Page 56 of Puck Daddies
In the tunnel, trainers hand out water. Ellis slaps my helmet. “Good read on the reverse,” he says.
Carter adds, “Just finish it cleaner.”
I nod at both. It’s the right note.
In the room, gear off, towels, tape, the usual. Coach gives a quick wrap. “Bank the points. Learn the lesson. Media in five.” He looks at me once, then moves on. I press a cold pack to the thigh and change into sweats. I tape my wrists out of habit. I towel off, pull on a hat, and head to the media area.
The scrum forms fast. The first questions are fast. I answer straight. No sense in not giving them what they want to hear. We won. That’s what matters.
But one of the freelancers pivots. “Hudson, can you talk about the video from outside Bea’s? Looks like you and Megandyour linemates are…closer than teammates.” He smiles like he’s found something. “Is this a poly thing? Does that explain your recent slump and the cheap shot tonight?”
The room goes quiet. I taste metal. “We’re here to talk about the game.”
He pushes. “Fans want to know if thebarista dramais a distraction. They say you’re personally involved with that coffeeshop owner, and women want to know—are you three sharing the same woman?”
I see red and take a step forward before my brain catches up. My hand rises halfway because the part of me that wants to grab his recorder runs hot. Fitz’s hand lands on my biceps and squeezes. Rocco steps between us like he’s checking a man out of the crease. The PR rep says, “Next,” sharp.
The scrum shifts like a school of fish. Another reporter asks about our neutral-zone coverage, and I latch onto it like a lifeline.
In the car, the radio is off. I replay the hit. I replay the step toward the reporter. Neither looks like the person I try to be. I think about Travis, about his mouth in practice, about how fast I’ve been reaching for heat lately. I think about Meg telling us the cooldown is important until the legal mess stabilizes. I want to argue with the world about all of it.
Arguing won’t fix anything. When has it ever?
I park at home and go upstairs. The apartment is empty. The kitchen still smells faintly like honey cedar from the last batch of candles. I set my phone on the counter and stare at it.
I know what I should do. I don’t want to do it. I’m going to do it anyway.
I prop the phone on a mug and open the camera. I frame my face and shoulders. I hit record.
“Okay,” I say to the lens. “Here it is. I took a cheap shot tonight. It wasn’t a penalty. But it still looked bad. It worked, and I don’t like that it worked. I’m mad I did it. I’m mad I almost swung on a reporter who tried to drag Meg and my friends into a story that isn’t his business. I’ve been easy to rile lately. That’s on me.”
I look down, then back up. “I’m not sending this to social. I’m sending it to you, Meg. You said clear is better. So clear—I’m worried about my temper. I’m not putting it on you to fix. It’s on me to fix this. I’m talking to our team counselor tomorrow. I’m going to ask Coach for a referral for anger management, not because I’m breaking things, but because I don’t want to be the guy who almost does. And I don’t want to break me.”
I breathe. “Travis gets in my head because I let him. The fans boo because sometimes I earn it. The legal mess is twisting me up because I want to help, and I can’t fix it with my hands. Your cooldown is the right call. It doesn’t feel good. That isn’t a reason to push. I’m going to respect it.”
I keep my eyes on the lens. “I’m ashamed of the hit I took tonight. I’m ashamed I let that reporter touch the wire. I’m sharing this because you asked us to tell the truth even when it isn’t pretty. We’ve always told the truth. If we end up together, or not, we’re still us. I don’t want to lose that because I stopped saying the hard parts out loud because I’m afraid of losing the physical part of things with you. We’re more than that. We always have been.”
I pause and add one more thing. “I’m not asking for a gold star. I’m asking for help to stay honest. If you hear me getting loud in the wrong way, tell me. I’ll listen. And if I see you spiraling, I’ll tell you. This isn’t me asking for favors. This is me reminding myself that I have the best friends in the world, and we can count on each other.”
I stop the recording. I watch it once. I hate watching myself. Hate the sound of my voice. But I send it anyway. I put the phone face down and wait for the sound it makes when a message lands. It takes three minutes that feel like twenty.
Her reply is text, not video.That was very brave. Thank you for trusting me. I’m proud of you for getting help, no matter how things go for us. Drink water. Eat. Sleep. You’re okay.
I lean on the counter and let my shoulders drop an inch. I drink two glasses of water because she told me to and because my mouth is dry. I pull chicken and rice from the fridge and eat standing up. Our counselor and I text until she pens me in for her first appointment tomorrow.
After the dishes, I set up the melter and all the other equipment. I pull three scent bottles from the shelf and set them in a line—honey accord, sweet cream, roasted coffee.
Smells like Bea’s.
I test ratios on paper. First blend is too sweet. Second, coffee dominates. Third, better. I make small tester tins at different blends and label them with a marker: A1, A2, B1, B2. I let them sit for twenty minutes, then warm the tops with the heat gun to smooth the sink marks. I note wick size on the sheet—CDN 8 for these eight-ounce tins—so I don’t guess later.
It’s methodical and creative and kind of boring. Exactly what I need right now.
I open my label template and type a name: BRAVE. That’s what she called me, just for sharing my feelings. All caps, plain font. No flourish. I add the notes under it in small type:honey, cream, coffee. I print one label and stick it on a tin. I set it on the counter and look at it until the word stops looking like a stranger.
I text a photo to Meg, the tin on the counter, the label clear.New one. BRAVE. Honey, cream, coffee. Your candle.
She replies fast.Save me one.
