“You’re obviously one of the Kings,” she said. “You any good?”
This was early in my career, before I was written off as the team enforcer, the muscle, the vigilante. I was a physical player, but also a strong face-off man with a powerful slap shot, so I said, “Yep.”
“I’d better get a photo with you then.”
I obliged, letting her nestle under my arm, holding her phone out as instructed. She curled herself into me, smiling coyly at the camera. She was transformed on the screen; polished and pouty and perfect. I thought she was more beautiful in real life, when she was animated and real. After I snapped a couple of photos, she took back her phone.
She looked at the images. “We look good together.” She didn’t seem to require a response, so I didn’t give her one. Her eyes were on the screen, her fingers tapping on the keyboard. “What’s your name?”
“Maxime Beausoleil. My friends call me Max.”
“Are you on Insta, Max?
“No.”
She looked up then. “Are you a caveman or something?”
She was condescending, borderline rude. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I found it attractive.
“I get enough attention,” I said.
Her eyes roved over me. “I’ll bet you do.”
She tapped away at the device again and then proffered it to me. I looked at the photo of the two of us. I was smiling, ever so slightly. I hadn’t even realized it. And then I read the caption:
Just met my future husband.
And that was it. We were together.
Women have always been attracted to me. I’m tall and fit. My face is handsome, except for the long scar that now slices across my upper lip, a constant reminder of the stick to the face that changed everything. Freya used to say it was sexy, it made me look like a warrior. But it’s been a long time since she’s said that. And, of course, I have money. Not as much as I used to, but still . . . a lot. When I first started playing, I gave in to the attention. I thought it was harmless. But I learned the hard way, how much trouble a one-night stand can cause.
So I was ready for a relationship, tired of flings and hookups. Freya and I were good together. We looked the part. We had physical chemistry and common interests (like fitness and nutrition). And we complemented each other. I was quiet; Freya was talkative. I was big; she was tiny. I was organized; she was flighty.
But there was a darkness inside of me, a violence that I’d always struggled to contain. The steroids made it worse, but there were plenty of guys in the league who took them and didn’t maim anyone. During that fateful game, Ryan Klassen hit me in the mouth with an intentional high stick, and I saw red. I wanted to hurt him. Maybe I even wanted to kill him, just for a moment. When I went back on the ice, I slammed him headfirst into the boards. I thought I’d get a penalty, maybe a game misconduct. I didn’t know I’d ruin his life. And my life. And Freya’s.
She would never forgive me, and rightly so. I didn’t deserve it. But that didn’t mean I’d stop trying to make it up to her.
Freya knew that. And she used it.
6
low
I woke up sometime during the night. Or maybe it was early morning. It was dark outside the window, a crescent sliver of moon and an abundance of stars visible from where I lay. My mouth was dry and cottony and tasted liked I’d eaten a bale of that pink fiberglass insulation that people use in their attics. (Not that I’ve ever done such a gross thing, but I can assume that’s how it would taste.) It took a few seconds for the evening’s events to come back to me: Freya inviting me into her house; pouring me many glasses of red wine; introducing me to her big, hot, surly husband. I’d gotten drunk. And then I’d gotten stoned. I probably was still drunk and stoned, judging by my clouded brain and my queasy stomach.
My eyes accustomed to the light, and I took in my surroundings. I was in a tastefully furnished guest room, on the lower level of the house. How had I gotten there? Had I been able to stumble down the stairs of my own volition? Or had Max carried me down there? Had he held me in his strong arms like a long, limp spaghetti noodle? At that moment I realized that my jeans and flannel had been removed. I wore only a yellowing bra and a matronly pair of cotton underpants. Who had undressed me? Shame burned my cheeks and throat. I wanted to get up and leave, but I couldn’t drive in my condition. Rolling over, I decided to sleep for another hour or two, then make my escape.
As my eyes closed, I heard a bang. And then another. It didn’t alarm me. It could have been the wind or a wild animal knocking about outside. Living in the woods came with a nighttime soundtrack. It was the noise that followed that made me sit bolt upright in bed. A scream, almost a roar—agonized, enraged, in pain. It was a woman. It was Freya.
I had to go to her, had to do what I could to help her, protect her, save her. I clambered out of bed, but the room tilted, and my stomach flipped. Oh God. I was going to be sick. I couldn’t puke in this pristine guest room with its seagrass rug, its snow-white duvet, its Wedgwood-blue accent pillows. But if Freya was in physical or emotional pain, she needed me. I didn’t know if Max was there, if he was hurting her or helping her. I sat back down and dropped my head between my knees, just for a moment, until I regained my equilibrium.
But when I raised my head, a few second later, the noise had stopped. No more banging or wailing . . . just silence. Had I dreamed it all? Were auditory hallucinations a side effect of the red wine–pot combo? I didn’t usually drink, and I rarely smoked the stimulating sativa strain at night. Perhaps it had all been a vivid, disturbing dream? I didn’t want to go prowling through the dark and silent house, searching for a scream that may not have happened. I lay down again, and soon, I was asleep.
• • •
When I awoke, the sun was high in the sky. I had overslept big-time. There would be no clean getaway; I would have to face Freya and Max. Finding my pants and shirt folded neatly on a wooden chair, I dressed and slipped into a nearby bathroom. I peed, splashed water on my face, and patted at my unruly hair. There was a green tinge to my complexion, but I knew it would soon be obliterated by the pink of embarrassment. Freya had offered me a glass of wine, and somehow, I’d ended up in a coma. It was humiliating. And would highlight the fact that I was too young, too childish, too inexperienced to be Freya’s friend.
She was at the kitchen window, wearing oversize sweats, her hair sexily unkempt. Her hands gripped a steaming mug of coffee as she stared out at the sparkling ocean view. She was so still, mesmerized by the beauty or just lost in thought. I wondered if I could sneak past her and leave without a word.
And then she turned. “ ’Morning, party girl.” There was an amused, mocking tone to her voice.
“’Morning,” I muttered, inching toward the front door. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t normally drink. And I shouldn’t have smoked up.”