Chapter 66 The First Week
Crew's POV,
The alarm went off at six AM on my first official day as a Vancouver Canuck, and I had a panic attack before my feet hit the floor.
Not a full-blown collapse. Just the quiet kind where your chest gets tight and your hands shake and your brain starts cataloging every way this could go wrong.
New team. New city. New medical staff who'd be drug testing me constantly. New coaches evaluating whether signing a recovering addict was worth the risk.
Harper stirred beside me. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just nervous."
"You're allowed to be nervous." She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "You're starting over. That's terrifying."
"What if I'm not ready? What if I get to the rink and realize I can't do this clean? What if—"
"Then you call David and leave. But Crew, you ARE ready. You've been doing the work. You're forty-eight days clean. You've got this."
David was my new sponsor. Former minor league player, eight years sober, ran an NA meeting specifically for athletes on Thursday nights. We'd talked on the phone three times but hadn't met in person yet. That was happening tonight.
I got dressed in workout clothes. Drank coffee standing up because we still hadn't found the dining chairs. Kissed Harper goodbye.
"Good luck," she said. "Text me when you can."
Rogers Arena was fifteen minutes away. I'd driven past it twice already, familiarizing myself with the route. But pulling into the players' parking garage felt surreal. This was real. I played here now.
Inside, the facility was massive. State-of-the-art training equipment, recovery rooms that looked like spas, a full medical wing. The Titans' facility was nice. This was luxury.
James Chen met me in the lobby. "Crew! Welcome. Ready for your first day?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Good. We've got a full schedule. Medical evaluation first, then fitness testing, team meeting at noon, on-ice practice at two. You'll meet everyone gradually." He led me toward the medical wing. "Our head physician is Dr. Martinez. He's very thorough. Expect lots of questions."
Dr. Martinez was in his fifties, calm and professional. He had my entire medical history pulled up on his computer—every injury, every surgery, every prescription I'd ever been given.
"Mr. Lawson, I understand you completed substance abuse treatment six weeks ago. How are you feeling?"
"Forty-eight days clean. Going to meetings. Seeing a therapist. Following my treatment plan."
"Good. We'll be conducting random drug screens throughout the season. That's non-negotiable for any player with documented substance abuse history. Are you comfortable with that?"
"Completely. I want to be held accountable."
"Excellent. We also have mandatory weekly check-ins with Dr. Okonkwo, our staff psychologist. She specializes in addiction recovery and athletic performance anxiety." He pulled up a schedule. "You're meeting with her tomorrow at ten AM."
We spent two hours on medical evaluations. Blood work, urine screening, physical examination, neurological testing. They checked everything. Looking for signs I was still using, still damaged, still risky.
I passed. Clean bloodwork, healthy vitals, no red flags.
The fitness testing was harder. My body was still rebuilding from three years of pill abuse. I was slower than I used to be, weaker in ways that frustrated me. But the trainers seemed satisfied.
"You're in decent shape for someone six weeks out of treatment," the head trainer said. "We'll build you up gradually. No rushing. Your body needs time to remember how to perform without chemical assistance."
Lunch was in the players' dining area. A few guys were there—veterans getting summer workouts in. Marcus Oladipo, the team captain, introduced himself.
"Crew Lawson. Heard good things about you." His handshake was firm. "Welcome to Vancouver. You settling in okay?"
"Still unpacking boxes. But yeah, getting there."
"My wife Janine wants to meet your girlfriend. She runs a partners group for significant others. Helps people adjust to the city, makes connections. I'll get you her number."
"That would be great. Harper's been pretty isolated since we moved."
"Janine was the same way when we moved here from Toronto. It's hard being the trailing spouse or partner. But the group helps." Marcus grabbed a protein shake from the fridge. "You doing okay? With the recovery stuff?"
The question caught me off-guard. Not many people asked directly.
"I'm managing. One day at a time."
"Good. My wife's six years sober. If you ever need to talk—someone who gets it from the family side—just let me know." He clapped me on the shoulder. "We take care of our guys here, Crew. All of them. Including the ones fighting demons off the ice."
The team meeting was standard—introductions, season expectations, logistics. But the on-ice practice was when everything shifted.
I stepped onto the ice for the first time as a Canuck, and something clicked. The familiar cold, the scrape of blades, the weight of the stick in my hands. This was home. Not Vancouver. Not the team. Just the ice.
