3. Holly

Chapter 3

Holly

May

The monster won.

The Harriers GM, a new guy who I didn’t even know well, had assured me they’d have my back in what he termed my mental health journey. Then, in the same speech, he’d given me three options. The team could put me on waivers. Offer me in a trade—for what that was worth. Or I could retire.

I didn’t have a choice.

I wanted to hold onto my pride, to say that retiring had been my choice. But stepping away didn’t mean my connection to the Harriers was completely severed. They’d brought in a representative from the NHL Players’ Assistance Program—Roland Gentry—who was here to walk me through the support the system could offer someone like me.

Fucked. Finished. Done.

Despite the heating, the Harriers conference room was cold, and I stared over the empty rink. It had been my home, my sanctuary, about the only thing I could call safe—but now I was losing it.

A wave of panic gripped me, tightening around my chest like a vise. My breath caught, and I had to fight the urge to get up and bolt from the room. My heart raced, and sweat gathered at the back of my neck, cold and clammy as though my body couldn’t decide whether to freeze or burn. The air felt too thick, as though I was breathing through a straw, and I had to swallow hard to keep the nausea at bay. My fingers dug into the chair, the one thing holding me anchored at the gut-wrenching realization I was about to lose everything I knew.

Oscar sat beside me, ever my calm and professional agent, and probably the single person who knew how close I was to snapping in two. He’d tried to take the secret of my fragile mental health to the grave for many reasons, not least of which was the money he’d make on my ten million-a-year contract.

Gentry sat across from me in this plain, quiet room, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure how to feel. He didn’t act much like the big-shot consultant the league had sent to help players “get back on track.” No stern posture, no judgmental scowl—just a calm, grounded presence that made it hard to look away. He had one of those expressions that never showed he was fazed by anything, a slight smile tucked at the corner of his mouth speaking more of understanding than pity.

His eyes showed gentleness as he watched me, which should have made me relax, but it didn’t. Because under that warmth, I saw something else—a glint of steel. He wasn’t just here to pat me on the shoulder. His gaze had a firmness, a subtle message telling me he’d seen more than his fair share of screw-ups like me. Whatever excuse I might have thrown at him, he’d heard it before, and he wasn’t about to let me get away with it. Roland Gentry might have been sympathetic, but he wasn’t soft.

“The program has helped many people, Paul,” he said, his voice steady and warm but with a core of honesty that cut to the bone. There was no sugarcoating, no hiding behind pleasantries. He was offering me something real, something that had helped a lot of players before me, and yet… I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling me the whole story.

“Holly. Call me Holly.”

“Okay, Holly.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, smiling gently. “I know it’s a lot to take in. This is your career, your life,” he said, his voice even. “And no one’s here to force you. But you already know what needs to change.”

There it was again—that unspoken steel. He wasn’t here to judge, but he also wasn’t here to indulge me. He was offering me a lifeline, but he wouldn’t let me sink if I refused to grab it—he’d drag me kicking and screaming until the choice was taken away from me.

I sat back, my chest tightening, unsure if I wanted to thank him or tell him to leave me alone. He made it sound as simple as saying yes, and I’d have this invisible support behind me, but at the same time, he knew better than to pretend it would be easy.

He held up a mirror with just a few words, showing me the mess I’d become.

My thoughts were a tangled web of dread and resignation, and the monster in me caused a tremor. My heel tapped, and my knee wobbled, hidden under the table where no one could see.

“Do you need some water?” Gentry nudged a glass toward me.

My chest tightened, and my breath came in shallow bursts as if the air had thickened, making it impossible to get enough. My palms grew slick with sweat, and a faint tremor worked into my fingers despite my best effort to keep them steady. I knew I needed to find my happy place and focus on something calm, something familiar. But the moment I tried, the panic surged even harder, like a dam breaking. My defenses crumbled as quickly as I built them, and the spiral pulled me down.

I’d been Captain of the Harriers for five years, led them to two Stanley Cups wearing the C , and no one could ever take those achievements away from me.

