Page 12 of The Goalie in Room 1

My ex chewed me up and spat me out years ago. Chelly was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. Until she fell into my lap, literally, I would’ve sworn I was gay. Like full-on gay. Super gay. I’d never even looked at a woman sexually. But then Chelly—tall, leggy, blond-haired, blue-eyed beach volleyball player—set my heart racing, and before I knew it, she and I were living together.

The sex…fuck…it blew my mind. Explosive came to mind. So compatible in bed that I questioned my sexuality. I knew I was gay. Yes, super gay. Of that, there was no doubt. I’d taken enough men to bed to know for certain I liked having a man under me, but something about Chelly drew me in.

And I loved it.

Until I didn’t.

The headlights lit up my house—a gorgeous cliff side modern home built into the rocky bluffs overlooking the Pacific—as my car rounded the last turn on the drive up toward the property. The garage door lifted out of the way automatically, and I pulled forward, waiting for it to lower before going into the house.

The low lighting triggered by the garage door provided a soft, warm glow bright enough that I could navigate my way through the open floor plan. The place was too big for just me. Especially considering how often I slept on the couch in my office or in an on-call room at the hospital. But I loved it despite how lonely it could get.

Phoenix’s earlier statements echoed as I stood at the kitchen island with a glass of whiskey in hand and stared through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the vast, expensive space toward the ocean. Closing my eyes, I lifted the glass to my mouth and swallowed the liquor. My lips pulled into a wince against the bite and burn. The glass empty, I set it in the sink and walked—alone, always alone—up the stairs to the primary suite. A place designed for two.

The only problem…? I’d built my life for one.

3

CASH

September

Several days later, I finally forced myself to do something I’d been avoiding. I walked through the house I’d shared with Nolan and Mason for two years and actually looked around. Really looked. A deep, heavy sigh filled my chest as I took in the sight that greeted me.

Blank walls with shadows of things that once hung on them.

Open floor space where a large sectional and a dining table once sat.

Echoes of memories played like old movie reels, a flickering overlay on the emptiness.

The space felt eerily similar to my life now when compared to ten months ago. Like the house, I had turned from vibrant and full of life into a shell, with only memories of what once was and a haunting dream of what could have been left.

The living and dining areas were completely bare except for the rugs. My contribution to those spaces. In the kitchen, which opened to the living room, the barstools remained. Another purchase I’d made to help furnish our house. They sat pushed under the counter, still equally spaced from where Nolan had arranged them in his last neurotic cleaning fit.

My phone pinged. The noise fed frustration into me like a forward-fed puck into an empty net. The screen showed the alarm label: time to medicate the gimp. I needed the meds. Badly. My knee had been throbbing for the last two days. Maybe I was just hyperaware of it because of all the shitty things my life kept heaping on top of one another until I couldn’t bear to deal with it anymore.

Tears burned in my eyes as I walked through the emptiness to my bedroom. I loved this space. This house had been my first real home. Not a billet where I got a room decorated by the family who housed me. Not a room in a foster home with a bed that who knew how many had slept in, but my own room.

I remembered the first time I lay on the too-large-for-the-room bed. The whole thing had been brand new. Not new to me. Brand fucking new. Period. The wide expanse of the king-size mattress still smelled of plastic and the manufacturing creases still lined the bedding. I bawled that day. My fist shoved into my mouth to drown out the sobs. Tears had run down my face until I’d jumped from the bed, grabbing a towel to keep the bed tear-and snot-free.

Looking at it and the other furnishings, sparse though they were, I accepted that leaving behind the bed and all the rest was the only option. I couldn’t lift them, and even if I could, I had no way to store or transport them.

A fresh set of tears burned trails down my already raw face. Fuck my life.

No!

I refused to let this be the end of Cash Benjamin. I hadn’t let a motherfucking thing in my past beat me, and I wouldn’t start with this. Like everything else I’d overcome, this setback was only a speed bump in my life.

I yanked open the nightstand drawer and then stared down at the contents in the drawer that were now on the floor since I’d yanked it completely free from the nightstand. Lowering myself to the ground, pain rushed through me. Not as bad as when that huge fucker landed on me and ruined my stellar fucking life, but more than normal.

I grabbed the brace that I refused to wear unless I absolutely had to. According to the doctors and therapists, I should wear it whenever I was up on my feet, but fuck them and their shoulds. This damn brace kept me from playing.

Flipping it over in my hands, rage at what it represented had me contemplating beating the fucker against the floor. Given the state of my finances, I refrained and strapped it on my leg before picking up the mess. While down there, I popped open the lock box and the pill bottles. I tossed back the correct doses of the combination of meds, dry-swallowing them, then locked them back in the box and set the timer.

I mustered every ounce of strength and flexibility from years of being a goalie to get my ass up on my feet. I walked to the closet and pulled out the full set of luggage. The goalie gear went next to the door. That shit was expensive as fuck and wouldn’t be left behind. I’d be needing it before long. Suitcases open on the bed, I tore through the closet, filling suitcase after suitcase, thankful I’d purchased the ones that snap together into a single unit.

Breakers’ gear got tossed aside, anger flaring at each glimpse of moody blue-gray, signal orange, glacier teal, and white. Then the carefully hung jerseys came out of the closet. I’d saved a pair from every team I ever played for. Each home and away set made me smile until the large B logo with the wave breaking in the lower loop came out of the closet. I wanted to fucking hurl. I wanted to rip them both to shreds, but I couldn’t destroy them. Not if they were the last sweaters I’d ever earn the chance to wear.

Folding them, I placed them carefully into the suitcase, then slowly picked through my team apparel. As much as I wanted to destroy the jerseys, these items, the workout gear and warm-ups, were as much a part of me as my own skin. To toss them away as if they meant nothing…? I couldn’t do it any easier than degloving my body of its outer layer. So…I folded those too and placed them in the suitcase with the rest of the hockey-branded merch before shutting and latching it. Then I did the same with the rest of the luggage.