She still hasn’t looked at me. I can tell that no matter what’s coming out of her mouth, she’s pissed at me. And I deserve it, but since I already said I’m sorry, I don’t know how to make it better.
“I get that I shouldn’t have done that,” I say. “And I shouldn’t have skipped the group session, either.”
“Alexei, it’s fine.”
Those are the two most untrue words any woman can utter. It’s fine means I am pissed as fuck at you, asshole.
I try the actions-speak-louder-than-words route instead.
“What can I do to show you I’m sorry?”
“You don’t need to do anything.”
I shift in my seat and run a hand through my hair. “Are you ever gonna look at me, or are you just gonna stare at that notebook for the next hour?”
Graysen lifts her gaze to mine and I see that I’m in deep shit. The warmth I usually see is gone. Her lips are set in a thin line.
“People walk out of sessions with me all the time,” she says in a clipped tone. “You aren’t required to attend any sessions here. There’s no need to apologize, okay?”
I feel like I just got boarded in a game. Graysen’s cold stare packs the same punch as having the wind knocked out of me.
“Then why are you being like this?” I ask her.
“I’m not being like anything. I’m your therapist. We’re here to talk about your recovery. Now let’s identify the triggers that make you turn toward alcohol. Places and people who are part of your routine.”
She’s back to looking at the notebook. Fuck.
“I’ll talk to my brother,” I offer, getting desperate for her to just smile at me. “You mentioned him coming to a session and…okay. Let’s do it.”
“I’ll see if I can get that set up.” She writes something on her pad.
“Is something wrong? Something besides me leaving yesterday?”
She looks up and gives me a tight smile. The woman who talked to me about herself yesterday for five minutes is nowhere to be found—it’s like a different person is here in her place.
“Everything’s fine. We need to get started.”
I sit back against the couch, defeated. I knew I was bad at apologizing, but I expected it to go better than this. I’m out of options, though, so I start talking about when, where and with whom I liked to drink.
The answers to those questions are sobering, no pun intended, because they’re every day, the nearest bar and with any friend or random woman who feels like getting loaded.
Getting clean is going to require me to change my entire life. And while I want to quit drinking, I’m not sure I can.
What’s worse is that I feel like I just lost the support of the one person in this world who thought I could. Anton’s right—I’m a complete fuck up.* * *“Hey Petrov, you suck!”
The heckler’s voice is the only sound I hear in the crowded arena. I look over at the stands, and he’s sneering at me from beside the penalty box.
“You oughta just move in here!” He points to the box and cackles. “Roll out a sleeping bag!”
I try to return my focus to the game, but it’s like I’m playing in slow motion. I’m skating and passing in a trance, not really aware of anything but the obnoxious prick yelling at me from the stands.
“Did you think she liked you or something?” He doubles over with laughter. “She knows you can’t stop drinking. You can’t do anything right.”
That’s it. I’m not listening to this asshole for another second. I decide to skate over there, climb the wall and punch his face in until at least a couple teeth tumble out. I’ll get suspended, but it’ll be worth it.
I can’t move, though. It’s like my skates are frozen to the ice. The game is being played around me, and no one seems to even realize I’m here. My former teammates pass, score and defend as I just look on in silence.
“You’re a loser!” the heckler cries. “Just quit hockey and drink away your life.”
He’s flipping me double middle fingers, his smile gleeful. I want to bend those fingers back until I hear them snap as they break.
“My grandma could kick your ass, pussy! You’re crippled now—all because you’re a dumb fuck drunk.”
Rage burns my insides as I try to move but find myself immobile. I can only stand and listen as the guy verbally pounds me, reminding me of my every inadequacy.
It’s not real. In the back of my mind, I have a faint realization that this game doesn’t count. That somehow, none of this is actually happening. I can’t escape, though.
The heckler’s voice changes then—it gets deeper.
“Give it up, Alexei. You’ve never compared to me and you never will.”
I turn to face him and shrink back when I see it’s not some random fan jeering at me now—it’s Anton.