I’m jolted awake by a loud, agonizing groan—an unbearable sound that resonates within the confines of my skull. It takes me a moment to realize the source of this tortured noise is none other than myself. The discomfort is intense, swirling around in my mind like a tempest. My head throbs, but more precisely, it’s my eye that feels as if it’s been set ablaze. Why is my eye so painfully swollen? As I sit up cautiously, the world around me spins ever so slightly. With slow, hesitant movements, I bring a hand to my face. My left eye? Swollen shut like a shut door, and my mouth? Drier than the vast Sahara desert. Damn it, I’m painfully thirsty. Exhaustion gnaws at me, sapping what little energy I have left just from the effort of lifting my hand. It hits me like a flash of lightning—molly. The last time I indulged in its allure, I woke up feeling equally drained and achy. With a sense of dread swirling within, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and realize with sudden horror that I had fallen asleep fully dressed. Reluctantly, I stand up and find my way to the closet, half-stumbling toward the mirror hidden behind its door. Oh sweet Jesus. My reflection stares back at me, and it’s far from pretty. My eye is a horrific shade of purple, practically oozing darkness. In that moment, memories of the previous night cascade through me like a relentless wave crashing against the shore. Missing Allie’s play… Allie breaking my heart... Garrett coming home in a fury. What was he yelling about again? My mind races. Ah, right—confrontations about missing Allie’s big opening night. And how could I forget? I’d invited half the football team over, and those moronic linebackers thought it would be a good idea to snort coke right in our kitchen. The memory of Garrett pulling me aside, his voice rising in anger—it must have struck a nerve, because here I am, sporting this delightful black eye as a reminder. I turn away from the mirror, succumbing to the weight of it all as I collapse onto the edge of my bed, mentally tallying the chaos swirling in my life. I have a black eye. I have an enraged roommate responsible for it. I have an ex-girlfriend, and in a heart-wrenching twist, I made a little girl cry. Dakota… why the hell did I have to sit there while she cried uncontrollably? The hurt in her eyes, thinking I loathed her just because she didn’t want to wear those blasted boy skates! Allie’s furious words echo in my mind like a harsh siren, sending jolts of pain reverberating through my temples while my stomach churns violently. The bile rises, threatening to spill over, but I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m hunched over the porcelain bowl, dry heaving as if trying to expel my remorse. There’s nothing left in my stomach; the gut-wrenching feeling of emptiness only intensifies the nausea as I retch, over and over again. Finally, when the waves of nausea subside, I brush my teeth at the sink, the bitter taste of regret lingering despite my efforts. As I drop down onto the cold tiles, a sinking weight blankets me, forcing me to grapple with the consequences of my actions. Allie… Beau. Damn Beau. Why did he have to leave us? The thought is so ludicrous that I’m hit with a wave of laughter—wild and uncontrollable, until tears stream down my face and I find myself hiccupping amidst the chaos of my emotions. A knock on the door jolts me from my reverie. “Dean… you in there?” It’s Garrett, and though his voice carries an edge of concern, thankfully, he doesn’t sound outright angry. When I finally unlock the door and let it swing open, his grim expression meets my bleary gaze. “You okay?” he asks, his voice deep yet gruff. I chuckle, the sound almost foreign to me. “Not even close.” A flicker of guilt crosses his features. “I’m sorry about the shiner.” He swears under his breath. “But you asked for it, man. The house? It’s a disaster.” I run a weak hand through my disheveled hair, fatigue heavy on my limbs. “I’ll clean it up. And honestly, don’t worry about this.” I gesture vaguely at my eye. “I deserved that hit. Hell, I’m surprised Allie didn’t clock me one, too.” Just saying her name feels like a raw wound; it’s as if someone plunged an ice skate into my chest, twisting painfully at my heartstrings. I don’t dare ponder whether she’ll ever forgive me for not showing up on what was supposed to be her special night. For weeks now, I’ve been drowning in a fog of denial, trying to bury the ache of Beau’s death under layers of beer and smoke, numbing myself against the world. Allie’s father was right; he never believed I could take care of her. And now, looking at myself, it’s painfully evident. “Wells is furious with you,” Garrett comments, concern tinging his voice. “I’m furious with myself,” I admit, the weight of my mistakes suffocating. “I miss Maxwell.” My voice drops to a whisper. Garrett nods, the silence thick between us, but we share a