Not Yet （31）

Fifty-seven miles.

That's how far Ryan had gotten into his 115-mile drive to Worcester before having to pull over the Hyundai Tucson he'd rented.

Luckily, there was a rest stop nearby as soon as he felt it coming on, so he quickly exited the highway, found a secluded spot, and reclined his seat back. Trying some of the new techniques he'd gone over with Dr. Gephart, his therapist, he took a few deep breaths and repeated, "This is going to pass. This is going to pass."

But it wasn't passing.

"You can also focus on your happy place," she'd told him. "Think about where you feel most relaxed, most calm."

He closed his eyes, picturing himself on the ice as a kid. Growing up in Minnesota, his dad flooded the backyard every winter so he had a place to practice, and when he thought about his happiness, that's where it was: the silent, frozen world where he was still the star, where his dad was still alive, where hockey was still fun, and where his heart was still intact. This used to be his happy place.

But it wasn't anymore.

He couldn't get his breathing to slow down, and he'd begun to sweat through his shirt. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he tore his jacket off and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He reached into the cup holder for his phone, and his first instinct was to call her.

But he knew he couldn't.

The next option was Luke, who picked up on the third ring.

"What's goin' on, Ry?"

"Luke? I…fucked up. I really…fucked up!" he cried into the phone.

"Are you OK? Where are you?"

"Um…" He looked around. "Somewhere near…Hartford, I think."

"What's wrong? You having a panic attack?"

"Yes."

"Put me on speaker." Luke walked him through the grounding steps, and as he'd gotten down to one, he felt his breathing begin to return to normal. "How you feeling?"

"Better," he said quietly, putting his seat back up and running his hands through his sweat-soaked hair. "I'm OK now."

"So what's goin' on?"

Ryan told him everything he'd purposely kept a secret the last few times they'd spoken: the failed open relationship, the threesomes with Kaylie and Hayes, the breakup, the therapy, Hayes's NHL debut, the fight, and his reassignment to the Railers. "In like, two months, I've somehow managed to completely fuck up every aspect of my entire life, Luke. And I don't have the first clue how to fix any of it."

"Ry, sometimes you can't fix it. Sometimes you have to just play the hand you've been dealt and move forward. Look at Mom. Think she ever thought she'd be a widow in her early 40's? She didn't fix that, but she's moving forward."

"I don't understand how I can love her so much when there's nothing we can do to make it work. And I hate that she's so close to him. It makes me sick."

Luke exhaled. "How sure are you that you love her? Are you sure you're not just infatuated with her? You don't…no offense, Ry, but you don't have a whole lot of experience in this field."

He didn't really have a good answer. "I just know."

"Maybe this two-week break from her is a good thing. See if you still feel the same way after not talking to her at all."

"I wanna call her," he said, hanging his head. "I know I shouldn't, I know I said I wouldn't, but I want to."

"Don't do that, man. You have to give yourself some space."

"I know what's gonna happen. She's gonna be with Hayes this whole time I'm away, and the thought of it is driving me fucking insane."

"Then don't think about it. Seriously. You're going to a new city, you're single. You'll find plenty to keep yourself busy."

"My therapist said I need to stop banging around so much."

"Yeah? Your therapist also said not to bang Amara anymore, and clearly, you didn't listen to that. You just need something to get your mind off it all, man. The only advice I can give you is to just take these next two weeks to focus on yourself. Put in the work in Worcester, and hopefully, that'll be it and you'll get back to Bridgeport."

"Thanks for talking to me. I appreciate it. I should probably get back on the road."

"Hey, can I ask you something without you getting all pissy with me?"

"Sure."

"You sure this is just about her?"

"I don't understand."

"You…Ry, you talk about her, but you talk about him just as much." He paused. "Probably more. Do you know that?"

"I don't…no. It's only because of her and him…no." He laughed uncomfortably, then paused. "Luke: I'm not…no."

"I mean, it's OK, Ryan. I wouldn't care, Mom wouldn't care. You…you know that, right?"

Ryan was silent.

"You know that, right?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"And if you ever wanna talk to me, about anything, you can. I mean it. Anything. You got it? I'm always here for you. Nothing you tell me could change that."

"I know that, too, Luke."

"Just making sure. Anyway, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"Probably sitting in a hotel room by myself." He snickered. "How pathetic is that?"

"It's not pathetic at all. You're an athlete who has to travel for his job. Happens all the time, man. Listen, Mom and I will FaceTime you tomorrow, OK? Seriously: focus on you. Try not to think about her, try not to think about him, and just focus on doing whatever you gotta do to get your ass the fuck back to Bridgeport. I love you, Ry."

