were so close, Mom.” My voice cracks in that last word.

Throwing my head back against the couch cushions, I glare up at the ceiling. Willing the burning in my eyes to subside. The muscles in my jaw begin to ache from the tension of grinding my molars.

I don’t know why I’m beating myself up so bad; it was the fucking conference final, not the Stanley Cup Final. I know we played amazingly, and Iknowsometimes it’s just the way it goes. That’s how it is in hockey.

It can love you, or it can hate you. There’s always going to be a loser, but it fucking sucks that it was us tonight.

It’s an open wound that’ll take a day or two to heal.

“I know, sweetie, and I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but there’s always next season.” I open my eyes at her soothing voice. There’s kindness and pride in her brown eyes. She knows not to blow smoke up my ass, even if she is my mother.

When I was playing in the juniors, I told her not to feed me lies or false hope. To only tell me things she genuinely believes in. I’d had enough lies from my dad to last me a lifetime.

“You’ve got such a strong team around you. I know it’s only words, and nothing I can say or do will make it any easier right now, but you’ve had an amazing season.”

I drag my free hand down my face and groan into my palm. “I feel like time is ticking for me, you know? I’m getting old. I’ll be thirty-eight in a few weeks. I don’t have many seasons left in me.”

She scoffs. “You are notold,Ethan, so quit thinking like that! You’ve got plenty more in you. You see legends playing into their forties, and that will be you, too! But I know you.” She rolls her eyes adoringly. “You need some time to lick your wounds before you can come back fighting, but don’t you dare for one second think you have failed anyone, and that includes yourself.”

I raise my eyebrow at her glaring into the camera. She knows me so well.

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