We ran drills for ninety minutes. I was rusty but not terrible. My legs remembered what to do even if my brain was still catching up.
Afterwards, in the locker room, one of the younger players—Tyler, a rookie from Alberta—sat down next to me.
"Hey, man. I just wanted to say thanks for being open about the rehab stuff. My brother's struggling with pills right now. Seeing someone like you—professional athlete, successful career—admitting you needed help... it makes me think maybe he can get help too."
I didn't know what to say. "Tell him it's worth it. Treatment. Getting clean. It's hard as hell but it's worth it."
"I will. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. My whole family's been dealing with addiction shit for years. We get it."
By the time I left the rink at five PM, I was exhausted. Good exhausted. Like I'd actually done something instead of just survived.
I texted Harper: First day done. Still employed. Coming home.
She responded immediately: So proud of you. I made dinner. Well, I ordered dinner and put it on plates. Close enough.
The NA meeting was at seven. Church basement in East Vancouver, twenty people in a circle of folding chairs. David was there—tall, built like he'd played enforcer, warm smile that reached his eyes.
"Crew. Good to finally meet you in person." He hugged me, which surprised me. Mike back in Seattle wasn't a hugger.
"Thanks for sponsoring me. I know it's extra work."
"It's not work. It's staying connected to my own recovery by helping someone else with theirs." He gestured to an empty chair. "Come on. Meeting's starting."
I sat. Listened to people share their stories. Relapses and victories and daily struggles. When it came to me, I introduced myself.
"I'm Crew. I'm an addict. Forty-eight days clean. Just moved to Vancouver from Seattle. This is my first meeting here."
"Welcome, Crew," the group said in unison.
A woman across the circle smiled. "Welcome to Vancouver. We're glad you're here."
And I realized I was glad to be there too.
After the meeting, David pulled me aside. "How are you really doing? Moving cities is a huge trigger."
"I'm struggling. Everything's new. I don't have routines yet. And being at the rink today—all those old patterns, all those memories of using before practice—it's hard."
"Of course it's hard. You spent three years conditioning your brain that hockey equals pills. Now you're trying to rewire that. It's going to take time." He handed me a paper with phone numbers. "These are five guys from this meeting who play or used to play professionally. Call any of them, anytime. Twenty-four seven. You're not alone in this, Crew."
I got home at nine. Harper was on the couch, laptop open, surrounded by papers.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Good. Exhausting. I met my sponsor in person. The team seems solid. I didn't want to use even once today, which feels like a victory."
"That IS a victory." She closed her laptop. "How's your body feeling?"
"Sore. Out of shape. Angry that it can't do what it used to do."
"Come here." She patted the couch next to her. "Let me work on your shoulders. I haven't forgotten how to be a physical therapist."
I sat. Her hands found the knots in my shoulders, working them methodically. Professional but also intimate. She knew my body, knew where I held tension.
"How was your day?" I asked.
She was quiet for a moment. "Lonely. I unpacked six boxes. Researched Canadian business licensing. Took a walk. Came home. That was my whole day."
"Harper—"
"It's fine. I knew moving would be hard. I just didn't expect it to feel this isolating." Her hands kept working. "I miss Maya. I miss having friends. I miss having a purpose."
"Marcus gave me his wife's number. She runs a partners group for people who've moved here with players. Maybe that would help?"
"Maybe. I don't know. It feels weird joining a group specifically for hockey wives and girlfriends. Like my identity is just 'Crew's girlfriend' instead of Harper who has her own shit going on."
"You're not just my girlfriend. You're Harper who's opening a clinic and building a business. This is just a hard transition period."
"I know. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Ignore me." She moved to my lower back. "Did you eat dinner?"
"Not yet. You?"
"I had pad thai at four PM. I'm calling it dinner."
We ordered pizza because neither of us had energy to cook. Ate it on actual plates this time—we'd finally found them in a box labeled "bathroom misc" for reasons neither of us could explain.
"Tomorrow I'm touring that clinic space," Harper said. "The one in Kitsilano I've been researching. Want to come with me?"
"I have my first session with Dr. Okonkwo at ten. But I'm free after noon."
"Perfect. The appointment's at one."
We fell asleep early, exhausted from our respective first days in Vancouver. Building routines. Finding rhythms. Slowly figuring out how to live here instead of just existing in boxes.
It wasn't easy. But we were doing it.
One day at a time.
Together.