Chapter 51 Welcome to Vancouver
Crew's POV,
The plane descended through clouds that looked like cotton balls someone had pulled apart, and I couldn't stop bouncing my leg. Harper put her hand on my knee to still it, but three seconds later I was bouncing again.
"You're making the entire row shake," she said, not unkindly.
"Sorry." I forced myself to stop. Took a breath. Started bouncing again.
She laughed and gave up, going back to the article she was reading on her phone about opening small businesses in Canada. She'd been researching Vancouver clinics and business licenses and healthcare regulations for three days straight, making lists in a notebook she'd bought specifically for "Operation Fresh Start."
I loved that about her, the way she attacked problems with color-coded plans instead of avoidance and pills.
The pilot announced our descent into Vancouver International. I looked out the window at the city sprawled below, mountains rising behind it like they were holding the whole place in their palms. It was beautiful. Foreign. Terrifying.
This was supposed to be my second chance. My redemption arc. The place where I got to be Crew Lawson the hockey player instead of Crew Lawson the addict who almost died.
No pressure.
We landed twenty minutes later. James Chen, the Canucks' GM, had sent a driver to pick us up, a guy named Peter who held a sign with my name spelled correctly, which was more than most people managed. He loaded our bags into a black SUV and drove us through the city while pointing out landmarks I immediately forgot.
"Your first meeting is at two," Peter said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "With James and the coaching staff. Then facility tour at three-thirty. Dinner with some of the guys at six. Ms. Sinclair, there's a separate itinerary for you if you'd like—realtor appointments, neighborhood tours, that sort of thing."
Harper looked at me. I grabbed her hand.
"She's coming to everything with me," I said. "If that's okay."
"Of course. Whatever you prefer, Mr. Lawson."
The Rogers Arena rose up ahead of us, all glass and steel and modern architecture that looked nothing like the Titans' building. Everything here looked newer, cleaner, like the city hadn't had time to get scarred yet.
We pulled into an underground parking garage. Peter led us through security and into an elevator that opened directly into the executive offices. James was waiting in the hallway; fifty-something, graying hair, expensive suit that somehow didn't make him look like he was trying too hard.
"Crew!" He extended his hand and I shook it, trying to ignore the fact that my palm was sweating. "And Harper. Thank you both for making the trip. How was the flight?"
"Good," I managed. "Thank you for sending the car."
"Of course, of course. Come on, let's get you settled in the conference room. We've got coffee, water, some snacks if you're hungry."
The conference room had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Five other people were already inside, coaches, I assumed, based on the way they were dressed in team gear and had that weathered look of guys who'd spent decades in hockey.
James made introductions. Head coach Rick Paulson, who'd played fifteen years in the NHL before retiring. Assistant coaches Mike DeMarco and Lauren Chen, no relation to James, apparently, though they joked about starting that rumor. Skills coach Antonio Ruiz. And someone I wasn't expecting: Dr. Sarah Okonkwo, the team's mental health counselor.
She was the only one who didn't try to shake my hand. She just smiled and said, "I'm here to listen, not evaluate. This is a judgment-free space."
Something in my chest loosened slightly.
We sat around the conference table. James pulled up some stats on a screen; my numbers from the past three seasons, my injury history, my playoff performance. It looked good on paper. Less good when you knew how many pills it had taken to generate those numbers.
"Crew, I'm going to be direct," James said. "We know about your addiction. We know about rehab. We know you're thirty-five days clean as of today. And we're bringing you onto this team anyway, because we believe in second chances and we believe in you. But I need to know where your head's at. Can you play clean?"
I looked at Harper. She nodded slightly, encouraging.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "I've never played clean before. Not at this level. The pain management, that's what started everything. Getting hit, playing through injuries, needing to perform even when my body was screaming at me to stop. So I don't know if I can play clean. But I want to try."
Rick leaned forward. "What if the pain comes back? What's your plan?"
"I don't have one yet. My therapist back in Seattle said I need to develop 'healthy coping mechanisms' but that feels like bullshit advice when you're getting cross-checked into the boards." I ran my hand through my hair. "I guess I'm hoping you guys have better answers than I do."
