Hollow

I was most players' worst nightmare. When I showed up on their doorstep, they knew they were in trouble.

The San Jose Sharks had hired me a little over a year and a half prior, into their public relations department, but I quickly was placed in charge of the players' personal lives. I was basically dubbed their babysitter. When they fucked up, I cleaned up the mess. When they threw a hissy-fit, I was there to listen to them whine. When they cried, I went running to give them a Kleenex.

Due to my position, I had come into the possession of a key to every single players' living quarters. Used only in an emergency damage control situation, of course.

Ryane Clowe had recently become one of those situations. When I had first met him and his teammates, he had been one of my favorites. Charming and funny, but he was also respectful of my position in their lives. Most of the team had flirted with me, and Ryane had always been the one to make sure it never spun out of control.

Recently, however, something had changed. And I was sent in to clean up the mess he'd made of his life.

That was how I found myself standing in the entryway of his apartment, staring, lip curling in disgust at the mess, early on a Sunday morning. Even worse was the trail of clothes leading down the back hallway. I was not in the mood to do a recon session.

I stormed down the hallway, and towards the half-open door I knew to be the master suite. Even if I'd never stepped foot into the apartment before, it would have been easy to tell, thanks to the black lace bra hanging from the door knob. Trying not to touch anything for fear of catching some sort of disease, I used my boot-clad foot to shove open the door.

Ryane lay sprawled across the bed, a bed sheet just barely covering his crown jewels. Lying just beyond his outstretched arm, a tiny brunette was curled, back to me. Thank God, considering there was nothing over her naked body.

"Ryane." I paused, waiting for him to stir. "Ryane." Pause. "Clowe!" I reached out flicked him in the ear.

He yelped loudly, jerking into a sitting position, and successfully dislodging what little covering he had. I quickly looked away, but not before I'd seen more of Ryane than I'd ever planned. Way more. "Jesus Christ," he moaned clutching his head. The brunette on the other side of the bed stirred, and both took in my presence at the same time, with roughly the same reaction.

The brunette clutched the comforter to her body, horrified embarrassment sending a blush raging across her cheeks. Ryane snatched a pair of boxers from lamp on the bedside table and pulled them on in what I'm sure had to be some sort of world record. He stood a little shakily, and by the way he squinted I could tell he would be nursing quite the hangover. "Holy shit. Sofia. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Fixing your life." I leaned around his hulking frame to look at the girl still in his bed, and only felt a little sorry for her panicked expression. "Honey," I said, using my fake-nice voice I used with the boys when they had made horrendous decisions, "You should probably just go. Ryane will not be up for round two anytime soon."

She scrambled from the room, still hiding her nudity with the blanket. There was some shuffling, the sound of a zipper, and then the front door slamming. Finally. Now I could do my job.

"You've dug yourself quite the hole recently, and are apparently living in one, too," I commented, and gestured to the state of his apartment. "And I was going to try and let you get yourself out of it. But these," I thrust a manila envelope against his bare chest, "showed up at my apartment this morning at seven AM. Not exactly how I wanted to spend my Sunday."

I carefully gauged his facial expressions, searching for the proper response to their graphic nature.

In one, a blonde straddled his lap and Ryane quite obviously had his hands up the back of her dress and on her ass. In another, Ryane was squeezing two different girls', a red-head's and a different blonde's, breasts. The last was easily the worst. Despite the grainy quality of the photograph, it was unquestionable what was happening. A girl, neither the girl from his bed or any of the others in the photos, was sticking her hand down Ryane's pants, while he groped at her chest, exposing a bare breast.

While the photos worried me, it was Ryane's reaction, or lack there of, that disturbed me the most. He took each and every one of them in, but none seemed the least bit interesting. If anything, he just seemed further removed.

"Ryane, do you have any idea how bad this is?" I asked with precise annunciation, like I would a toddler. "Do you have any clue what this could do to your career?"

He just shrugged, and sat down heavily on the bed. "None of it really matters," he mumbled.

When he didn't elaborate, I was forced to question him further. "Why doesn't it matter? This could possibly get you fired and kill your hockey career."

