This Is Wild

by Natasha Madison

  “I thought all you guys talked about was fucking each other’s sister and mothers,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest, and Jeffrey starts to laugh, shaking his head.

  “She’s a feisty one,” he says and then slaps Viktor’s shoulder. “I should head out.”

  “I’m going, too,” Viktor says, and I want to tell him not to go. I want to tell him to stay and talk to me. I want to drag him back to the table and have him sit next to me and talk about nothing and everything. But I don’t do that. I just smile. “Will you tell Evan I took off?”

  “Yeah,” I say, acting like him leaving is not ruining my night. “Sure thing,” I say and then look at Jeffrey. “It was so good to meet you.” He sticks out his hand in a fist, and I fist bump it.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he says, and I push his shoulder.

  “See you around,” Viktor says. I look at him, and he just nods at me, so I turn and escape into the crowd of people, not once looking back. I go back to sit in my chair and pick up the glass of wine that has now turned hot and tastes gross. “I think I’m going to head out.” I look at Zara who is yawning.

  “Us, too,” Evan says. “I was just waiting for Viktor.”

  “He just took off,” I tell them, and Zara watches my face. “He was here with his friend.”

  “Do you want to go home, sweet pea, or do you want to say with Zoe?” Evan asks her, and she yawns again.

  “I would rather go home,” she says, getting up, and I look at her stomach.

  “You won’t be able to hide that little bump for much longer,” I tell her, and she gently caresses her stomach, her face beaming.

  “Let’s go. I’ll drive you home,” Evan says. We say goodbye to everyone, and once again, I’m leaving alone. I sit in the back of the car looking out into the road, and I’m thinking about the broken man who fights every single minute to be the better person. The one whose eyes hold the key to his soul, yet it’s locked up so tight no one can get in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Viktor

  You’re nothing but a washed-up junkie.

  My eyes fly open, taking in the dark hotel room. My body is aching, and I need sleep more than ever, but nothing is restful about my dreams.

  We just played a game against Colorado and then got on a plane headed to Florida. We won the game by the skin of our teeth. It wasn’t just a fast game; it was a physical game also. The checks into the board got harder and harder as the time went on. Although no one has thrown the junkie word in my face in the past two weeks, it’s still the little voice whispering to me at night.

  I toss the covers off me and get out of bed. Looking at the clock, I see it’s 4:00 a.m. I was asleep for three hours, give or take, so I get out of bed and open a seven-dollar bottle of water, not caring at this point. I open the television and flip through the channels, stopping at some movie. I let it play, but my head is elsewhere. In two weeks, I will have been clean for six months. One hundred and eighty-four days.

  My throat goes dry, and I drink more water, but nothing is helping tonight. Nothing. My hand starts to get clammy, and my chest suddenly squeezes too tight. I get up and my breathing starts to come in little pants. My whole body starts to tremble just a touch, and little beads of sweat form on my upper lip. The nausea starts in my stomach, and I sit on the side of the bed. I know I’m having panic attack because it happened to me in rehab when I was closing in on the six-day mark. I needed something to calm my nerves, and nothing would put me in a calm place like my drug of choice.

  I look at the clock and focus on the numbers going from one minute to the next. One second more and I use all the tools they taught me at rehab. I start with trying to calm my breathing by taking a deep inhale and then exhale. I open my eyes and try focusing on one thing in the room. I reach for it all, but nothing is working this time. Not looking at the numbers, not counting it in my head, not repeating the serenity part. Nothing. I close my eyes and think about my happy place, which is the stupidest thing I have ever heard of, but I will try anything.

  I’m taken back to my apartment, my empty apartment with a picnic in the middle. I’ve tried to block her smile out of my head since the pub. I’ve tried not to look for her or even think of her. I have somehow lost this battle, and tonight is no different. I think of her face when she has no makeup on and it’s just her little freckles. I think about her green eyes that turn blue most of the time when she laughs. I think about that little speck at the bottom of her left eye that looks like a black spot. The sound of her laughter echoes in my ears, and my heart suddenly starts beating normal. My breathing is coming in normal now and not in soft pants. I open my eyes now and take a deep breath.

