Page 22 of The Other Side of Wild
“Alright, boys, we’ve got our first road trip of the season. Shipping out to take on The Cascades this weekend. Wilder, do you have any inside info you’d like to share with the group since that’s your old team?” Coach Stevens asks from the middle of the locker room. I hear him, but it’s like he’s on the other side of a wall. It’s distorted and muffled, and I struggle to get my bearings. My heart rate shot up the second he mentioned Washington.
“Wilder? You alright, buddy?” Reed asks as his elbow meets my ribs. My eyes track to his, but I don’t really see him. He’s just a shadow, a hologram of my captain. “Hey, snap out of it.” He starts to snap his fingers in front of my face.
Shaking my head, I try to pull myself together. “Sorry. They have one defenseman, Callaghan, who plays with a chip on his shoulder. Always looking to push the envelope to see how close to illegal he can make a play. But other than that, they play fair. I don’t have bad blood with any of them.” My chest is heaving; those dreaded white spots are popping up in my vision like stars twinkling in the night sky. I don’t say anything else; I just get up and walk to the showers.
Way to go, Wilder. You can’t even hold yourself together long enough to get through practice.Damn it. I hate the stupid inner voice that picks the most inopportune times to pipe up, like an annoying parrot sitting on your shoulder, constantly reminding you of all the things you believe about yourself, digging the hole of self-doubt even deeper.
Turning on the water, I leave it on the coldest setting and step under it. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let the icy spray seep into my pores. Grounding me to the moment, pulling me back from the slide I started down. The stars that dotted my vision minutes before slowly disappeared. I thought I was past this; it’s like I’ve taken 10 steps forward and 100 back.
The lies, the manipulation, the utter disrespect that I associate with Washington. Who would have thought an athlete would be brought to his knees in a locker room full of his teammates over the crap he went through with his ex? Grabbing a towel, I dry off my hair, take my shirt off, and then wrap the towel around my waist. Getting myself dry enough to walk to where my other clothes are is an unexpected feat.
“You alright, man?” Monroe asks as he leans against the wall on the other side of the room. The dude is my roommate for away games this season; there’s no point in trying to hide it.
“Honestly? My brain and my body are at war with one another. I’m exhausted.” My hand moves from the back of my head down my face; I’m so disappointed in myself.
“Need someone to listen?” Crossing the room, he sits on one of the benches in the middle. He’s decked out in Hawks gear. Black sweatpants with our logo on one of the legs, a windbreaker-type jacket with that same logo plastered on the back, and his hair is pushed back with one of those elastic headband things. He leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees, looking up at me with eyes that remind me of a begging puppy.
I let out a breath and siton the bench across from him, leaning back against the lockers. “I dated this girl.” He chuckles.
“It’s always a girl.” His face becomes more somber when I don't laugh with him.
Looking up at the ceiling, I try to focus on the freedom I feel now like Dr. Williams told me to, but man it’s humiliating. “She was the perfect picture of what an athlete's wife should be. She had a good job nice friends. She was independent, didn’t party much.” Scoffing, I let my head slam back into the lockers. “Man, she had me fooled.”
It wasn’t always bad. There were times I swore she loved me for me, scars and all. There were times when she was attentive and caring, and she didn’t make me feel like a burden. Like when I’d come home from practice and she’d have dinner waiting so I didn’t have to cook. Or the times she took days off to spend with me just becauseIhad a day off for once.
Maybe one day I’ll understand why I stayed for so long. Looking back, I don’t even know who I was before her. She’s made me doubt everything I thought I knew about myself.
I filled him in on the multitude of ways this woman sunk her claws into me until there was nothing left but a shiny Ken doll that she could pose however she wanted. She always knew exactly how to make me out to be the bad guy; no matter what happened, the blame fell on me. Some days, it feels like a dream, like I didn’t actually live it.
“Dang dude, that’s rough. Does she still try to reach out to you?” There’s no judgment in his voice, just genuine curiosity. It doesn’t feel as heavy as it did twenty minutes ago. Maybe Dr. Williams is on to something, and I should be talking about this.
“She hadn’t for a while. But she started texting me from random numbers every couple of days for the last month. But I don’t have anything to say to her. There’s nothing she could do that could pull the wool back over my eyes.” That’s the dang truth. She may have gotten away with making me feel like my only worth outside of being an athlete was waiting on her hand and foot, but on the other side, I see her for what she was—an opportunist.
“Let me see a picture; I’ll make sure to punt her to Alaska if I see her.” A gruff bark of laughter makes its way out of my throat; I’d pay to see that. “Do you still suffer? With depression, I mean, or was it a one-off thing?”
“Nah, it’s never been a one-off, sadly.” I run the towel over my hair as I continue, “Panic attacks or me lashing out are more common than a full-on depressive slip. If I don’t get a handle on it right away, it can get really bad really fast.”
This is the part where my brain and body duke it out. Sometimes, I crave the dark; I crave the pain—the bone-crushing, soul-torturing, unexplainable sorrow. What I’d really like to figure out is what the heck is wrong with me because I don’t know anyone who struggles with this beast and actually craves it.
“What can I do to help? What are the signs other than the ones we just saw.” My eyebrows shoot to my hairline; this is new. Someone wanting to help, who wants to know the signs? I can’t stand to be inside my head most of the time; why would anyone else want part in that?
My hand meets the back of my neck, and I give it a harsh squeeze. “Usually, the first sign is that my breathing picks up, and I need something to keep me anchored to the present. It’s why I stay back on the ice after practice. Cold usually works; dump water on my head or something, I don’t know. If I get irritable, just slap me on the back of my head. I feel guilty every time anyway, and that leads to a different kind of suck.” A humorless chuckle breaks the beat of silence before I look back up at my teammate.
“I got your back, Wilder. Just let me know what you need. And seriously, I’ll kick your prick of an ex in the teeth if we see her.” His hand comes down hard on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before walking back towards the front of the locker room.
Letting my head fall back against the lockers again, I take a few deep breaths. I don’t need to be worried about Kara; I’ve got a good team behind me. I’ve got a solid family and a pretty redhead with a killer smile in my corner. I don’t have the energy for this again; it’s time to put the past behind me. This is the absolute last time I’m letting that woman affect my life.
Chapter 12 – Hannah
A knock on my door wakes me from the deepest sleep I’ve had in a very long time. I’m talking, drool running down my cheek; my eyes feel like they’re cemented shut, and I don’t know what day it is. “Yeah?” I call out; the door opens, and Abby sticks her head in. Her eyes are the size of a cartoon character. Am I missing something here? I roll over to my nightstand and tap my phone; it’s only 8:12 AM; where’s the fire?
“Uhh, you might want to make yourself presentable before you come out here.” Again, it’s 8 AM, for pity’s sake; why do I need to look presentable? Before I had time to protest, a very loud, very male voice sounded from the living room.
“I brought you coffee, Kitten. Extra peppermint, super cold!” Now it’s my turn to have my eyes that pop out of my head. What the frick is he doing here? And why is he interrupting my beauty sleep? I jump out of bed and rush into the bathroom, running through my morning routine at lightning speed. I throw my hair up in a bun on the top of my head and put some clothes on that are better suited for early morning surprise guests than my pajamas.
Walking out into the living room, I realize it’s not just Greyson; there’s a guy standing next to him who looks oddly similar but with black hair. Their eyes are identical, though; this must be his brother. “Dozer, to what do I owe this early morning surprise?” My tone is light as to not show my aggravation.
I’m greeted by a smile from Grey and a confused look from the guy I don’t know. “What’s a dozer?” Abby snorts, eyes darting to the floor, trying to avoid his gaze.