"Love you too, Luke."

He hung up, composed himself, and put the car in drive, trying his best to ignore the part of the conversation he'd just had with Luke: the part he wasn't ready to face just yet.

He distracted himself with his Spotify "Fuck Everything: Part 2" playlist, alternating between screaming the lyrics and wondering what fresh hell awaited him a mere 57 more miles away.

???

"Check in for Baylor," he told the woman at the front desk of the Hilton at which he'd booked a room for the next two weeks. He thanked God the league was picking up the tab for it; otherwise, at 325 bucks a night, he'd be staying in a tent on the sidewalk.

"You're all set. It's been paid for, you just need to sign here."

"Thank you," he said, grabbing his key card and pushing his baggage cart down the hall towards the elevator. Mentally exhausted, he checked the time on his phone.

6:47 p.m.

"That's it?" he asked incredulously, feeling like it must've been at least midnight. All he wanted to do was get into his room and sleep, preferably straight through tomorrow, and wake up just in time for his first practice with the Railers on Friday.

The fucking ECHL.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, here he was in the lowest possible position he could be within the Islanders' organization. Though hard to show it, he was incredibly grateful that he hadn't been traded. The feeling he got was that while the coaching staff didn't think he really did anything wrong, there was pressure from above to "punish" him for daring to question them.

"Dude, you put in your two weeks, and they'll reassign you. Don't even sweat it. Same shit happened to me last year," Kasic had assured him before he'd left practice on Wednesday morning when he'd received the letter. "You'll be back in no time."

Once he'd unloaded all his bags in his room, he decided he'd return the luggage cart to the lobby before settling in for the night. As he stepped off the elevator and made his way to the front vestibule, he noticed a tiny blonde woman outside sitting on the wall along the hotel's drop-off and loading zone. She was wearing a short, tight red dress, just like the one Amara had worn to Excel, and she appeared to be upset.

Mind your fucking business, Baylor, he thought. You've got enough on your own plate at the moment.

But the dress had brought back so many intense feelings of their night together after they'd left Excel, resulting in a sudden, unexpected hard-on. Before he knew it, he was outside and making his way over to her. She was slumped over onto her hands, which rested on her knees, and crying.

"Hey," he said cautiously. "Is everything OK?"

"Fucking asshole!" she yelled, popping her head up and pounding her hands against the wall on either side of her hips.

He backed away slowly. "Sorry, my bad."

"No, I didn't…not you. My husband. My stupid fucking husband. You know, we came out here from Boston to spend Thanksgiving with my family, got all ready to go out for the night, and, of course, he starts a huge fucking fight. He left. Took his shit, took the car, and left me here. Told me to find my own ride home and won't pick up the phone. So, yeah." She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and looked at Ryan, who was staring blankly at her. "Sorry. You didn't need my whole life story."

"Nah, it's all good," he said, sitting down next to her. "That's kinda shitty."

"Ya think?" she laughed. "So, what's your deal, gorgeous?"

He snickered, shaking his head. "It'd take me the next two days to explain it. But I'm…not here because I wanna be, let's just say that much."

Don't do it.

Don't do it.

Don't do it.

Don't do it.

"Did you wanna, maybe…" he motioned towards the inside. "Grab a drink at the bar? You can vent more if you want. I'm a pretty good listener."

Fuck, Baylor.

"No," she replied quickly.

Taken aback, he got up. "Oh, OK then. Listen, have a good…"

"I don't want a drink, and I don't wanna vent," she said, getting up with him. "I'll go to your room with you, though."

"Yeah, let's go," he said without hesitation, turning to walk back inside.

She followed him to the elevator, where he pressed the button and they both stood awkwardly, waiting. "So what's your name?" he asked her.

"Does it really matter?" she asked, as the elevator doors opened and she stepped in, motioning for him to come inside. As the doors closed behind him, she leaned on the back of the elevator and he moved in, placing a palm above her head flat against the wall, and snaking the other around the back of her head as he brought his lips to meet hers. They kissed for a few seconds, and he could immediately taste the alcohol on her breath when the elevator hit the third floor and opened.

As he pulled away, he got a good look at her; she was cute, but he could tell she was older, probably about Amara's age. He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her down the hallway to his room.

"You sure you wanna do this?" she asked. "I'm probably old enough to be your mother. What are you, 25?"

He laughed, sliding his key card into the door, pushing it open, and extending his arm inside. "I'm 23. And yeah. I'm fucking sure."

"Good. I want you to destroy me, gorgeous."

"That won't be a problem."

She walked in, and he closed the door, locking all his thoughts of Amara and Hayes out in the hallway, if only for a little while.