Page 275 of Cross Check

Connor

Should we keep messaging him?

Mitchy

After my accident, your texts pissed me off, but the constant messages also reminded me I wasn’t alone.

Easy E

Well, fuck. Now I’m crying.

No one is ever alone.

Mavvy

Nevertheless, we persist with the texts.

Connor

We love you, G-Money.

Mitchy

And we’re here whenever you want to talk. We’re on your side.

It’s been three days since the news about my relationship with Amelia broke.

I haven’t slept. I’ve barely consumed any food, and water has been an afterthought. I’ve been tempted to drown my sorrows in a handle of whiskey, but that would require interacting with people, and I don’t have the energy to do anything besides go to practice.

Reporters from every sports outlet have attempted to get me to talk during the hockey media slots, and I’ve successfully avoided them—and every call and message from my agent and the Stars organization—so far. My Olympic teammates have attempted to cheer me up in the locker room, but I don’t give them any attention.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. My skin is dry and pale. My eyes are puffy. Getting out of bed is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I gave up on wearing contacts two mornings ago.

Coach is nice enough not to call me out for my sloppy skating, and when I make it back to my hotel room after another practice where the walls felt like they were caving in, I sit on the couch and flip through the notebook that houses everything I love about Amelia.

The pages are full of memories I don’t want to forget. Every detail of our relationship is laid out from the very first night I met her. Reading all the notes back, it’s so obvious how long I’ve been in love with her.

From the very beginning, I’m pretty sure.

I slam the notebook closed and press my palms into my eyes.

Three days without talking to her.

Three days of struggling to breathe.

Three days without checking social media.

Three days where I wonder what the hell comes next for us.

I guess it could be worse.

I could be staying in the Athlete’s Village and sleeping on a shitty cot with a bowl full of condoms in my face.

At least I can cry my eyes out in the privacy of my five-star hotel room.

The loud banging on my door feels like it’s coming from a different realm. I hear it, but I don’t register it. Why bother when it’s probably Coach coming to tell me I’ve been booted off the roster due to my shitty effort at practice the last few days?

But as I trudge to the door in a pair of sweatpants and a shirt that has a rip in the armpit, hope flickers inside me.