Chapter 9

Wade

I'm getting ready in my hotel suite that's my temporary home. Ezra and Myles arrived ten minutes ago and they are desperate to hit a club tonight as they are only in town for a couple of nights.

Standing in front of the mirror, I finish buttoning up my shirt just as Ezra takes a pull of his beer. "Are you sure you aren't drinking tonight?" he asks, lying on my bed.

"Positive. Soft drinks only." I'm not falling down that rabbit hole. I fucking hate drinking, and like I keep telling everyone, I only do it to forget.

I have a point to prove to myself and my support team… or care package, as Jordy, our Eagles' wingman, put it when I told him.

Jordan Miller, who we all call Jordy, is one of the few guys on the team I trust. Quiet, driven, and only recently split up with his girlfriend he had been with since high school. Unlike me, his head is screwed on right, and he didn't jeopardize his position on the team after she left him to pursue her career in Los Angeles as an actress. He was also injured last year but came back fighting this season. I like his spirit. While I'm hot headed, he's the complete opposite; calm and considered with his actions. On the ice, he intercepts passes and blocks shots with ease. He's a cool guy. I really like him.

Following the ambush, which was only six weeks ago, but feels like a lifetime, I was mad at Marcus's surprise intervention. When Jordy asked me to tell him how angry I was, I think he got his answer. I slammed my locker door shut, then punched it, leaving a dent.

He just chuckled, then informed me in his calm voice that it was what I needed.

I was seething for weeks.

I've mellowed since then. Maybe.

That urge to get angry and lash out lurks in the darkest corners of my sanity, like a troll under a bridge, but I'm learning to tame it. With the assistance of Joe and Thomas, it's not needing to be fed as much. I hope that continues.

It's helping.

I know it is.

Myles exits the en suite, cupping his junk and rearranging himself after taking a piss. "You've never been on a night out with us and not had a drink before, and you don't have a game tomorrow. What's up with that?" He grabs Ezra's beer and takes a swig.

Pulling my shoulders to my ears, I give them a non-answer. "Just don't feel like it."

They both stare at my reflection, looking back at them in the mirror, and I know they can tell I'm lying.

They'll get it out of me eventually, so I might as well come clean.

"Okay." I spin around and stuff my hands into the front pockets of my black jeans. "They're going to kick me off the team and transfer me to some deadbeat one if I don't get my shit together."

"No fucking way," Ezra exclaims at the same time Myles says, "They can't move you out of Canada."

"Marcus can and will," I confirm, pushing Myles' shoes off the bedcovers. Something Gretchen was a stickler for. No dirty shoes on the bed. I rub my chest as emotion weighs it down, but after the last few weeks of therapy, it feels a little easier to cope with. I know I won't drown in it.

"Well, if that's what you have to do, then no drinking. I don't want you to move from Canada or not be an Eagle anymore. I like our free tickets for the finals. Fucking hate Marcus for not letting you drink tonight though," Ezra jokes.

I point at him, then motion to the space around us. "He pays me well enough to stay here and pay for all your drinks tonight."

"Fucking love that guy." Chuckling, Ezra takes back his last words. "It's about time you got your act together and prove to him you want to stay. It's all you've ever wanted." He looks around my hotel suite. "And when the hell are you going to find a house? You can't stay here forever."

I look around the space, which is pretty great. While it has a kitchen, living and office area, and a bar, it's wasting my money.

Renting made sense to me before, but doesn't now. I need to go house hunting and find a permanent place to rest my weary body after games.

A place that feels like home because this place doesn't.

"I'll contact a realtor on Monday," I confirm.

"Great." Ezra jumps to his feet and rubs his hands together. "Pussy pad for Wade."

I scrunch up my nose. "Fuck off."

"Party pad then? For when we visit, which means we don't have to stay with our parents, which is what you've made us do this time." Myles looks hopeful, his eyes wide and dancing with humor.

Meaning he can't hook up with a girl if she doesn't have her own place. I raise my eyebrows. Some things never change. "You were here for Thanksgiving to visit family. Not to hook up with girls."

