Page 2 of The Goalie in Room 1

Both players spent last season with the Sound’s AHL affiliate, the Headland Cove Breakers. Their departures leave the Breakers without two key players—and without goaltender Cash Benjamin, whom the organization has confirmed it will not re-sign.

Benjamin suffered a catastrophic knee injury last December. In a statement released on the Breakers’ social media accounts, concerning the roster for the fall, multiple surgeries and extensive rehabilitation have failed to provide a path back to professional hockey for Cash Benjamin.

The phone flew from my hand and shattered against the wall, pieces raining down and clattering against the floor.

“Dude! What the fuck?” Mason Keller said as he came into the living room from his room, followed closely behind by our other roommate and Breakers teammate Nolan Proctor.

Both of them looked from the dent in the wall to where I sat on the couch with my leg elevated and wrapped in a hip-to-ankle knee brace.

I fumbled off the couch, nearly falling flat on my damn face before standing with all my weight on my good leg, since the one The Next Shift just said ended my career hurt like a motherfucker. “When the fuck were you going to tell me?”

“Cash,” Nolan said, his voice overlaying Mason’s, “Buddy.”

“You know what? Both of you are pricks. You should have fucking told me instead of letting me find out this way.” I paused, waiting for them to say something. Anything. When they didn’t, I demanded, “How long? Hmm? How long have you known you were getting signed? It can’t have just happened. That shit takes months to sort out.”

“A few weeks,” Nolan said. Mason hitched his thumb at Nolan in agreement.

“Fuck you both.” I turned toward the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” Nolan asked.

“Out.”

“Out where?” Mason asked.

Before I could answer, Nolan yelled, “Dammit, Money, you can’t just leave. What about this hole you made in the wall?”

I ignored them as I yanked the door open before letting it slam shut behind me.

1

CASH

September

Jolting awake, I shoved myself upright. The constant dull ache that plagued me changed into a sharp, burning knife that made me sick to my stomach.

I reached blindly through the dark for the bottles on the nightstand. Caps twisted and pills tumbled into my hands before I lifted them. A glow from across the room haloed my hand and the reprieve…salvation…destruction held within.

Two a.m.

Fuck.

Too soon.

Way too fucking soon.

Bouncing the tiny demons, I weighed the pros and cons. Some nights the cons won. Too many nights, the pros scored that particular winning goal, and I downed the little fuckers, not caring what it could lead to.

A memory surfaced.

My mother—pills scattered across the coffee table or nightstand, or worse, a needle in her arm—gorked out of her mind, barely aware her dirty, half-starved kid sat huddled, shivering, in the corner, my clothes torn and ratty, too small or too big depending on the day.

That kid always watched her.

Always sat nearby, keeping an eye on her. After the first overdose I could remember—thanks, Dad, for the black eye. All five-year-olds know to call 911 when their mom overdoses—I learned keep one eye on her and the other on the cell phone she kept nearby, “just in case.”

My hand lowered with a heavy sigh and a quick, sharp, deep inhale through my nose. Carefully, so I wouldn’t drop them, I placed the meds back in their bottles and set them on the nightstand.