Prologue
Theo
February…
“Easy now. Don’t move.” The voice is coming from above me. I don’t recognize it at all. Is it a teammate? Blum or Hudson? Maybe Garlov? No Garlov has a Russian accent, and this voice doesn’t.
Did I get hit? On the ice? Why is it so wet and… thick? The ice feels thick. Like mud?
“We’re gonna put a collar around your neck, okay?”
“No. What? Why?” Were the words coming out of my mouth right? Am I saying them? Loudly? At least it feels like I am, but no one is acting as if they’ve heard me.
“Hey. No. Don’t do that!” The voice gets stern and deep. “Stop moving. You could be making your injuries worse. Hey! I need help over here. He’s agitated.”
There’s another pair of hands on me, and then I feel this wave of pain so intense I get nauseous, and then everything goes black.
The next time I try to open my eyes, I immediately close them because everything is intensely, painfully bright. I’m not on whatever wet, thick surface I had been on. Now I’m in a bed. I think. It’s not comfortable at all, though. There’s talking and beeping, like someone’s ignoring an alarm notification on their cellphone. I try to say something, but my mouth feels dry and numb. My throat is raw. Am I at the dentist? Did they give me too much Novocain?
“Mr. Richard? Are you awake?” The voice is official-sounding and distant, as if the woman speaking is in a different room. But when my eyes try to focus, I see three of the same person, and they look closer than they sound.
I feel like I’m going to puke, so I close my eyes. “What happened?”
I force the words from my battered throat, and they come out in a voice I don’t recognize. I’m weak and hoarse. “You had a fall. You fell off the roof of your house. And you had an extreme amount of alcohol in your system. You have a concussion, a shattered right shoulder, and a compound fracture of your left humerus. You’ve been in surgery for five hours already, and you’ll need another one tomorrow or the next day.”
“Surgery?”
“Your parents are on their way. Your… coach?” She says uncertainly. “Your coach is in the waiting room.”
“Fuck. Sorry. Fuck.” I’m reeling. Confused and terrified. “No. How? How did this… happen?”
“We are expecting you to tell us,” she replies. “But with the amount of alcohol you had in your system, I’m not surprised you don’t know. Rest. I’ll have a nurse give you something to help you… Stay calm.”
“I’m calm.” I try to sit up, and everything in my body suddenly radiates with intense, heart-stopping pain. I sag back into the uncomfortable mattress.
“Yeah. You’ve been through it,” the doctor tells me. “And there’s a lot more to go through.”
“My parents.” I croak. “My family.”
“On their way.”
“No. Don’t tell them.”
“I didn’t,” the doctor replies. “They saw your social media post, and also your team contacted them.”
“Media post?” I croak.
“Look, just rest,” the doctor orders gently. “You’re in good hands.”
I want to get up and walk —no run— out of here, but it’s impossible. So when the nurse injects something into my IV, and I start feeling dopey, I let myself tumble into sleep… and wonder if it would be better if I didn’t wake up.
When I wake up next, it’s dark in my room. The only light is blue and annoying and coming from all the monitors by the head of my bed. I blink until my eyes regulate. I’m starving, and both my arms are radiating with an intense, dull ache. I try to look at my body, but I can’t see much. I think my right shoulder is wrapped up in gauze, and my left arm is in a cast from my shoulder to wrist. This is potentially career-ending, I realize, and nausea courses through me again.
I don’t know how or when I’ll be able to play hockey again with both arms like this. And what if they don’t set right? What if I can’t play ever again? What the fuck have I done to myself?
There’s a lump in the corner of the room, in a chair. A person-sized lump turned away from me. And another lump in a chair pulled to the foot of my bed, with their head on the mattress by my ankle. That head is covered in near-black hair with some silver strands that glinting the monitor’s light. Silver strands I caused, I’m sure.
“Mom?” I whisper, and it takes a second, but her head lifts off the mattress beside my foot.
Her big brown eyes find mine, and they flood with tears. “Baby.” Rose Richard stands and walks up to the top of my bed to gently cup the side of my face.
“Don’t cry.”
She sniffs and nods, but tears continue to trickle down her cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
“Horrible.” I croak and fight the lump swelling in my own throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
“Yeah,” she fights a frown. “Just concentrate on healing for now, okay? We need you to get better, and then we can… deal with the rest.”
“What’s the rest?” I ask, and she rubs my cheek with her thumb. “Mom? What did I do?”
“You’re an alcoholic.” The voice comes from the corner of the room. That lump was, of course, my father Luc Richard. Two-time Stanley Cup champion, three-time Norris trophy winner, and all-around best dad ever. And he’s looking at me with such concern and also… heartbreak. Fuck. “You’re an alcoholic who needs help. Real help. Not just your family and friends trying to get you to rein it in. We’re done with that. It didn’t work. Your coach has you on IR, and the league has announced you’re entering the Player Assistance Program, Theo. So just relax. Heal up. There’ll be a lot of time to deal with the consequences of your actions later.”
“Consequences?” I hate that word. “Can I play still?”
My mom looks away. “I’m going to get a nurse to check on you.”
She leaves the room. My dad stays, still in the corner, not coming close enough that I can read his expression. But I do see his shoulders slump. “Dad… will I play again?”
He never forced me to play hockey. He never pushed. I wanted it. It was difficult, and the pressure of being his son was ever-present from everyone but him. And it didn’t matter —I wanted to play. I still want it. I don’t know who I am without it.
“I don’t think hockey is important anymore, Theo,” Dad says firmly and folds his arms over his chest. “It may never be again, and that’s okay. We just need you better. You need to want to get better this time. For real. Because you will die. I can tell you that.. I believe that. If you don’t get help. Take it seriously. Try. You will die from this, Theo. And your mother… she may not survive it either. I know I won’t. So.. heal. Your bones and then… everything else. Please.”
He chokes up and turns to the window, rubbing his eyes with his hand. Fear and regret wrap around me like a blanket. A weighted one, I don’t think I will ever shake off.