But… the cheers, celebrations, and pure euphoria felt like a lifetime ago. The walls closed in, and my chest hurt as reality snapped and bit at me.

“What would you like to do?” Gentry asked me.

I glanced at Oscar, who probably saw his cash cow becoming worthless as the minutes ticked by. I told you so , my monster preened. You’re shit.

“I’d like this not to be happening,” I murmured.

I was being cut loose and was now alone to deal with a head full of snarling, monstrous self-hate. Losing games had eaten away at my mental health, and that deteriorated mental health had destroyed whatever I had left of my skills.

“Everything will be okay,” Gentry reassured me.

Okay ? It wasn’t okay. I was far from fucking okay.

Oscar touched my leg again, a silent reminder I wasn’t alone in this, but it didn’t help. Not really. I was thirty-three years old, the captain of a team I’d imagined I'd lead, or at least play for, until I retired in some nebulous future, and now they were telling me it was over.

That I was done.

“I have some information for you,” Gentry murmured, his tone calm and steady, all kinds of caring and supportive, as he passed over a glossy booklet I assumed held all the details of the miraculous place they sent all the fucked-up NHL players. His words felt like a lifeline in the storm raging inside me. “You’re not alone in this, Holly. The Phoenix Wellness Center is a good place to start—designed for players like you. The counselors understand the pressure and weight of your life, and they’ll help you find your footing again.”

I stared at him, trying to believe the sincerity in his voice, the quiet conviction that made it sound so simple. Maybe I wasn’t beyond saving after all.

“I said I was retiring—why do I need help?” I was so confused, and I turned to Oscar. “Having to do this shit isn’t mandatory if I’m not playing anymore, right?”

“Right,” Oscar defended, although he seemed uncertain. My monster lurched inside me.

Gentry nodded at the question. “The program is designed to be a supportive, non-judgmental resource rather than a mandatory requirement.”

“So, I don’t have to do it,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I don’t have CTE, no major concussions left untreated, nothing like that.”

“I know.”

“But you still think this is what I need?” I waved the brochure.

He tilted his head and examined me. “Yes.”

“I need to… I have to…” I had to get out of there before losing my composure. I slammed the door shut behind me and broke into a run as soon as I hit the familiar, empty corridors. With a wave at George, the security guy who never questioned my fumbled landing, I vaulted the gate at the players’ exit. I heard Oscar shouting, but I was racing out of the parking lot in my car before he could catch me. I might be mentally fucked, but I was still an athlete who worked out every day.

My monster pushed me to head for the hills and away from people. I held it together as I drove aimlessly up to the John Boyd Thacher State Park, finding a quiet lookout where I could see the entire city spread out below. I sat there in my car for so long, that the streetlights of Albany flickered like distant stars, the sunset casting long shadows over the skyline. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed—the entire day had slipped by, and now the darkness was settling in. The weight of everything pressed down on me, suffocating. My hands shook as I fumbled with the bottle of medication, popping a pill and swallowing it dry. I closed my eyes, leaning back, waiting for the familiar numbness to wash over me, to dull the sharp edges of the thoughts swirling in my head.

My cell buzzed, and for a split second, I felt a surge of hope, thinking maybe—just maybe—it was someone who could pull me out of this spiral. But then I saw Kai’s name on the screen, and all I felt was shame. I let it ring, staring at the name, willing it to stop. It didn’t. Again, it rang. And again. Kai was persistent, always had been. He was my best friend. He knew me too well.

The fourth time, I caved and answered, my voice rough. “Yeah?”

“So, your retirement announcement is on the NHL app,” he said, his voice partly obscured by what sounded like rushing wind in the background.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight, choking on words that wouldn’t come. I could barely manage a whisper. “Yeah…”

“Holly?”

“I’m okay,” I said way too fast. The words were forced; if I used them enough, they might become true.

