Page 18 of The Man in the Cottage

But he followed me. Kept pace, kept talking, kept pushing.

"What about the trade rumors? Any truth to those? Think you'll be back next year?"

I got to my truck. Unlocked it. Was about to get in when he said the thing that broke me.

"Must be tough, losing your season and your grandma at the same time. You think God's trying to tell you something?"

I don't remember making a decision. I just remember the feeling of my hand closing around his collar, the look on his face when he realized he'd miscalculated. And then I was hitting him, once, twice, three times, his camera falling to the pavement, his blood on my knuckles.

Someone pulled me off. A nurse, I think, coming out for a smoke break. She was screaming at me to stop, and I did, because her voice sounded like my grandmother's voice and for a second I thought—

I thought she was still alive. I thought she was watching me become this thing I didn't recognize.

The photographer pressed charges. Of course he did. His lawyer sent a letter to my agent within forty-eight hours, demanding seven figures and a public apology. The video was everywhere—someone had filmed it from a car in the parking lot, thirty seconds of me beating a man who was half my size, no audio, no context, just violence.

NHL enforcer assaults photographer. That was the headline. No mention of my grandmother. No mention of what he said. Just me, the monster, doing what monsters do.

We settled out of court. My agent handled it, kept the number confidential, made it go away as much as something like that can go away. The team suspended me indefinitely. The league launched an investigation. My grandmother died three days later, and I wasn't there because I was in a meeting with lawyers, explaining for the fourth time that I wasn't a danger to anyone, that I just needed a break, that I was sorry even though I wasn't, not really, not for what I did to that man.

I found out from my mother. A phone call while I was sitting in a conference room surrounded by men in suits who were supposed to be helping me. I saw her name on the screen, and I knew before I answered. You always know.

"She's gone, Travis. About an hour ago. They said it was peaceful."

Peaceful. Like that was supposed to make it better. Like anything could make it better.

I don't remember much after that. I remember leaving the meeting, walking out in the middle of someone talking about liability and public statements. I remember driving, but not where. I remember ending up at a bar somewhere and drinking until the bartender cut me off, then sitting in my car in the parking lot until the sun came up.

The funeral was small. My parents, my sister, a few cousins, some people from the church my grandmother had attended for sixty years. I stood in the back and didn't speak to anyone. My mother kept trying to catch my eye, but I couldn't look at her. I couldn't look at any of them.

They blamed me. Not out loud, not directly, but I could feel it. If I hadn't gotten into that fight, if I hadn't been in that meeting, I would've been with her when she died. I would've held her hand. I would've told her I loved her one more time.

Instead I was explaining to lawyers why I hit a man who deserved it.

I'm still not sorry.

That's the part I can't explain to anyone. I know what I did was wrong. I know I should've walked away, should've been the bigger person, should've done any of the things they teach you to do when someone's trying to get a reaction out of you. But I'm not sorry I hit him. I'm sorry I got caught. I'm sorry my grandmother died without me there. I'm sorry I let one bad moment define everything I'd worked for.

But I'm not sorry he bled.

My beer is empty. I don't remember drinking it.

I get up and throw the bottle in the recycling, then stand at the window looking out at the main house. Still dark. Still quiet. Kelly is in there, trusting me, thinking I'm a good person because her grandmother said so.

Her grandmother didn't know about the video. She knew I needed somewhere to hide, knew I was hurting, knew my grandmother had been her friend for fifty years. But she didn't ask questions, and I didn't volunteer answers.

Maybe if she had asked, she would've turned me away. Maybe she would've seen the headlines and the video and decided I wasn't worth the risk. I'll never know.

What I do know is that I can't keep lying to Kelly.

She's going to find out eventually. Someone will recognize me, or she'll Google my name, or I'll say something that doesn't add up and she'll start digging. The longer I wait, the worse it's going to be. Every day I don't tell her is another day of deception, another brick in a wall I'm going to have to tear down eventually.

But I'm not ready. That's the pathetic truth. I'm not ready to see her face change, to watch her pull back, to become another person who looks at me and sees a cautionary tale.

I like who I am when I'm with her. I like that she doesn't know what I've done, that she sees me as the guy who fixes things and gives decent book advice and makes her laugh sometimes. It's not real—it's built on omission and half-truths—but it feels more real than anything has in months.

With Kelly, I'm just Travis. Not Travis Howe, NHL enforcer, the guy with the temper and the highlight reel of fights. Not the cautionary tale coaches use to warn rookies about media training. Just a guy who showed up at the right time, who needed a place to be quiet, who happens to be good with his hands.

She makes me feel like I could be someone else. Someone better. Someone who didn't ruin everything with one bad decision in a parking lot.