Both still single, Ezra and Myles moved away from Edmonton straight after high school. Ezra is currently in his third year of residency to become a cardiothoracic surgeon and lives in Toronto. I would ask him if he could fix my heart, but I don't want him to see how broken it is.

And Myles, well, Myles moved to Seattle as soon as high school was over and is still trying to make it as a singer-songwriter. I'm hoping he still has a chance. It's been seven years, and he's still plugging away, trying to make ends meet as an open mic singer and guitarist. That's why I help him out from time to time, as does Ezra. Myles is our boy, and we would hate to see him go without.

"Let's hope the hottest girl in the club tonight has her own place." Myles runs his hands through his blond hair, pulling off the perfect grungy surfer look without effort.

I roll my eyes. One-night stands are so not my thing. Learned my lesson there. Don't sleep with the crazies or puck bunnies.

Fuck to the no.

"Which club are we going to?" Ezra finishes his beer and sits his empty bottle on the nightstand.

"I booked a VIP booth at Euphoria." I pick my phone up and push it into the back pocket of my jeans.

"Nice one." Ezra nods, seemingly impressed with my choice. It's the best nightclub in town, and the VIP area keeps any puck bunnies who might be out on the prowl at bay.

The suite door unlocks and Lola strides in looking like a breath of fresh air before the door shuts behind her.

"Only me. I have your dry cleaning. Thought you might want to wear it to… night." She smiles as she enters my bedroom, noticing I already picked out a shirt. Bought it this afternoon, actually. First time I've been shopping for months.

"It's new." I pinch the fabric.

"I can see that." Drawing an invisible line up my body. "That shade of black suits you."

Her sarcasm doesn't go unnoticed. "Spicier tonight, Ms. Ramsay."

She rolls her eyes at me, which she often does.

Looking over at my friends, she waves casually. "Hey."

"S'up." They both greet her in sync, and I love how cool they are trying to play it.

Turning her back to them, Lola opens my wardrobe and then hangs up my dry cleaning.

"Thank you for doing that." It's weird having someone do things for you. It's been six weeks and I'm still not accustomed to it.

Dismissing me with a gentle flick of her hand, she says, "Stop thanking me for everything. It's my job." Closing the wardrobe, she runs through a list of things she's prepared, including food for the weekend, printed out my training schedule for next week, and a whole bunch of other stuff I trust her to have under control. I watch her cast her gaze around the room.

"No drinking tonight. Promise. Or I might have to sneak into the club every half hour and check up on you."

"Promise," I swear, and hold my hand up in a scout's honor gesture.

Got to hand it to Marcus. Lola is efficient and nice to have around. Full of chatter and laughter, she's a ball of fucking sunshine I didn't think I needed. She's fun, overshares way too much, and I know practically everything about her. Including how she's allergic to shellfish, what her and her fiancé are having for dinner every night, and what season and episode they are on of Grey's Anatomy. Season ten, episode five, in case you're wondering.

Scratching her head beneath the gray woolen hat she's wearing with two huge white fluffy pom-poms on top that make her look like she has Minnie Mouse ears. Her brow dips in the middle. "I think that's everything, is it?" She taps her finger against her bottom lip. "Oh, and Kali called with a couple of proposed dates for the test photoshoot with Calvin Klein. Pick one and she will book it. She needs to know pretty soon because she's tagging along. Knows the photographer or something. It's all on your desk. If you could look through those before Monday, that would be super helpful. And that is it." Clasping her hands in front of her, she claps them together, then looks at my friends, who can't take their eyes off her.

She's pretty. I can see the appeal. She's a fucking catch and a half.

Graham, that's her fiancé, did well. Really well. Met him too. Cool guy. Owns a custom sneaker shop and resells retro and hard to buy kicks. Might go there tomorrow for a browse. Not that I need a pair, but I saw a pair of Virgil Abloh Converse on his website I could see myself wearing.

Graham's a lucky man because Lola is like a super fiancée on steroids. The wedding they are having is all organized. Nothing left to do, and it's in two years. Two fucking years' time. Who knows what they are doing that far in advance? I've only just thought about what I might do on my day off tomorrow.

