Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Honestly,” I say, not sure I can stand the torture he is going through. “We really don’t have to talk about this.”
“According to my therapist, the more I talk about it, the better I will feel.” He tries to make a joke about it, but my heart hurts knowing that just thinking and talking about this hurts him so much. “I didn’t really care about the clean-cut thing, summer months though I refused to shave. But the day before training camp, I would buzz cut my hair and shave. Those first couple of years were some of the best hockey I’ve played. Until I got injured in a game against Toronto and had to have surgery.”
“Eek,” I say, “the dreaded S word.”
That makes him laugh, and it’s a real laugh because his head goes back as he booms out the sound. “Yeah, the dreaded S word. It was fine, but I was out for like three months, which, as you know”—he looks at me—“feels like eighty-four years.” It’s my turn to laugh at this. His tone is getting a bit lighter, so I’m hopeful that the worst is past, but something tells me it’s not. “In reality, though, I missed about forty games. Not the worst, but it wasn’t the best. Then it took time to get back into it.”
“At least you got back on the horse,” I tell him, trying to encourage him.
“Well, the next season, I came out swinging. I was at the top of my game. I had the best start to my season I ever had, and then one game, it just stopped. I don’t really know how to explain it. I played the next twenty-seven games with two points.”
“Everyone goes through slumps,” I try to assure him, and he just shakes his head.
“Yeah, but not only was I not performing, I had the lovely honor of being in the papers every single day. Every fucking day, the papers would let me know how much I was fucking up. Every single interview started with, so you haven’t had one point in…” His eyes close, and his head hangs. My stomach rises to my throat, and I think I’m going to fucking throw up. “It would be during practices, after the games, on the street. It was constantly in my face. I was living in hell. My head was a mess. I would try to talk to the coach, who basically told me to grow a thicker skin.”
I bite my teeth together now, hating this man who I’ve never even met. “What the fuck?” I hiss, not wanting to, and at least it makes him chuckle.
“Yeah, well, that wasn’t the worst of it.” He looks at me, swallowing. “When I went to the GM, he told me that I needed to basically just suck it up.” I’m about to say something when he holds up his hand to stop me. “Actually, his exact words were, ‘If you start producing, they’ll leave you alone.’” He brings his water bottle to his lips, drinking the last drop of water. His hand shakes when he puts the bottle down.
“So that just tells you how much support I had. I tried talking to my captain. I tried talking to everyone, trying to get them to listen to me. Every day was such a struggle. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The harder I tried on the ice, the worse I was. I would suffer panic attacks as soon as I got home. I would have anxiety attacks when I was on the road. I went for seven days with one hour of sleep. I just couldn’t shut off my brain. I couldn’t not hear the whispers, and then it had crept into the locker room.
“It was such a toxic environment. I had all this going on with me. I needed so much help, but I got nothing. I was a ticking time bomb. One night, I was on the ice warming up for the game, and I just skated off the ice and refused to get back out there. That night, I got home and…” He looks up, taking a deep exhale. “It got so dark for me that one night I tried to end my life.” The gasp escapes me, and my hand flies to my mouth. The tears form in my eyes as I listen to him. “I had a bottle of pills in one hand.” He wipes the tear from the corner of his eye. “A bottle of Jack in the other, and there in my bathroom, I was going to just take it all away.” I can’t stop the tears from running down my face. “I was so sure that if I swallowed everything in the bottle, it would be over.”
I can’t even fathom how he must have felt, how desolate one must feel to think they don’t matter. “Xavier,” I say his name.