  “Maybe I should learn yoga,” I say to myself and finish the water bottle. I get back into bed and turn off the television, then turn on my calm app to the sound of waves. I don’t know how long it takes before I fall asleep, but the blaring alarm has me groaning. I shut it off and roll over. Blinking my eyes open, I see the sun outside shining.

  My phone buzzes, and I grab it and see that it’s Jeffrey calling

  “Hey,” I grumble out.

  “Were you sleeping?” he asks me, and I hear cars honking in the distance.

  “I just got up,” I tell him. “It was a rough night.”

  “It’s why I’m calling,” he says. “I remember when I was almost to my six months, my head was a mess, and it was all over the place. I would wake up in a pool of sweat. I would also get violently sick.”

  “Yeah, I had a panic attack last night.” I tell him all about last night, not bringing up Zoe. That is mine and mine alone. No one is getting that. “At one point, I thought I was having a heart attack.”

  “When are you back?” he asks me, and I roll onto my back.

  “We play tomorrow, then we are on the plane back,” I tell him. “Why?”

  “Well, six months is a huge deal, and I think we should do something to acknowledge it,” he tells me.

  “I’m not throwing myself a ‘I’ve been clean for six months’ party,” I say, grabbing the pillows to prop me up a touch.

  “It’s not a party,” he says. “It’s a little mixer. It would be good for you to do it mentally. To see faces there that have been there holding you up.”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him.

  “Okay, can we even sit down and have a coffee or maybe a burger? I can order you a cupcake,” he says.

  “I have to get up and get to the rink. Can we talk about this when I get back?” I tell him.

  “Sure, and, Viktor? You can call me at any time of the night. It’s what I’m here for,” he reminds me and disconnects. I get up and take another shower and slip into jeans and a shirt, then head down to the bus taking us to practice. I go through the drills; I go through the motions. I make small talk, I grunt at most of them, and when I slip back into my room, I’m exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally.

  The team goes out for dinner, but I pass on the invite and order room service instead. I have been binge watching 90 Day Fiancé. When I turn off the lights at nine p.m., I fall asleep right away. This time, when I wake up at two, I’m almost ready to fist pump, thinking of the five whole hours I slept. I turn on the television and switch the it to ’90 day fiancée’ and I grab my phone, sending Zoe a text.

  Me: She’s fifty-three, and he’s twenty and from Nigeria. Why does she not see he’s using her?

  I put my phone down, not thinking she’ll actually text me back. But two seconds later, my phone beeps.

  Zoe: She just wants the D.

  I smile at her answer and then text her back.

  Me: What are you doing up?

  Zoe: Why are you texting me?

  I am about to text her back when the phone rings, and I see it’s her on FaceTime.

  “What are you doing up?” she asks me as soon as her face comes through the phone.

  “I could ask you the same,” I tell her, tucking pillows behind my head so I can sit up more.
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  “I’m working with a guy in Paris,” she says. “The time difference makes it hard for us, and he needs to get a place asap.” I look at her, and she looks like she woke up not too long ago. Her hair’s piled on her head, and she’s sitting at her desk instead of in her bed. “So what’s your excuse?”

  “I’m a recovering addict,” I tell her. “The most I sleep straight is five hours.”

  “When does it get better?” she asks me, looking at me.

  Shrugging, I answer her. “I don’t know. It’s been almost six months.”

  “That’s a big deal,” she says with a smile. “Six months doesn’t seem long, but it is.”

  “Yeah, it’s a big deal,” I say. “Jeffrey wants to do a dinner and stuff.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” she asks and hides her mouth when she yawns.

  “Because I still have a long way to go,” I answer her honestly.