"We do, actually." Dr. Okonkwo pulled out a folder. "We have a comprehensive pain management program that doesn't rely on opioids. Physical therapy, acupuncture, meditation techniques, non-narcotic medications, and regular check-ins with me to monitor your mental health. It's not magic... you'll still have pain. But it'll be manageable without pills."
"And if it's not manageable?"
"Then we sit you out until it is. We're not interested in destroying players for wins. We want sustainable careers, not burnout by thirty-two." James looked at me seriously. "Crew, the old model of hockey—play through everything, never show weakness, pills and booze to cope—that model kills people. We're not doing that here. You're a human being first, a hockey player second."
I felt Harper's hand find mine under the table.
"I appreciate that," I said quietly. "More than you know."
Rick smiled. "Good. Now let's talk hockey. I've been watching your tape from the past two seasons. Your speed's down but your hockey IQ is exceptional. You read plays before they develop. I want to use you on second line, maybe some power play time, focus on playmaking instead of physical enforcement. Does that sound good to you?"
Playmaking. Not fighting. Not throwing my body around like it was disposable.
"Yeah," I said. "That sounds really good."
We spent the next hour going over systems and strategies and expectations. They wanted me practicing with the team in two weeks, once I was settled. Light contact at first, building up gradually. They'd assign me a veteran player as a mentor, someone who'd been through recovery and knew the struggle.
When the meeting ended, James walked us out personally.
"The facility tour is next, but I wanted to say something first." He stopped in the hallway. "Crew, I played twelve years in the NHL. I retired with two blown knees, chronic back pain, and a drinking problem I didn't admit I had until my wife threatened to leave me. I know what it's like to feel like your body's a machine that only works with chemical assistance. And I know how fucking hard it is to relearn being human."
"How long have you been sober?" I asked.
"Eight years. And it's still hard some days. But it gets easier. And having a team that actually gives a shit makes all the difference." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Welcome to Vancouver, Crew. We're glad you're here."
........
The facility tour took an hour. Training rooms that looked like they belonged in a spa. A full kitchen with a nutritionist on staff. The gym equipment was newer than anything the Titans had. And there was an entire room dedicated to recovery; massage tables, ice baths, heat therapy, meditation spaces.
"Holy shit," I muttered to Harper. "This is where players come to actually get better."
"As opposed to where you came from, where players came to die slowly?"
"Exactly."
Antonio showed us the rink. The ice was perfect, freshly maintained, gleaming under the lights. I could already imagine skating on it... the sound of blades cutting, the cold air, the familiar rush of movement.
But this time without pills fuzzing the edges. This time actually feeling it.
"You okay?" Harper asked quietly.
"Yeah." I pulled her close. "I think I actually am."
We met some of the players in the locker room—guys filtering in for afternoon practice. They were friendly but not overbearing, gave me space while making it clear I was welcome. The team captain, Marcus Oladipo, shook my hand and said, "My wife's six years clean. If you ever need to talk, I've seen it from the other side."
At six PM we had dinner at a restaurant overlooking False Creek. Six players and their partners showed up, and it felt less like business and more like actual humans having a meal together. Marcus's wife, Janine, cornered Harper immediately.
"How are you holding up?" Janine asked. "Being the partner of someone in early recovery is its own kind of hell."
Harper looked surprised that someone actually asked. "It's terrifying. Every time my phone rings I think something's happened."
"That fear doesn't really go away. But it gets quieter." Janine squeezed her hand. "There's a partners support group that meets every other week. I can send you the info if you want. It helps to talk to people who get it."
I watched Harper's face transform—relief and gratitude and the realization that maybe we weren't doing this completely alone.
By the time we got back to the hotel at ten PM, I was exhausted. Good exhausted though. Like I'd actually done something instead of just survived.
Harper collapsed on the bed still wearing her shoes. "I like it here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Everyone's so.... normal. Like they actually see you as a person." She rolled onto her side to look at me. "I think we're going to be okay here, Crew. I really do."
I lay down next to her, pulling her against my chest. "I'm still scared."
"Me too. But at least we're scared somewhere beautiful with good healthcare and people who don't think addiction makes you disposable."
"That's a low bar."
"And yet the Titans couldn't clear it." She kissed me softly. "I love you. Even when you're terrified."
"I love you too."
We fell asleep like that, fully clothed on top of the covers, holding each other in a hotel room in a city that might actually let us start over.
For the first time in years, I let myself believe it might actually work.