Chapter 71 Game Day
Crew's POV,
I woke up at five AM the day of my first pre-season game and immediately wanted to throw up.
Not from physical illness. From pure anxiety. The kind that sits in your chest like a stone and whispers all your worst fears on repeat.
What if you can't play clean? What if the pain comes back? What if you fail in front of everyone and prove that signing you was a mistake?
Harper stirred next to me. "You okay?"
"No. But I will be." I got out of bed carefully, trying not to wake her fully. "Going for a run. Clear my head."
"It's five in the morning."
"I know. Can't sleep anyway."
I threw on running clothes and hit the seawall. Early morning Vancouver, barely awake. Joggers and dog walkers and people getting coffee before work. The mountains were purple shadows against the lightening sky.
I ran hard. Punishing pace. Trying to outrun the anxiety that had been building for weeks.
Tonight was my first real game in three months. Not practice. Not scrimmages. An actual pre-season game against Calgary, with crowds and cameras and everyone watching to see if Crew Lawson could actually play clean or if he'd been a waste of money and faith.
By the time I got back to the condo, Harper was awake and making breakfast. She took one look at my face.
"How bad is it?" she asked.
"Pretty bad. I keep thinking about all the ways this could go wrong."
"Then let's follow your game day plan. The one Dr. Okonkow helped you create." She pulled out my phone, opening the notes app where we'd documented everything. "Step one: morning run. Check. Step two: healthy breakfast with protein. I'm making eggs and toast. Step three: meditation and breathing exercises."
"I hate meditation."
"You hate anxiety more. Sit down. Eat. Then we're doing the breathing thing whether you like it or not."
After breakfast, she made me sit on the floor while she guided me through the exercises Dr. Okonkow had taught me. Box breathing. Four counts in, hold four, four counts out, hold four. Repeat until the stone in my chest felt slightly less crushing.
"Better?" Harper asked.
"Marginally."
"Good enough." She checked the plan. "Step four: call David."
I called my sponsor. He answered on the second ring, sounding wide awake despite it being barely seven AM.
"Game day," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Game day. I'm losing my mind."
"Expected. Normal. Let's talk through it." David's voice was calm, steady. "What's the worst thing that could happen today?"
"I get hit, the pain is too much, my brain screams for pills, and I relapse in front of thousands of people."
"Okay. And if that happens?"
"Then I've destroyed everything. My career, my recovery, Harper's trust. Everything."
"No. If that happens, you leave the ice. You call me. You go to an emergency meeting. You restart your counter. It's not the end of the world. It's a setback." He paused. "But Crew, that's worst case. What's the likely case?"
"That I play okay. That I'm rusty and slow but functional. That I get through it without using."
"Exactly. You've been training clean for two months. Your body knows what to do. Your brain just needs to catch up." David's voice got firmer. "You've got this. And if you don't, you've got support. But you've got this."
After the call, I felt steadier. Not confident, but less like I was spiraling into disaster.
Harper drove me to the rink at noon. The game wasn't until seven, but I had meetings, equipment check, pre-game meal with the team. She squeezed my hand before I got out of the car.
"I'll be there tonight. Fourth row, behind the bench. You'll see me." She pulled me in for a kiss. "I love you. You're going to be amazing."
"I'm going to be okay. There's a difference."
"Okay is amazing when you're doing it clean. Now go. Be a hockey player."
Inside the arena, the energy was different. Pre-season, so not the intensity of regular season, but still real. Still mattering. Media already setting up cameras. Fans starting to arrive hours early.
I went through my routine mechanically. Equipment check. Taping sticks. Pre-game meal in the dining room with teammates who were nervous and excited and treating this like it mattered even though it technically didn't count for standings.
Marcus found me in the locker room ninety minutes before puck drop.
"How you feeling?" he asked.
"Terrified."
"Good. Means you care." He sat down next to me. "Crew, I'm going to tell you what my first coach told me when I was a rookie. You know why we play hockey?"
"Because we're good at it?"
"Because we love it. When you step on that ice tonight, remember why you started playing. Not for the money or the fame or because you had to prove something. Because you love the game. That's all that matters."
It was simple advice. Almost too simple. But it helped.
I love hockey. I'd forgotten that somewhere in the three years of pills and pain and playing through injuries that should have sidelined me. But I did love it. The ice, the speed, the teamwork, the satisfaction of a perfect play.
That's why I was here. Not to prove anything. Just to play.
The pre-game skate was a blur. Warm-ups, line rushes, goalie drills. The arena filling up. Music playing. Announcers testing microphones.
I looked up at the seats, finding the section where Harper said she'd be. Fourth row, behind the bench. She was there, wearing my jersey with "LAWSON 18" on the back. Next to her was Janine, Marcus's wife, who'd clearly adopted Harper into the partners group.
Harper saw me looking and waved. Held up her phone. I skated closer to the glass.
She'd written something on her notes app, holding it up for me to read: YOU'VE GOT THIS. I LOVE YOU.
I tapped the glass. She pressed her hand against it from the other side.
Then the horn sounded. Time to clear the ice. Time for the game to start.
In the locker room, Coach gave his pre-game speech. Standard stuff about effort and playing our systems and treating pre-season like it matters. I barely heard it. My brain was too busy running through plays, anticipating hits, preparing for pain management.