However, I'm glad Lola is in my life. She lifts every low mood I've been in. Doesn't entertain my not in the mood for talking moments or my need for quiet. Ignoring those days, she plays music when I don't want to listen to it but then find myself humming along and then laughing at the ridiculous dancing she proceeds to perform. She even suggested we do a TikTok dance together. Fuck knows how she talked me into that shit, but it was fun, and I laughed for what felt like the first time since hell froze over. Views went nuts and got her thousands of new followers. She also somehow managed to get me to spill the beans on my life. She knows where I grew up, who raised me, how I got drafted, she asked about my mom. Didn't tell her much because she didn't push. Might have though, if she did.

Don't know how she does it, but she's like magic or something.

Worryingly, I've caught her staring at me for moments longer than I like. I haven't figured out if she's still a bit starstruck or if she's simply making sure I'm okay and reporting back to Marcus on my well-being. Only time will tell, I guess.

"So, what club are you off to this evening?" She looks between the three of us.

"Euphoria," I answer because somehow Myles and Ezra seem to have lost their voices.

"Wow. That place is awesome. Been once."

"I'll get you and Graham VIP seats the next time."

Eyeballs almost falling out of her sockets, she gawks at me. "Really?"

"Yeah."

Unexpectedly, she bolts over to me, and I think she's about to wrap herself around me, but then stops herself and awkwardly holds her hand out for me to shake. "Thank you." She pumps my hand up and down and it's way too formal and out of character for her. It's weird. "Don't listen to what anyone says. You're a good man," she says, quickly stepping back, and I don't miss her glazed-looking eyes before she turns away from me and bolts for the door. "See you Monday." She sniffs, but she doesn't turn back. "Have a nice time tonight." Then she's gone.

What the hell was that all about?

She has a boyfriend. She doesn't like me, does she? Oh, no. Is that why she stares? That can't happen. I like her but don't like her, like her. Not like that anyway.

"Who. The. Hell. Is. That?" Myles finally finds his voice.

"That is my assistant. Lola." I bite my lip, knowing how they'll react.

Ezra's jaw drops. "You have an assistant who looks like that? How do you get any work done?" Ezra is a sucker for a blond. Sucker for any type, actually.

"And a Calvin Klein shoot? Who the hell have you become?" Myles' eyes dance with humor.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as an onslaught of abuse comes my way.

"He thinks he's fucking Beyoncé or some shit," Ezra adds, pointing at me with so much cheer in his voice, I know he's screwing with me.

I hold my hands out to the side and explain, "Marcus hired her. She's looking after all the shit I don't have time for, to make my life easier or something. He's making me see people."

"See people?" In sync, they both clarify, as if confused.

I close my eyes and scrunch my face up. "I have a grief counselor I see every week; a sports psych, and I'm doing one-on-one training with Ash." Fuck, that feels like a huge confession, but also is a huge weight off my shoulders.

"Well, it's about goddamn time." Myles commends me.

"Trust me, it wasn't my idea." I finally look at them both again.

Myles is relieved for me. I know because his shoulders drop and he tilts his head to the side. "Whoever's idea it was, it's a great step in the right direction in helping you move forward."

"You've been stuck," Ezra says, adding, "With your fist in people's faces, mostly."

I chuckle. He's not wrong. Finding solace in the bottom of a bottle too, but he doesn't add that.

Staring at me, knowing they don't have to say they are happy that I am finally getting the help I need but didn't want, I tilt my chin in acknowledgment.

Fuck getting sentimental. Now is not the time.

I spin around, grab my bottle of aftershave, and spray another layer on.

"Oh, give me some of that." Myles grabs it out of my hand and sprays it all over himself, unaware it's one of the most expensive aftershaves in the world.

Idiot.

"I've ordered an Uber." Ezra looks up from his phone and I can't help thinking how tired he looks every time I see him. Training to be a surgeon seems like hard work and this is the first weekend he's had off in months. Poor guy deserves a night of letting loose.

"The entire evening is on me," I say out loud. "My treat tonight. Drink, food, anything."

"A hotel room for me if I want to take a girl home?" Myles looks at me hopefully with a cheeky smile and I laugh with a nod of my head.

"Why not?" I shrug. He deserves a treat too.

"Fuck, yeah." He punches the air. "Let's go, boys."