Page 79 of Pucked Up and Married (Las Vegas Angels 4)

Sometimes, it took me dragging his sorry self down to a treatment center.

The last couple of years, it was mostly the latter.

He’d be better for a while.

I’d beg and pester him to keep up with his therapy appointments.

I’d beg and pester him to stay on his anxiety and depression meds.

I’d beg and pester him to finally get the knee replacement he’d been needing for the better part of twenty years.

None of which he’d actually do.

Inevitably, he’d start on a downward spiral. It always began with the pain in his knee getting worse. Then he’d start self-medicating, thinking “this time it’ll be different. I can handle it.” Then the self-hate and blame would start. And then he'd end up shitfaced out of his mind, sitting on the couch for days, drinking, drugging, and smoking.

Until I swooped in to rescue him.

Again.

Little did I know when I’d met my husband—he’d be on the same road as my father.

Trey was years behind, but I knew the signs.

I’d made a point to learn everything I could about addiction.

Yes, to help my dad however I could.

But, also to make darn sure I knew how to recognize and avoid it in the future.

Trey had been withdrawing from his teammates, spending more and more time alone.

He'd found something else to make him happy, now.

An easy fix.

I didn’t doubt he had pain. I’d watched the TV screen in horror as his injured body crumpled to the ice during that fateful game.

I’d screamed out loud.

Part of me was sure he was gone.

Or if he woke up, he wouldn’t be the same Trey Turner that the world knew and loved.

Hockeyland waited and watched and prayed for his recovery.

When reports stated that he’d woken up from his coma, and his body and mind were in working order—I’d cried.

It still made me tear up whenever I thought about it.

So, yes, I believed Trey had pain. I also believed he was in a slow, downward spiral.

And that was definitely not something I’d stick around to watch. I already had my hands full with a man who regularly flushed his life down the toilet.

I didn’t need to add to my collection.

Last night, seeing a towel clad Trey walking down the stairs to my room—sheesh.

Could you even imagine how many times since puberty I’d imagined such a scenario?

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