  “Yes,” she agrees, “but you’ve also come a long way.”

  “Not going to lie. I never thought I would be this far in,” I tell her quietly. “It’s just I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Because …” I trail off.

  “Because what?” she asks me, now leaning her cheek on her hand.

  “Because what if I fuck up again, and then it’s …” I start saying.

  “I mean, if you fuck up and have to start over, it’s almost like going to a wedding and getting them a nine-hundred-dollar gravy boat and then they get divorced and you sit there wondering who the fuck got the gravy boat. Then you wonder if you can ask for the gravy boat back because it cost you the same as it would to buy a new pair of shoes,” she says, her head shaking.

  “Did you just compare my falling off the wagon to divorce?” I ask her and then shake my own head. “And are shoes really nine hundred dollars?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “Wait here,” she says. She gets up, and she is suddenly moving with her phone, and she turns on a bright light. “See these shoes?” she says, holding up black booties with studs on them. “Fifteen hundred dollars.”

  “I think my sister has those,” I say, looking at them. “Why are they so expensive?”

  “Because it’s art,” she says with a smile, and for the next thirty minutes, she shows me all the shoes she could have bought with the money she spent on the gravy boat. “So, in the end, have the party.” She looks at me and now climbs into her bed. “When is it?”

  “The first of November,” I answer her. “The last time I was high was April thirtieth.”

  “It’s a Tuesday,” she says, and I look at her weirdly. “Halloween is a big deal, so they are having a party at Karrie’s house for the kids. It’s the day before.”

  “Yeah, I got the invite.” Evan sent me an invitation.

  “Why don’t you let me plan the dinner?” she says, and her eyes look like they are getting sleepy. “It will be low-key. You can invite Jeffrey and a couple of people from your meetings.”

  “I don’t talk to anyone at my meetings,” I tell her. “I get in there, I listen, most times I share my own story, and then I leave.”

  “Well, then it can be the three of us,” she says. “Or even just you and Jeffrey, but either way, I think you should acknowledge it and accept it.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell her, and she yawns. “Go to sleep. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “You should go to sleep yourself,” she tells me. “Night, Viktor.” She smiles and then disconnects. I put the phone back on the side table and turn off the television, then fall asleep with the sound of her voice playing in my head.

  “Go, go, go.” I hear ushered next to me, and I jump over the bench and get on the ice. It’s almost the end of the third, and we are winning two to one. All we have to do is hold it off them scoring for the next three minutes, and we can leave with the win under our hat. I skate down the line and look over at Evan who has the puck. He tries to go around the defenseman, but the guy poke checks the puck out of the way, and then the forward takes the puck and turns it around, heading back into our zone. I hustle it to get back there before him, and I put my stick out just in time for the puck to hit it and go out of bounds. The referee blows the whistle, and we take a face-off in the neutral zone. Evan gets into position, and I look up and see that the goalie for the other team is ready to take off for the bench and give them an extra man advantage.

  Evan loses the face-off, and we hustle it back into the zone, taking the position of a baseball diamond. Evan stays up in the middle between the two defensemen, and I grab the right winger while Jeremy grabs the left man. The other team starts passing it from one to the other, and we all move with them, not giving them a chance to take a shot on the net. The defenseman gets the puck, and he slaps it toward the goalie, but I get down on one knee, putting my stick on the floor, and the puck hits the inside of my foot. The pain courses through me, but right before I fall to the ice and leave my team one man down, I swing my stick, pushing the puck to Evan who shoots it down the ice and scores an empty net goal.

  I put my other knee down and wince out as I try to stand, but putting pressure on my foot feels like someone is stabbing me. “Fuck, are you okay?” Evan says, coming to me and helping me up, and I wince.

  “It hit the inside of my foot,” I hiss and make my way to the bench with Evan on one side as I skate with one leg. I get to the bench, and they open the door, and I hop up and then look at the doctor. “Inside of my foot.”

