Playing for Real - Book 2

Chapter 5

Cash 

My head's fucking pounding. Each hammering beat is a reminder of my shitty existence. I groan into the darkness of my empty room and roll onto my backside when a vision of Quinn and her sexy-as-sin body weaves its way into my mind.

Fuck if I know why the very thought of her makes me want to smash something into a million and one pieces. I destroyed us. I finally regained the capacity to love and let her in, only to have it crushed the second Daniela stepped off the plane and back into my life. How could I fuck everything up so horribly?

I stretch out my arm and fish for the bottle of Tylenol on my nightstand. Fumbling around, my hand knocks over the bottle, and it crashes down onto the floor. Well, fuck that. I can barely move. My head continues to pound, but my brain won't shut off.

Quinn was my first real sense of hope. A reason for me to break free from the fucked-up web of dysfunction I've created with the red-headed she-devil I once considered family. As the copious amounts of booze I drank last night begin to wear off, so does the false reality I've created where I didn't hide my past from the one person who made me feel whole again.

My chest tightens with regret. It's been over a month since Quinn walked out of my life, and I've been nothing but a broken, wild mess. I moved to Santa Anna and started my major career with the Tornadoes without Quinn by my side.

I've been killing it on the ice, but I've been spiralling out of control behind closed doors. When I'm playing hockey, my mind is on the game. I'm working overtime to focus on not screwing up my second chance at playing in the pros. But when I'm off the ice, my mind is lost in misery over Quinn. I'm a warped cluster fuck of internal agony. She won't answer my calls. She won't answer my texts.

A few days ago, I even went as far as booking a flight to Boston. In some fucked up part of my brain, I decided showing up unannounced to beg for her forgiveness would go over well. But once reality set in, I cancelled my flight. What could I possibly say to change her mind? She wants nothing to do with me, and I'm still tied to my past mistakes. I'm married even if I've never had a real wife. And honestly, Quinn deserves better than me. She always has. I should have told her the truth about Daniela ages ago, but I never thought I would fall so hard in love with her. I never thought it would come to this. And now here I am, lost without her.

You're dead to me.

Her words ring in my ears. I'm still haunted by the look on her face when Daniela called herself my wife. I never should have hidden our arrangement from Quinn. What was I thinking? Frustration fills me. I wish I'd told her everything, but I was too fucking much a coward to do so, and now look at what it cost me.

I'm losing my mind.

To cope, I've turned to the crutch I know best. I'm repeating the mistakes of the past with whiskey, rum, and scotch. I use team after-parties to feed my addiction, pretending like I'm still okay like alcohol doesn't control my life anymore. I tell my teammates and coaches it's just soda in my glass while three-quarters are filled with whiskey from a flask I've hidden in my vest. Chicks throw themselves at me, too: tits hanging out, eyes offering to let me take them any way I want, legs ready to spread with one crook of my finger. If it weren't for Quinn, I'd throw a different girl into the back of my limo every night and have someone join me on this downward spiral. But I can't do it anymore. I can't look at the puck bunnies and want them like I used to.

Instead, I push the women away and drink until a familiar numbing sensation tingles all over my body. Eventually, I climb into a limo, stumble into my condo, and flop on my bed. The room spins around me, I black out, and then I wake up the following day and hit repeat.