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After the first time it happened, I locked myself in the hotel bathroom and cried until I threw up. That night’s loss—one of hundreds I’d experienced since I first strapped on skates—was what drove me to the bottom of a bottle and into bed with a woman whose name I never bothered to learn. I dragged my ass on the ice the next morning, stomach rolling, and laughed off the jokes about not holding my liquor, anxious the whole time that one of my teammates would call me out as the cheating bastard I had just become.

I came home from that road trip to find Sara in the living room of our apartment amidst a pile of textbooks. She greeted me with the same smile I’d fallen for almost four years earlier; the same smile that had shone when I was drafted. Back when I was in the OHL, Sara had shown unfailing belief that my dreams would come true. She believed in me so much that she submitted for a transfer to the University of Denver during my first year on the Avalanche, despite her parents’ protests.

For days I walked around on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When life went on as usual, the feeling that I’d gotten away with something turned it into a game…a challenge. In my few years in the league, I’d seen more guys do this to the women they claim to love than I care to admit. Now, as I stand in front of the mirror, I see someone I barely recognize. I’ve become someone I never wanted to be. I find myself scrutinizing my teammates for any inkling that they’ve discovered the truth.

It’s after midnight when the team plane lands and nearly two by the time luggage is collected and I’ve made the drive across the city. I set my suitcase by the front door and make my way to the bedroom. The late replay of the game casts shadows across Sara’s sleeping body. My heart drops, almost painfully, and I fall asleep to the final thought: I hope she never finds out.



“He’s cheating on me.” I announce it so suddenly and matter of factly that it takes a second to realize that I’ve said the words out loud. I raise my eyes from the food I’ve been rearranging on my plate for the last ten minutes, unsure if they’ve even heard me over the crowd. The three men before me are staring in slack-jawed disbelief. There’s relief in knowing that they haven’t been part of the lie, while at the same time, a small part of me hoped someone might have some answers for me.

Since making the jump into cohabitation two years ago, I’d become sort of an unofficial den mother for the single guys who lived in our building. Any day I wasn’t in class that the team was in town, there was invariably someone barging through our front door with female drama, laundry, or a button that needed to be reattached. On rare occasions such as today, they showed their appreciation by dragging me away from campus and out for lunch after the team finishes practice. On even rarer occasions, I used them as a sounding board.

If you ever want to make the male species uncomfortable, put them in a situation where they’re trapped with a potentially volatile female. They finish the meal while asking hushed questions, all the while eyeing me like I’m in danger of bursting into tears at any moment. The moment we step outside into the Denver cold, Gabe and Erik make hasty excuses, leaving me standing beside Ryan with hugs and pitying glances. I wonder absently if they’re going back to the arena to defend my honor by smearing their teammate across the trainer’s room.

The drive home is spent in silence. The audible clenching of his jaw and white knuckles on the steering wheel are the only tells to Ryan’s anger. As we pull into the parking lot, I see him try to form words that will not come. “Spit it out, Factor. You look like a guppy.”

“God, he’s such a…”

Miraculously, I crack a smile. “Don’t say ‘Douche’.”

Ryan’s grip eases and I see him smirk as he turns to exit the truck. We step into the lobby elevator and his hand reaches around me to press the button for my floor, bypassing his own. I sigh and wonder what can of worms I’ve opened.

The moment we step through the front door, he starts firing questions. “How did you find out? When did you find out?”

My mind goes back to a few days ago when a bored classmate jokingly decided to Google my boyfriend in lieu of paying attention to the lecture. We got more than we bargained for with our image search results. With a few clicks of my iPhone, I pull up the evidence and simply hand it over. For a brief second I see such rage on his young face that I wish I’d kept this secret. “It popped up, along with a couple others.”

“What are you going to do?”

My gaze is drawn sadly to a photo on the wall beside the television. The happiest moment in my life was sitting in the stands at the Bell Centre during the 2009 draft, watching Matt Duchene’s dream of playing for the Avalanche come true. I tear my eyes from the photo of Matt and myself and look up at Ryan sadly. “That, my friend, is the million dollar question.”

I know Ryan well enough to know that he has a lot more to say. Thankfully, he knows me well enough to see that if he so much as opens his mouth right now, I’ll lose the weak hold I have over my emotions; my throat and eyes burn from holding back tears. Just when I was starting to worry that Ryan was becoming comfortable with all this girl talk, he flops into his usual position on the love sac in the corner and grabs the remote.

Twenty minutes later, the front door opens and Matt limps his way in, nursing his ankle. My whole body tenses as Ryan bounds to his feet, grabs his coat from the couch and meets his teammate at the door. There’s a brief stare down before Ryan shakes his head and storms out, slamming the door behind him. “What crawled up his ass?”

“The fact that I told him you’re cheating on me might have something to do with it.” For the second time today, I’m shocked by the words that have come out of my mouth. Unlike his teammates, however, there is no look of shock on his face. I see resignation, regret and perhaps most perplexing of all, relief. Before he can open his mouth, I’m across the room and shoving the evidence in his face. “Gotta love Instagram, eh? Nothing like seeing your boyfriend with his hand down some chick’s pants in artistic black and white to really highlight the fact that you’re a total asshole.”

