Out of Play

It’ll be my last one. No more.

Why didn’t I tell Gramps I loved him, too?

I dump them into my shaking hand and toss I don’t even know how many into my mouth. The rest fall to the floor and scatter. Stumbling, I go to the bathroom, then turn on the tap.

What am I doing? I don’t want to do this.

I need this.

I cup my hands, fill them with water, and drink down the pills and liquid before sliding down the wall and hitting the floor.

I’m floating away…further and further the longer I sit here. The pain is masked, hiding behind the clouds of high. I can breathe. I’m free. It feels so good. I shouldn’t have fought this. Why did I fight this?

Soaking in this light, fluffy feeling, I kick my legs out in front of me. This is the freedom Gary talked about. The pain keeps getting further away, and it feels incredible.

Alaska Bishop is gone.

Gramps pushes his way through the haze. He worked with me. Believed in me. Loved me. I’m letting him down.

Gary shoves his way in next. He stood up for me. Protected me. Took time from Troy to help me. Walked with me. Talked with me. I’m letting him down.

Mom’s hand is in my hair. She always loved me. Took care of me. Let me have my dreams. She did everything to keep Dad away from us. I want to take care of her. There’s no way to do it like this. I don’t want to let her down anymore.

Pe

This is my biggest fuck up of all. All my plans, what I told Gramps, Gary, rehab. I’m blowing it to hell. It makes me sick. I make myself sick. Gramps just died, and I don’t know what’s wrong with Pe

Lurching forward, I stick my finger down my throat trying to get rid of the poison inside me. Trying to be the Bishop I want to be. It tastes like crap. My throat burns. My stomach feels like it’s shriveling I puke so hard, but I don’t want to leave anything else in there. I don’t want it inside me ever again.

When nothing else will come out, I pull out my cell and type two words.

I’m sorry

After hitting send, I push to my feet and run outside.

Chapter Twenty-four

Pe

I blink and try to open my eyes, but it’s like they’re filled with mud. Everything’s heavy. Someone’s holding my hand. Bishop. Bishop has my hand. I remember at the rink. I turn, and Mom’s blurry face is looking through the railings of a hospital bed.

“You’re fine, sweetie.” Mom’s voice carries to my ears from someplace far away. Or maybe I just think it’s far away. “You got a nasty concussion, and—”

“Where’s Bishop?” I jerk my hand away, but I can’t find the thoughts to form the words. Wait. Game. “The game. How did we do?”

“Mitch stopped by. You won.”

I let myself relax. How much did I miss? What did I miss?

“Yours was the only goal scored. I’m proud of you.” Mom’s voice hitches.

“Why am I here?”

Wait. Her face is seriously red and blotchy, and tears are streaming down her cheeks so fast she can’t keep up with them.

“Did I lose an arm or something?” I ask. The foggy, floaty feeling is still keeping me from putting any pieces together. I’m just here.

Wait. I’m mad at Mom. I think.

“No, honey, but—”

“Bishop?” That’s what I was after. He had my hand. Not Mom. Bishop. This isn’t right.

“He’s not here,” Mom says, but her voice is sorry, tired, not frustrated like I’d expect. “Pe

She’s being too quiet. Why is her voice so quiet and hesitant? Why isn’t Bishop here? I turn toward Mom. “Did you tell Bishop not to come?”

“Yes, but we need to talk about something else right now.”

I never know what to do when things get this intense, so I try to tease. “Am I dying or something?”

She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes tight before looking at me. “You’ll be fine honey, but we lost Gramps.”

“Gramps?” The room spins, turning my stomach over. “What are you talking about?”

“He passed away.” The words come out on top of one another in this weird, whispering voice.

They linger, hover, and then start digging their way in, but I won’t let them. Won’t let them sink in. Won’t let them be replayed.

I choke. “No. He’s fine.” I can’t lose Gramps. Can’t. My head is so clogged up and heavy that I’m not processing right. No way can this be happening.

“I’m sorry, Pe

I try to sit up, but a shot of pain rushes through my shoulder, and the room spins like I’m on a roller coaster.

“Whoa.” A nurse pushes me back down. Where did she come from?

“She’s going to give you something for the pain,” Mom says as she continues to hold my hand in her two.

I don’t want anything for the pain. My chest hurts way worse than my shoulder, and I don’t think whatever she’s putting in my IV is going to help with that. I don’t want Mom to hold my hand. I want to be out on the rink with Gramps screaming my name from the bleachers and gri

Gramps dying is all too real. I scream and yell, only I think it’s mumbles because my lips are so numb I can’t feel them. Mom told Bishop to leave me alone, and now Gramps is gone, and if I can’t have Gramps I need Bishop. I try to tell her how I hate that she lied to me and that she hasn’t been home and that she never gave Bishop a chance. I exhaust myself talking in slurred words. I’m still fuzzy with drugs, and none of it makes sense. Finally, the doctor insists my mother leave the room. “You’re not mad at me, Pe

I lie through a CT scan to check for permanent damage to my brain and wonder why Bishop hasn’t fought his way through to see me yet. I’ve been here all night. A doctor explains that my clavicle is broken in several places, which is not his biggest concern. His concern is the huge bundle of torn ligaments, which was probably the hit I took and ignored. Because I kept playing, I shredded the torn ends. He’s scheduled surgery on my clavicle and isn’t sure yet how best to treat the rest of the damage. That’s a different kind of specialist. I’ve also got some serious bruising on my hip and thigh, which will make walking tricky for the next couple weeks. The damage sounds bad, and I wonder how long it’ll be before I can get back out on the ice because I can’t even think about the possibility of losing hockey right now.