There was a pause on the other end, which meant Kai wasn’t buying a single word of it, and I heard a ticking, like a turn signal. Was he calling me from his car? That would explain the whooshing sounds.

“We’re about an hour from you,” he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Bailey is with me.”

“No!” I snapped, my voice harsher than I meant. “I don’t need you to do that!” My hand tightened around the wheel, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep it together. “I’m just tired. I need to sleep. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” Kai said, his voice softer now, as if he was trying to coax the truth out of me. “You haven’t been okay in a long time, Holly.”

I let out a humorless laugh that had more self-deprecation than anything else. “Fuck you, Kai!” I snapped, and immediately regretted it. “Shit. I’m sorry. I…”

“It’s okay?—”

“It’s not okay! I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. My head isn’t working right. I’m all over the place. I’m not surprised the Harriers don’t want me. For fuck’s sake, we were dying out there every fucking game.”

Kai didn’t miss a beat. “That’s not all on you.”

That hit me like a punch to the gut. My throat tightened, and before I knew it, the tears came, stinging, hot and fast. I gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles were white, and I tried damn hard to keep my voice level. “What else can I do if I’m not even good at that?”

Kai was quiet for the longest time, and then he sighed. “We’ll figure it out, okay? You don’t have to do it alone.” His voice softened further, as if he knew I was unraveling.

“I want to be alone!”

“Holly, shit?—”

I hung up before I could fall apart and admit just how lost I was. I threw the phone onto the passenger seat, ignored his return call, and sat until it was dark before heading home. Kai was my best friend, but although he was the only person I might be tempted to talk to right now, he’d left the team and moved to the middle of nowhere, Vermont.

He’d left me.

Inside my house, I slid down the wall next to the front door and curled into a ball on the floor, my back pressed against the cold wood. The weight of everything came crashing down on me—my entire life unraveling piece by piece—everything so black. Hopeless. I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to keep myself together, but it was useless. The emptiness, the loneliness, consumed me, and I let it for the first time in a long time. There was no one here to see, no one left to judge, so I fell apart in the one place I could, wishing that somehow, in the silence, I’d find the strength to get back up.

My cell vibrated repeatedly; there were some calls from Kai, some other notifications, and the part of me that wasn’t attached to reality stared at the headlines in the sports press and Albany media, each more brutal than the last.

‘Paul Hollister: Where Did It All Go Wrong?’

‘Captain No More: Paul Hollister Enters Player Assistance Program Amidst Career Collapse.’

‘Hollister’s Glory Days Were Long Over – What’s Next for the Failing Star?’

‘Hollister on the Outs: The Harriers Prepare for Life Without Their Failing Leader.’

The words blurred together, my eyes struggling to focus as I scrolled through the endless garbage stream. It felt as if they were ripping my life apart piece by piece, and the worst part was they weren’t wrong. Everything they said, everything they hinted at—it was all true.

I had failed.

The Harriers were my team, and I’d failed them.

I could barely breathe, the room spinning as the panic I’d been holding back threatened to consume me, but the beeping of my security lock at the gate cut through the chaos. Who was letting themselves in? Oscar had the code, and a couple of my ex- girlfriends. I scrambled to stand, ready to tell everyone to leave me the fuck alone, yanking open the door and seeing it wasn’t my agent or any of my exes.

Kai was there. He looked ragged, an SUV behind him with Bailey in the passenger seat. Had they come all the way here from their tiny Christmas town? To do what?

“You don’t know my code,” I said as if that was the important thing here.

He raised an eyebrow. “5959. Same as your locker code. Your jersey number. Twice.”

“Shit.”

He’d always been the one person I could count on, no matter what, the only one who I let see my mental health for what it was—fragile and broken. Even now, when I felt as though the world was crumbling around me, he was right here. I blinked. Nothing made sense, and an awful dread crept inside, and when he stepped close and held out his arms, I fell into his hold.

“It’s okay, Hols, I’m here.”

I didn’t say anything; I didn’t need to. Kai knew. He always knew.