Page 8 of Second Shot

Because unlike everyone else, she knows the truth – I’m a fucking terriblefriend.

Blake shakes his head as if reading my thoughts. “Come out with us tonight. Have a few drinks with theguys.”

“Next time.” I grab my bag and toss it over myshoulder.

I can hear their concerned mumblings as I leave the change room and head down the corridor towards Coach’soffice.

Pinching my eyes shut, I take a long, steadying breath before rapping my knuckles against hisdoor.

“It’s open.” The words are hard, edged with a slur, and as soon as I open the door I see the opened bottle of whisky on hisdesk.

This won’t begood.

Coach stands by the window, staring blankly out, swirling what’s left of his drink in his right hand. Broad shoulders slouch forward, and when he turns I flinch at the haunted look in hiseyes.

“You wanted to see me?” I force the words out, wishing I was anywhere buthere.

He gives a hard nod, then moves back to his desk and pulls out a second glass, pouring the amber liquid into it before handing it tome.

I take a sip, silence stretching between us. Unsaid words filling thevoid.

Guilt isn’t the only thing we share, but it’s the one thing that connects us more than anything else. Even more than hockey. Because as shitty of a friend as I was to Sam, Steve Jacobs was an even shittierfather.

It’s no wonder that Brynne hates usboth.

After what seems like an eternity, he finally speaks. “Have you heard fromBrynne?”

My gaze jerks up, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are glazed from the mixture of alcohol and whatever thoughts consumehim.

For as long as I’ve known them, their relationship has always been volatile, strained, even before Samdied.

“No.” I shake myhead.

“I just thought…today…” His jaw twitches as he looks down into his glass. He shakes his head and stumbles to his chair, sitting down heavily. “I hoped she might have contactedyou.”

I’d hoped the same thing. Every fucking day for the pastyear.

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back. The man is only in his mid-fifties, but right now he looks at least ten years older. Silver threads through his once black hair, and deep lines that weren’t there two years ago are etched into his face. But it’s his eyes, sunken with dark circles, that really agehim.

“You know what today is?” heslurs.

Of course Ido.

“Yeah.”

A strangling noise sounds in his throat, and I have to swallow back my own grief that threatens to chokeme.

Moresilence.

His eyes remain closed, and long, strained minutespass.

Eventually, his breathing becomes heavy and labored, and I’m pretty sure he’s passedout.

Good.

Whatever gets him through this shitty day. I have similar plans of my own. A date with a bottle ofscotch.

I place my glass on the desk andstand.

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