The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

I woke up with a very familiar feeling. Not only was my tailbone aching from the other night, but my temples were throbbing and my chest felt tight. There was a recognizable pressure in my throat as I stumbled out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

A pained moan escaped my lips before another round of vomit did. It continued until tears were streaming down my face and my throat burned from the stomach acid. Eventually, I was puking up liquid, which hurt twenty times more. I began shaking uncontrollably, hugging the toilet for support as I continued to throw up and as my tears turned into sobs. My throat stung and my stomach ached and my head throbbed, but the worse pain of all was the agonizing emptiness in my chest.

I don't know how long I sobbed and vomited for, nor did I know when exactly the strong arms wrapped themselves around my waist in an attempt to comfort my trembling form.

"Baby," a soft voice cooed once my vomiting had subsided, pulling me to their chest, "Everything's going to be okay."

Still sobbing and still shaking, he held me there, curled up on my bathroom floor, the stench of vomit hanging in the air, whispering encouraging words in my ear.

* * *

Sidney had lived in Sewickley long enough for its residence to pay no mind to his presence anymore, for which the twenty-two-year-old was thankful. Generally, he was able to go through the motions of his every day life without much hassle. Of course, he signed the odd autograph or posed for a picture or two, but he was left relatively alone. This allowed him to do things like walk around aimlessly, hand-in-hand with his girlfriend, very much like he was doing that morning.

"I'm so excited for the Olympics!" Isabelle squealed, tightening her grip on her boyfriend's strong hand.

Sidney forced out a chuckle, "I'm glad."

The giddy nineteen-year-old began to go on and on about the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, where Sidney would be proudly representing Canada. Nearly a year ago, before Isabelle had become his girlfriend, before his spot on the team had been finalized, before he had met Sorcha Brogan, Isabelle bought a pair of tickets to all of Team Canada's games as well as both the bronze and gold/silver medal rounds. The Nova Scotian thought she was insane for spending so much money on simple hockey tickets, but she insisted it was necessary. Sometimes Sidney wondered if his naive girlfriend had any understanding of the value of money.

"I'm thinking about inviting Sorcha. We haven't really talked about the incident, so perhaps it could be a way of making amends, you know? She at least seems to be trying for once." Isabelle's words broke through Sidney's thoughts and he froze, stiffening at the mention of Sorcha.

After all, it had only been two days about since they willingly and soberly slept together, and it had only been yesterday that he spat poisonous words at her and got a door slammed in his face.

"Sidney?" His girlfriend was shooting him a curious look, concern draped all over her delicate face. He faked a smile.

"Sorry sweetie," he stated, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, "I think that would be a wonderful idea. It'd give you someone to keep you company."

"I'm glad. I'll have to text her later today to see if she'll be willing. Maybe I'll buy her a jersey, too," Isabelle thought aloud as she snuggled closer to Sidney.

* * *

I woke up half-naked on the bathroom floor in the arms of Dave. I winced as the sunlight streamed in through the blinds, reflected off the mirror and the spotless white tiles, and into my eyes. As I shifted, Dave moaned and tightened his grip on my waist. Biting my lip, I squirmed around until we were face to face. I placed a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose.

"Davey," I whispered softly. No response. "Davey." I prodded him softly in his toned stomach with my index finger. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. He gave me a small smile.

"Morning, baby." He brought me closer to his bare chest. Shivers traced their way down my spine as I absentmindedly fingered his abs. Even after knowing each other for almost four years, I had never been this close to Dave. And even though I've slept with more people than anyone should, let alone a nineteen-year-old, Dave had never been one of them. Until last night.

"How're you feeling?" he wondered softly. I shrugged.

"Fairly shitty. My headache's pretty horrible. God, my breath must stink after all that puking," I tried to pull away from him, but Dave somehow managed to pull me even closer.

"It's fine, Sorcha."

I smile halfheartedly, "Do you think we could not talk about last night?"

"Why? Was I that bad?" Dave chuckled, trying to make the situation lighthearted. I nervously bit my lip, feeling myself blush. Actually, he had been amazing. Even if we were both fairly wasted, me more than him. I kissed him gently, all thoughts of my horrible breath far away from my thoughts.

"No..." I began gently, "I was thinking more the getting totally smashed bit, and, you know, breaking my sobriety. I've let everyone down."

"If anyone let everyone down, it was me. I shouldn't have given you the alcohol."

"Dave, you and I both know I would've gotten in from somewhere else. I was in an erratic state and I needed to get drunk; drinking's my only coping method. It was better that you were there to watch over me. And, you know, the sex wasn't too bad, either," I pointed out, trying to shift the guilt from Dave to me, where it truly belonged. I had promised my uncle, my brothers, and myself to stay sober, but as soon as some stupid professional hockey player rejects me and more or less calls me a whore, again, all resolve was lost.

Dave chuckled at the last bit, cupping my ass and bringing me closer for another kiss. A kiss that turned more than slightly heated. It probably would've developed into something more if it wasn't for the distant sound of my cell phone vibrating. I moaned as we separated.

"I should check that."

Dave nodded and I scrambled to my feet, stumbling back into my bedroom and finding my cell phone in the pocket of my disregarded jeans. I pulled it out and saw that I had a new text message.

What are you doing the next two weeks?

I cocked an eyebrow curiously. Weren't those the Olympic weeks?