Page 5 of Breaking Point
“Lovely, Kieran,” I spit, trying to get the taste of vomit off my tongue.
Lifting my head, I find him leaning against the boards, grinning at me. I don’t know how he does it after such a grueling practice. The bastard has made looking like you don’t give a fuck an art.
“Admiring my good looks or how I kept up beside you in liquor last night and don’t feel a thing?”
I’m about to tell him to shove his stick up his ass when Coach’s voice booms across the ice.
“Crawford!My office, now!”
Straightening, I’m not at all shocked the rink starts spinning as Kieran throws his hands in the air as if to stop Coach from speaking again. “I’d let the man empty the contents of his stomach first, Coach. Otherwise it’ll end up in your office.”
I don’t hear what Coach Anderson grumbles under his breath. All I can focus on is the splitting headache trying to tear my brain in two, the brightness of the ice as the overhead lights reflect directly off it, and the way my stomach churns as I turn to the side and puke once more.
A hand suddenly smacks down on my back, jolting me and the spray of contents.
“Kieran!”
“Yeah, buddy?”
I push up, far too fast for my body's liking. “Mind not jostling the puke?”
He grimaces as I face him. “You might want to splash some water on your face before facing the bull.”
“The bull,” to Coach’s never-ending frustration, is a nickname that has stuck since Kieran once swore up and down he saw smoke coming out of his ears when a ref made an unfair call.
Groaning, I painfully skate over to the bench and squirt water on my face.
Kieran is right behind me, his lips parting, and before he can speak, I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”
He shakes his head, a disappointing look in his gaze that makes me pause. I’ve been disappointing a lot of people recently—scratch that, I’ve been disappointingeveryone.
“Doesn’t matter if you want to hear it or not. Coach is about to rip you a new one.”
I slump, my entire body aching as my ass hits the bench.
“If he sees you sitting?—”
“I just need a moment, Kieran.”A single second where people aren’t telling me I’m fucking up my life.
He must hear the exhaustion in my voice because he remains silent, and before I know it, the bench beside me is dipping with his added weight. I can’t help but side-eye him. His black hair that’s usually tousled is slicked back with his sweat, and besides a light flush to his cheeks from the exertion in practice…Kieran looks utterly fine.
A crooked smile stretches across his lips. “Nowyou’re thinking of how I handle my liquor.”
Yes.
“No,” I lie.
Was it wise to go out partying the night before practice? No.
Was it wise to get so shit-faced I spent the entire training session puking instead of skating? Absolutely not.
Did I have a choice?
This is where my brain gets scrambled.
Everyone has a choice. I’m not a child. I understand life has consequences—heartbreaking, life-altering consequences—but there is something genuinely wrong with me. A piece of me is broken, and my brain continues to short-circuit any time I’m faced with the choice to either pick my life back up again or continue to flush it down the toilet.
“CRAWFORD!”
