Page 2 of Puck Me Back to Life

Maybe that makes me weak.

But it is enough. Tonight, it is enough.

I take a step backward. The distance between me and the edge grows by a few inches. Then several feet. Relief never comes.

People talk about choosing life as though it's a triumphant decision. They talk about it like the clouds part and some invisible weight lifts from your shoulders. The truth is usually much less dramatic.

I just don't jump. I go back inside.

The sadness, the guilt, the memories follow closely behind.

I make my way down the stairwell and let myself into my apartment. The familiar silence greets me immediately. The place is nicer than I need. Professional hockey pays well, even when you're shit. The apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown, a kitchen large enough for someone who actually cooks, and furniture that looked impressive in the showroom before I realized furniture doesn't stop a place from feeling empty.

The loneliness is worse at night.

During the day I can distract myself. There are workouts and meetings and team obligations. There are errands and grocery stores and enough noise to keep my thoughts occupied. At three in the morning, there is nowhere to hide from yourself.

My gaze drifts toward the neighboring balcony.

Angela's lights are off. She's probably asleep.

Angela became my friend during the year I spent away from hockey. One afternoon her cat escaped into the hallway while she was carrying groceries, and I spent twenty minutes helping her chase him down three flights of stairs. The cat bit me. Angela laughed so hard she nearly dropped a carton of eggs. Somehow that became friendship.

Now I watch Cleveland the cat whenever she travels. He's orange, overweight, and possesses the confidence of a medieval warlord. He's also one of the few living creatures that never cared about William Grove. I find that comforting.

The clock on my microwave reads 3:24 a.m. Sleep isn't happening tonight.

I already know that.

Whenever I close my eyes, William finds me eventually.

Sometimes he's bleeding.

Sometimes he's smiling.

Sometimes he's just standing there watching me.

I grab the remote from the coffee table and switch on the television. An old black-and-white movie flickers onto the screen. The actors speak in polished accents from a world that no longer exists.

Perfect.

I've spent the last two years hiding inside old stories. Classical literature. Old films. Dead poets. Anything that allows me to disappear into someone else's life for a few hours.

When I'm reading Dickens, nobody is prying into my bruised psyche. I'm watching an old movie, and nobody is debating whether I deserve a second chance. For a few moments, I get to live inside another person's tragedy, I get a brief vacation from my own.

I settle deeper into the couch and pull a blanket over myself.

Tomorrow, I have to step onto NHL ice again. Wear the Arcane Wizards jersey. I have to look out at thousands of people and pretend I belong there. The thought should terrify me.

Instead, I just feel tired.

The movie continues playing while the city glows outside my windows. Eventually my eyes begin to grow heavy despite the anxiety clawing at my chest.

My alarm goes off at six. I don't remember falling asleep. One moment I am watching a detective explain a murder to a room full of suspects, and the next my phone is vibrating angrily on the coffee table. For a few disorienting seconds, I stare at the ceiling and try to remember where I am.

Then reality settles back into place.

I silence the alarm and drag myself upright. My body protests immediately. Every muscle feels tight, and there is a pressure behind my eyes that tells me three hours of sleep wasn't enough. Three hours is better than none.