He shrugged again, setting the photos down on the bed besides him, like they were the New York Times or ESPN Magazine. Like they meant nothing.

"Ryane?" I took a step forward, leaning in towards him. "Seriously, I need you to tell me what the problem is. This," I indicated once again to the state of his apartment, "is definitely not you. Not the Ryane I know, at least."

"You should just go." He didn't lift his head as he spoke, just muttered the words softly as he played with the hem of his boxer shorts.

I sighed, and, against my better judgement, sunk down onto the bed next to Ryane, exposing myself to God knows what. Could you get an STD second-hand? "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on. Now, go take a shower, and put some actual clothes on. Meet me in the kitchen."

I didn't leave the room until I saw, with my own eyes, him lumber into the master bathroom. Then, I went to do some damage control on the kitchen situation.

---

The kitchen was in a worse state than I remembered. Not that I remembered much about last night. Club hopping with the guys, a few too many shots, and it was all a blur. I guess the sex wasn't all that great either, because I had no recollection of the brunette Sophia had kicked out of my bed this morning.

Speaking of Sophia... she was currently armed with a bottle of 409 and a rag, her hands protected by green rubber gloves that reached up to her elbows. Despite the situation for her presence in my apartment, I couldn't help thinking how good she looked. Unbrushed, dark brown hair pulled away from her face in a messy ponytail, a baggy t-shirt, and a pair of those yoga pants... I felt a little bad, but not bad enough to ruin the show and say anything.

She lifted her head from where she was scrubbing a strange red substance from the refrigerator door. Her eyes rolled, and she threw a towel at me. "When I said actual clothes, I thought I was implying a shirt, but to each, his own. Now get to work. I am not your house maid. And no way in hell am I even going near your dining room table."

I glanced over to the table, and winced in disgust at my own mess. There were half-eaten meals still sitting on their plates, long forgotten. I actually blushed when I noticed a condom lying on the floor. "There's a bottle of Advil and a bottle of water on that little clean space of counter. I'd take a few before your hangover really kicks in. Your coach gave me the 'okay' to keep you from practice. It's time for an intervention."

"I'm fine." My voice was so dull, I didn't even believe my own words.

"That's bullshit. I know it. Your coach knows it. Your teammates know it. Hell, your poor mother knows it. She called the organization wondering if you'd moved or your phone number had changed because your stopped answering her calls. And until you admit that to yourself, nothing is going to change and you will be caught in this god awful downward spiral."

She's awfully hot when she's pissed. I wish I got in trouble more often

"Ryane? Are you even listening to what I am saying? For god's sake, pull your head out of your ass." She set the cleaning equipment down, and carefully picked her way through the mess and over to me. "I need you to tell me what happened this summer. Whatever it was, we can work through it. It's my job, and my life depend on my job. So in a way, I'm kind of depending on you, Ryane."

I really, really wished she would stop saying my name so much. It was making me feel like a child that had misbehaved. Not a grown man with a broken heart. Which was stupid, within itself. No man should ever be stupid enough to fall in love. It was one of my rules. And shit happens when you break your own rules.

"Can we do it later? Like next week? If I promise to clean this place up and not go out at all? I think I just need some time to detox," I begged, vying for time. I had no intention of staying in what-so-ever, but she didn't have to know that. I put on my best beat-up puppy dog look, hoping she'd go for it.

She scrutinized me for a moment, before sighing loudly. "I suppose. But," she help up a finger, and got right up in my face, despite by half-nakedness, "This is your only chance, you hear me? One more screw up, and you will start playing by my rules, 24/7. Got that?"

I nodded in what I hoped was a convincing way. I'd had a lot of practice convincing people over the past couple of months, after all. Sophia gave me a once over one more time, as if that could determine whether or not I would come through. "I'll be checking up periodically, maybe when you don't expect it. So behave, like you used to." With that she scooped up her bag, placed strategically on one of the few, clean surfaces, and hustled out the door.

Thank god. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it. I reached for bottle of Advil, and took twice the recommended dosage, knowing it would do little to numb the pain. It would take the edge off the physical, but mentally and emotionally, I was still a disaster. Everything reminded me of her, and without her, I felt so hollow.