“Sara…”

I can’t look him in the eye. For as much as I love to tell myself that I’m strong and independent, I know that if I look at him right now, I’ll turn into a weeping mess, more of my heart will break and I will lose the strength I’ve built up to pack my bags and leave. He follows me down the hall into the bedroom, just as I expected he would.

“Please, Sara…I love you…” I can hear the panic and desperation in his voice as he watches me grab his suitcase from the corner. The sound of something rustling from within distracts me from my weakening resolve. Tossing the luggage on the bed, I flip it open and reach for the zipper inside the lining. His futile attempt to grab the box of condoms I discover infuriates me.

“You love me, huh? You love me enough to sneak behind my back? To sneak behind your friends backs? You don’t get to use the word love right now.” My voice has risen to a shout. I risk meeting his gaze and my heart constricts painfully. For a moment I see the boy I fell in love with—the boy who now looks down at the floor as he watches his carefully constructed lie crumble at his feet. “How long, Matt?”

“October.”

I quickly do the math in my head. Six months. Less if you take away the time he spent recuperating from knee surgery in this very apartment. I nod and abandon his suitcase to shove a few things in a duffel bag from the closet as Matt sinks to the bed cradling his head in his hands. “I need to leave.” He doesn’t try to stop me.



“Tequila, ladies!” The burn left behind by the golden liquid is the first thing other than anger and heartache that I’ve felt in almost two weeks. I fled the apartment eight days ago and sought refuge with a couple good friends from school. I turned my phone off and proceeded to sleep and study. It was then that I realized that outside of university, Matt, and hockey, there was little else I had done in the two years I’ve lived in the states.

Kristen and Leigh had taken it upon themselves to become my official tour guides. In the past few days I’d seen dozens of places I hadn’t known existed and each night we sought out the best nightlife Denver had to offer. I’d learned early in the week that arguments would not be accepted and donned the little black dress Leigh had thrown at me tonight without argument. After my fifth shot, I was no longer confident that my liver could handle much more of what Kristen repeatedly and cheerfully referred to as “the single life”.

Wobbling on four inch stilettos after my sixth shot, I ventured to the edge of the dance floor. My counterparts had disappeared in the crowd and for a brief moment I feel myself falling back into the pit of despair that’s been dogging me. Just as quickly as it overcomes me, I’m being yanked out of it...literally. I look up to find Paul Stastny staring down at me in disbelief. “Sara! Where the hell have you been?”

I’m shocked to realize that none of the Stooges, as I affectionately refer to Gabriel, Erik, and Ryan, have shared the gossip with the whole locker room yet. I briefly consider trying to dodge both him and the uncomfortable conversation that is likely to follow, before reconsidering. I’m barely considered stealthy when sober and in sneakers, whereas he runs across the ice on razor blades for a living. I don’t stand a chance of escaping this. Shane O’Brien materializes at his side then, blocking my would-be getaway path. The worry on their faces tells me I probably have dozens of texts and voicemails waiting for me and I can’t help but feel guilty for shunning my friends because of their association with Matt. With a sigh, I allow myself to be lead to a marginally quieter section in the VIP area and wrack my foggy brain for a way to break the news to yet another of Matt’s best friends.

Shane, bless his heart, orders another round as we sit down. The Cliff’s Notes version of the story is much less painful with a third of a bottle of Cuervo swimming through my veins. Mercifully, when it’s over, they don’t ask questions. I get the inkling that they won’t be as kind to Matt tomorrow, but for now, they lead me back to the dance floor and leave it alone.

It isn’t long before more of the guys join us. Erik and Ryan greet me with hugs and others admonish me for abandoning them for my studies. I don’t bother correcting them. Leigh tags herself out first, claiming she has work early. I spot Kristen cozied up with someone at the bar and once she recognizes my company and is confident that I’m in safe hands, it doesn’t take her long to leave, mystery man in tow. By two, I’m swaying from exhaustion and too much tequila. Ryan throws an arm around my shoulder and declares that he’s taking me home. We help hold one another up as we wait for a cab to arrive.

I’m frozen, staring apprehensively at the building before me. My fight or flight response kicks in, but I turn to find that the cab has already driven away. Ryan circles back and grabs my hand, pulling me into the lobby. Inside Ryan’s apartment, I drop the heels I ditched in the elevator and throw myself onto the couch. He takes his place at the opposite end, lifting my feet onto his lap to make room. “What are you going to do, Sara?”

I shrug in response. “Finish the semester, I guess. Then go home to Ontario and regroup. My parents will just ‘I told you so’ me to death if I transfer again, so I’ll be back in the fall to finish my last year at DU.”

“Where does he fit into all of this?”

Again, I shrug. How do I simply walk away from that much history? How do I turn my back on four years with the same person I had been prepared to spend the rest of my life with? My eyes fill with tears as the next question forms: how do I go back to the person who has broken my trust in such a monumental way? Is it even possible to go back? They say that when a bone is broken, it heals stronger than it was before. Does it work the same way with people or will I end up spending the rest of my life worrying it will shatter again with the slightest stress?