moment of understanding as he murmurs, “I know.” “It’s tearing me apart knowing I’ll never see him again.” “I know,” he echoes, and without a word, he pulls me into a hug. This isn’t some gym bro side-hug; it’s a real embrace that speaks volumes of his unyielding support. “I’m so sorry about everything,” I manage to murmur, desperate to convey my remorse. “The mess… the drinking… just everything.” “I know,” he replies again, steadying me with his presence. Just then, the door creaks open, the weight of our moment interrupted. “Is this a private homoerotic moment? Or can anyone join in?” Logan's teasing voice cuts through the tension. I chuckle weakly as he strides over, wrapping his arms around me in a brief, comforting hug. Logan slaps my back with an easy camaraderie. “You up for practice today?” His eyes zero in on my black eye, uncertain. “I don’t really have a choice,” I reply with a resigned sigh. “I’ll head in and let Coach decide if I’m even fit for the ice. With this shiner, I might be relegated to the weight room.” What I really want, however, is to take a drive to Bristol House, throw myself at Allie’s feet, and plead with her to let me back in. “We’ll tell him we were auditioning for a scene from Fight Club,” Garrett jokes, though his expression quickly turns serious again. “He doesn’t need to know what actually went down. The party… the drugs…” “I appreciate that,” I murmur gratefully. As it turns out, aside from my visibly bruised eye, I manage to disguise the aftermath of the previous night’s debauchery well enough. It’s a bittersweet irony; despite my penchant for partying—something that could easily demolish most—somehow, I bounce back as if nothing ever happened. I could binge drink, light up, and emerge by morning, feeling as clear-headed as the sky above me. But today is different. Today the crushing weight of my decisions rests heavily on my heart. Allie Hayes has become the single most important person in my world in just three short months, and the thought of pushing her away leaves me hollow. Downstairs, Tucker has breakfast laid out, and we eat in silence before we hurry to the arena. Garrett swipes his ID at the entrance, leading us toward the locker room. As soon as we step inside, the atmosphere shifts. Coach Jensen and O’Shea are clustered together in one corner, deep in conversation with a lanky guy wearing a blazer and carrying a briefcase—someone who doesn’t belong in the usual locker room setting. The tension is palpable, filling the air like a thick fog. Our teammates linger around, yet there’s a silence that feels all-consuming. Hollis nods at us, and Fitzy does a double take when he sees my eye. “Morning, Coach,” Garrett calls out, his tone uneasy. “What’s going on?” “Drug testing,” comes the terse reply, slicing through the tension like a knife. My stomach plummets. The swirling nausea returns with a vengeance, and I can feel the cold sweat creeping along my brow. I glance at O'Shea, whose unreadable expression sends a shiver down my spine. Random drug testing? Rarely occurs unless there’s a pressing issue—an action spurred by someone’s whistleblowing. With our season in a nosedive and playoffs a distant memory, this proactive measure feels like a cruel twist of fate. As more players funnel into the locker room, the knot in my gut only tightens. I can practically feel O’Shea’s relentless gaze boring into me, but I keep my eyes glued to the floor, panic tightening its grip on my throat as I live out the moment like an inner horror story. Instead of hearing a heartbeat beneath the floorboards, I’m painfully aware of the blood coursing through my veins, tainted with the remnants of the molly I took last night. The pounding of my pulse drowns out the noise around me. I take a shaky breath, exhale slowly, and mustering every bit of courage I have, I make my way over to Coach Jensen. “Coach… can I speak with you in private?” My voice is barely above a whisper, but it gets the message across. In one grave glance, he knows what’s coming. A long, strained silence hangs between us before he nods. “Sure.” He leads me into his office, and we do not sit down—choosing to remain upright, both acutely aware of the gravity of this moment. I can’t find the words. The shame is a filthy weight on my chest, thick and suffocating. “Are you waiting for me to ask?” Coach finally breaks the silence. “What’s going to happen when you piss in that cup, Dean?” The shame escalates, filling my throat like bile. “What are the results going to show?” he presses, his resignation palpable. “Marijuana? Cocaine?” “MDMA,” I admit, my voice small and broken. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, taking in my confession, then opens them again, acceptance settling into his features. “All right. Thanks for letting me know.” When I leave his office, I feel like a condemned man walking to the gallows. Two days later, I’m kicked off the team.