“I understand, I just wish that things were different. I wish that as your mother, I could take away the pain that you’re feeling. I wish I could fix this.”
Shaking my head, I say, “But you can’t, Mom. That’s the truth, and it’s better if you accept it for what it is. I have. Dad has. He’s made his position on the matter more than apparent, and he’s standing by Beau, no matter what. Right or wrong.”
Tears well in her eyes, as she walks over to me, pulling me into her arms. “I’m sorry, Briggs. Your dad… He-Your dad loves you. I hope you know that, despite anything else, we both love you. So much.”
Most of the time when my mother comes over, we avoid talking about our family turmoil at all costs, so this conversation reopens old wounds, causing the pain to consume me once more. Not that it has ever gone away, not by any means; it’s more like a dull, aching kind of pain that’s always there, just under the surface.
“I’ll call you soon, okay?” I tell her.
She sniffles but pulls back, and quickly wipes away her tears. “You going anywhere for the off-season?”
I shrug, not really having thought about a vacation. “Probably not. I’m coaching the Mighty Pucks still, and we’re gearing up for games. Can’t miss it.”
“It makes me so happy that you’re still involved with those kids. I’m proud of you.” She gives me a quick hug, minus the tears this time, before picking her purse off the table in the foyer and walking toward the front door. “I know you can’t see it right now, but you’ve changed Briggs. I see it each time I look at you. Soon that pain in your heart will fade, and the kind of man you are, once that pain fades, is what matters. I love you.”
The door shuts behind her, and for the rest of the night, I keep replaying her words in my head.
What kind of man would I be once my soul wasn’t so charred and broken?
Two
I reread the article again, like I haven’t already memorized yet another jab from the girl who hides behind her keyboard. Maybe it shouldn’t bother me so much, but it fucking does. Partially because I don’t know who she is, and partially because she’s right.
It never fails. She always hits the nail on the head, driving it home, further making me feel like shit about something I’ve undoubtedly fucked up. Like it isn’t enough that I’ve done it to myself, the entire world has to partake in my downfall.
“I mean who does she think she is?” I grumble, my finger punching the screen angrily as I scroll. “Why me? Why single me out, out of all the assholes in the NHL?”
The anonymous sports blogger who calls herself THE Puck Bunny has been making my life hell since the day she discovered I was someone who would make her job easier. She mostly reports on stats, hockey scores and hockey related gossip, but for whatever reason, she hates me. And I don’t just mean a strong dislike, I mean she loathes me. Every single time she’s mentioned my name on that damn site, it’s been to drag it through the mud and I can’t figure out why she’s so damn fixated on me.
“You give her enough shit to write about, she’s gonna keep writing it, duh.” Graham shrugs then groans, deep and dramatically. The controller in his hand goes flying when he dies, yet again, on whatever game he’s playing on the Xbox. It narrowly misses the seventy-inch flat screen on my wall and I narrow my eyes at him. Best friend or not, don’t fuck with my man cave, especially not my tv.
“If you break my tv with your rage problems, you’re buying me another one. Ten inches bigger. No, make it twenty.” I toss back the rest of my beer before setting the bottle back on the table in front of me. “And who cares about what I do? Out of all the athletes in the world, she chooses me to focus her bitter bullshit on.”
"Who even said it’s a girl? Don’t be sexist, Briggs.” Hudson, my other best friend, and defenseman for the Avalanches, shakes his head. "I mean, you can assume because she uses lips in her signature, but it could be a guy in touch with his feminine side. I’m just saying.”
Shit, I never thought about that. But then again, I try my best not to think about her at all. Which she seemingly makes impossible since I’m the trending topic on her site more often than not. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I have a keyword alert set up to show when she’s posted about me.
“It’s definitely a girl. She uses that kiss print and everything’s pink. Totally a girl,” Graham adds.
“Okay, whoever the fuck it is, I just wish they’d focus on someone else. Drives me nuts that she always has to be in my business.”
“Then, tell her about it.”
We all look at Asher, who’s on the opposite end of the couch, reading some kind of horror novel and doing his best to ignore Graham’s homicidal gamer tendencies next to him. It’s pretty comical how different all of us are, and even still, they are the best friends I’ve ever had. The only ones I’ve ever trusted. Hell, they’ve picked me up from rock bottom. They are my family, even if it isn’t by blood and they had proved it time and time again.
“What?”
Asher shrugs. “If you’re that sick of her shit, tell her about it. There’s a contact page on her website.”
“Hell yeah, now that’s the kind of entertainment I need on a Sunday night,” Graham says.
Jesus Christ.
“On the list of shit we should not do tonight, further provoking the girl who obviously already has it out for me is probably not the best idea,” I tell them.
Hudson shakes his head and rises from the recliner. “No, Asher’s right. Maybe that’s what she wants? She’s been fucking with you for ages, maybe she wants you to contact her. She obviously does this to get a rise out of you, or at least that’s what I think.”
“What I think, is that you dicks are thinking way too much about this. Briggs hasn’t exactly been a star pupil; he’s been knee deep in shit for the past couple of years. It’s not hard to focus on the person fucking up when you literally run a blog dedicated to hockey players and the scandalous shit that they do,” Graham interjects.
“Thanks, asshole. Don’t forget you’re the rookie, and I can kick your ass at any time,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “Also, your best friend. And plus, it’s true.”
So what, maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m a hot fucking mess, but I’ve got a legitimate reason. Not that it makes it any better. It’s not like I haven’t been trying to get my shit together, not that anyone has probably even noticed, but I’ve come a long fucking way in the past few years. Not far enough, not yet anyway. But at least I’m trying.
I’m fucking trying.
I glance back down at the blog post on my phone.
One of the last posts about me is titled “NHL bad boy cleaning up his act with… Youth hockey?” And that shit pisses me off. Why take something legitimately good that I’m doing and make a fucking mockery of it?
"I think you should do it,” Asher reiterates. “Either way, she’ll realize that you’re actually reading this shit and you’re not just a name but a person with feelings.”