  He helps me walk to the back, and I sit in a little room the size of a shoe box. “Take the skate off so we can see,” he says, and I take off my helmet and gloves. The equipment guys come in and grab my stuff and start packing up since we are leaving as soon as we are ready. I take off the skate, wincing right when Matthew comes in and looks at me.

  “How bad?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips.

  “No idea yet,” the doctor says.

  “The puck hit the inside of my foot,” I say and finally take my sock off.

  The doctor picks up my foot wearing rubber gloves. He presses it, and I wince. “He is going to need an X-ray,” he says. “He can use the crutches until we get home. I have some painkillers he can take for now.”

  “Pass,” I tell him. “I can handle the pain.” He takes the gloves off and wraps my foot in Elastoplast, and I grab the crutches in the corner. “I’ll have someone waiting for us when we land,” he says and walks out of the room.

  I look at Matthew. “How bad is the pain?”

  “Not bad enough that I want to take a pill,” I tell him. He just nods, and I make my way to the changing room. Undressing and taking a shower is beyond challenging because I am afraid to put pressure on it.

  I’m the last one on the bus with Evan right in front of me carrying my bag for me. I grab my phone and see three texts.

  One is my mother.

  Mom: Is it broken?

  The other from Jeffrey with the same question.

  The third is from Zoe.

  Zoe: That looked like it hurt like a motherfucker. Is it broken?

  I answer my mother and Jeffrey with the same text.

  Me: Don’t know yet going to have it X-rayed once we get home. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.

  Then I text Zoe.

  Me: It did hurt like a motherfucker. Not sure. Will have to check it once I get home.

  I put my phone away once we get to the plane and ignore the buzzing until I’m in my seat.

  Zoe: Don’t be a wuss. Let me know.

  I shake my head and put my phone away when Matthew sits next to me.

  “We land in two hours and thirty minutes,” he says. “Someone is going to be there waiting for us.”

  “You don’t have to come with me,” I tell him. “Go home and I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  I put my head back on the seat and close my eyes ending the conversation. I send out a little prayer, hoping it’s not fucking broken and that my season won’t be derailed because of this. I’ve come too far to stop now. />
  Chapter Eighteen

  Zoe

  “Congratulations,” I tell my client on the phone. “The offer was accepted, and they are drafting it up as we speak.” Leaning back in my office chair, I smile at another house sold. It’s been over twelve hours since I’ve last spoken to Viktor, and I’m trying not to text him and ask him he’s okay.

  I’ve also held out on texting Zara, Evan, and Matthew. It would be suspicious, and that is the last thing I want. I listen to my client go on and on about how happy she is and that she can’t wait to get in there. I hang up and then look over at the clock. It’s almost five, and it shows since it’s starting to get dark outside. I start to pack up my office and stand, slipping on my suede pumps. I’m almost all packed and ready to slip on my jacket when the phone rings again. I see it’s Viktor, and I think about not answering for about one point two seconds until my hand snatches the phone and presses the green button.

  “Hello,” I say instead of greeting him by his name.

  “Hey,” he says, and I sit in the chair as I take in his voice. He sounds like he just either got up or is fighting sleep. “Did I catch you at a wrong time?” I hear the television quietly in the background.

  “No. I was just packing up my office and heading home.” I wait a beat. “Did you go to the doctor?”

  “Yeah. It’s bruised,” he says with a huge sigh of relief. “I have to stay off it for the next two days, which means I can’t play, and they want to see it before they leave to go to Washington in five days,” he says.

  “That’s amazing,” I say, happy that it’s not as bad as everyone initially thought. “I mean, it’s better than being broken, right?” I ask him. I don’t tell anyone that I was actually watching the game while I was in bed working and that my heart sank the minute I saw the play. I also don’t tell anyone about the amount of time I spent online afterward getting the 4-1-1 on a broken foot in hockey.