A soft sob escapes and Ryan hauls me up beside him. I instinctively curl into his warmth, craving comfort. “Come on, Sara, don’t cry. Shit, it’s hard enough for guys to hold serious conversations… don’t make me try to deal with tears, too.”

His thumb brushes the moisture from my cheeks when I meet his gaze. “Look, you can stay here. I’ve got a guest room. You can take your time figuring out the rest.”

I’m shaking my head before he can finish. “I can’t live here, Ry. I can’t be in the same building as him every day. Not right now.”

“So we’ll move. There’s a hundred places in the city we could go. You’ve got options, Sare. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

I open my mouth to argue but before the words can form, Ryan’s mouth is on mine. My buzz only intensifies as my mind empties. I respond to the contact after only a brief hesitation. The moment my teeth scrape his bottom lip, I feel him let go of the last shred of control. The sweep of his velvety tongue against mine is accompanied by the feel of his callused hands fumbling with the zipper at my back.

We’re halfway down the hallway before I realize we’ve moved from the couch. Hands, lips and teeth are everywhere and by the time we’re standing at the foot of the bed, I’m wearing nothing more than a black strapless bra and lace boy shorts and my hands are fumbling with his belt buckle. Moments later, the last barrier is gone and I’m lightheaded at the sight before me. Ryan pulls me down onto the soft mattress beside him and hauls me on top of him. My eyes slide shut from the sensation of his lips on my neck and I fall into oblivion.



For a blissful moment upon waking, my mind is completely blank. I feel warmth at my back and unconsciously smile at the reassuring contact before my brain fully boots up. I open my eyes and a million daggers stab into my skull as the hangover catches up to me. With much pain, I shift my gaze and don’t recognize the hand wrapped around my waist as the same one that’s been there for years.

I’m down the hall praying to the porcelain before I realize that I’ve moved. Like flashes of light through the trees as you drive through the forest, bits and pieces of the previous night come back. Tequila. The boys. Cab ride. Talking with Ryan on the couch. Ryan. Kissing Ryan. Ryan’s hands on me. My hands on Ryan. I look down to the too large t-shirt I’m wearing over my underwear and come up blank, which causes me to heave again.

Vomiting turns to sobbing and before I realize he’s in the room, Ryan is pressing a cold washcloth into my hands. I promptly bury my face in it. What have I done?

“Nothing happened, Sara.” Either I spoke out loud or Ryan’s become a mind reader. I uncover my face long enough to flick my gaze down at my attire and raise an eyebrow. “Ok, something happened. But not sex.”

“We still fucked it all up. You and Matt are road roommates, Ryan. How in the hell does this not turn into a shit show? Goddamnit!”

I take the risk of unsettling my stomach once again and climb off the floor, gathering pieces of my outfit from the night before on my way back the bedroom. Dressed in walk-of-shame attire, I ignore Ryan’s presence and beeline for the door. “Sara.”

The tone of his voice stops me. “I may have been drunk last night, but I meant what I said. You have options.” The word sounds like a promise and I shiver as I close the door behind me.



Practice this morning is optional, but I jumped at the opportunity for distraction. My ankle still isn’t back to normal but I’ve been skating anyway; as if pushing to help us make the playoffs is a suitable way to make up for my behavior. I’m clinging to anything I can right now.

Coach has us scrimmage for the last minutes of practice. I get into face off position across from Stastny, who growls a menacing “fuck you, man” before snatching the puck out of the circle and disappearing. Perplexed, I take a hard check from O’Brien before I’m able to get my head back into it and finish practice.

“What the fuck, Stas?!” The entire locker room goes dead silent at my shout. Paul pauses unlacing his skates long enough to glare at me.

O’Brien, notorious party boy of the team, pauses in front of my stall and glares down at me. “You’re a real fucking piece of work, Duchene.”

Game over.

Not another word is spoken. I hastily shower and escape.

The first thing I see when I enter the apartment is Sara. She’s curled in a ball on the sofa, watching me, and even from the distance I can see how red and swollen her eyes are from crying and another piece of my heart dies. I caused this. Bravely, though uncertainly, I sit on the coffee table across from her. Her clear green eyes well with tears the moment she meets my eyes and her teeth worry over her lower lip like she’s trying to find the right words.

I’ve spent over a week dreading the day that I come home to find her here, finally ready to talk. I’ve also had nightmares that I’d come home to find any and all traces of her gone. I pray for a way to wake up from this nightmare. Regret is bitter and unsettling.

She’s sitting up before me now, our knees barely touching. Tears spill as she speaks and what’s left of my heart crumbles at her feet. “I almost slept with Ryan last night.”

I’m hot and cold at the same time. I think I might vomit. I leap up without thinking and after pacing the length of the apartment a few times; I come back and sit again. I’ve gotten a taste of my own medicine and it’s way more bitter than regret. “What now?”

“I think we both need to take some time to consider our options.”