Then we were skating out. Lineup announcements. National anthems. Puck drop.
And just like that, I was playing hockey again.
The first period was rough. I was slow, missing plays I would've made two years ago. My timing was off. My body was still remembering how to perform without chemical assistance.
But I stayed on the ice. Played my shifts. Didn't panic when Calgary's defense hit me into the boards—hard hit, the kind that used to send me reaching for pills immediately.
I breathed through it. Skated it off. Used the pain management techniques the training staff had taught me. Came back for the next shift.
Second period was better. My body remembered. My brain caught up. I started reading plays faster, anticipating movements, finding spaces.
Midway through the second, I saw it. Tyler coming down the wing, defender overcommitting, lane opening up to the net. I had the puck at center ice. Perfect angle for a cross-ice pass.
I sent it. Hard tape-to-tape pass that hit Tyler's stick perfectly. He didn't hesitate. One-timer. Top shelf. Bar down.
Goal.
The arena erupted. My first point as a Canuck. Not a goal, but an assist. The play I was good at. The thing I'd always done best.
Tyler skated over, mobbing me against the boards. The rest of the line piled on. "HELL YEAH, LAWSON!"
I looked up at Harper in the stands. She was crying. Screaming. Cheering so loud I could hear her over the arena noise.
I skated by our section and tapped the glass. She pressed both hands against it, tears streaming down her face.
Third period, I got hit again. Harder this time. Shoulder to shoulder collision that sent me spinning into the boards. The kind of hit that used to leave me gasping, reaching for the bench, mentally counting hours until I could take more pills.
I stayed down for a second. Breathed through it. The training staff started toward me but I waved them off.
Got up. Skated to the bench. Sat for one shift to assess. Pain was manageable. Nothing torn or broken. Just impact. Just hockey.
Coach asked if I needed to sit out. I shook my head. Went back for the next shift.
We won 4-2. I finished with one assist, zero penalty minutes, seventeen minutes of ice time. Not spectacular. But clean. Functional. Good enough.
In the locker room after, my teammates were celebrating like we'd won the Stanley Cup instead of a meaningless pre-season game. Marcus grabbed me in a headlock.
"That's how you do it, Lawson! That's how you come back!"
Tyler found me in the shower. "That pass was perfect. Couldn't have asked for a better setup."
"You buried it. That's what matters."
"Yeah, but you made it possible." He paused. "My brother texted during the game. He's starting treatment next week. Inpatient. Twenty-eight days. He said watching you play tonight gave him hope that he can get clean and still have a life after."
I didn't know what to say to that. My recovery helping someone else's. My comeback mattering beyond just hockey.
"Tell him it's worth it," I said finally. "Treatment. Getting clean. All of it. It's hard as hell but it's worth it."
"I will."
I found Harper waiting outside the locker room. She launched herself at me the second I appeared, not caring that I was sweaty and gross.
"You did it," she said into my chest. "You played clean and you were amazing."
"I was okay. Not amazing."
"You were amazing to me." She pulled back to look at me. "Crew, you just proved you can do this. Play hockey without pills. Perform clean. This is real. Your comeback is real."
We drove home in comfortable silence. I was exhausted. Good exhausted. The kind that comes from actually working instead of just surviving.
At home, Harper ordered pizza and we ate it on the couch while watching highlights on her phone. The assist played on repeat. Perfect pass. Perfect finish.
"I forgot," I said quietly.
"Forgot what?"
"How good it feels. Playing hockey because I love it. Not because I have to. Not because I'm hiding pain. Just because it's fun." I set down my pizza. "Harper, I spent three years destroying myself trying to keep playing. And tonight I remembered why I wanted to play in the first place. Because it's the best feeling in the world."
"I'm so proud of you." She curled up against me. "Sixty-three days clean. First game back. You're doing it, Crew. You're actually doing it."
My phone buzzed. Text from David: Saw highlights. That assist was beautiful. Proud of you, man. Call me tomorrow.
Then Dr. Okonkow: Excellent work today. Let's debrief in our session Thursday. You should be very proud.
Then Mike, my Seattle sponsor: That's my guy! Keep doing the work. One game at a time.
Messages from teammates. From Marcus. From fans I didn't know congratulating me on the comeback.
But the most important message was sitting next to me on the couch. Harper, who'd believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. Who'd moved cities and built a new life because she thought I was worth the risk.
"Thank you," I said.
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me. When I was using. When I overdosed. When I was a disaster who couldn't see past the next pill. You didn't give up."
"Of course I didn't. I love you. You don't give up on people you love."
"Some people do."
"Well I'm not some people. I'm Harper Sinclair, soon to be Harper Lawson, your fiancée who's marrying you partly for immigration purposes and partly because you're the best person I know."
"Mostly immigration purposes though."
"Seventy-thirty split. Seventy percent love, thirty percent paperwork convenience."
"I'll take those odds."
We fell asleep on the couch again, too tired to move to the bedroom. My phone buzzed throughout the night with more messages, more congratulations, more people saying they were proud.
But I was already asleep, dreaming about hockey and Harper and a future that was finally starting to feel possible instead of theoretical.