Chapter 84 The Road Trip
Crew's POV,
The road trip started on a Thursday—five days, three cities, four games. California swing: San Jose, Los Angeles, Anaheim, back to Los Angeles.
My first extended road trip since getting clean.
I packed carefully. Recovery books. My meeting schedule for each city—David had already connected me with NA contacts in San Jose and LA. Non-narcotic pain medication the team doctor had prescribed. My phone charger because calling Harper and David would be essential.
Harper drove me to the airport at ten AM.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Nervous. Road trips were when I used the most. Different city every night. Nobody watching. Easy to find pills. Easy to justify using more because 'nobody knows.'"
"But you're not that person anymore."
"I know. But my brain doesn't always know. It just remembers that road trips meant pills and now I'm going on a road trip and—" I took a breath. "I'm spiraling already and we haven't even left Vancouver."
"Then let's practice what Dr. Okonkow taught you. Worst case scenario. What's the worst thing that happens?"
"I get hurt. The pain is too much. I use. I relapse. I destroy everything."
"Okay. And if that happens?"
"Then I call David immediately. I tell the team. I restart my counter. I get help."
"Right. Relapse isn't the end of the world. It's a setback. You'd handle it." She grabbed my hand. "But Crew, you're not going to relapse. You have a plan. You have support. You're 115 days clean. You've got this."
"What if I don't?"
"Then you call me. Two AM, four AM, whenever. You call me and I'll talk you through it."
At the airport, she kissed me goodbye. "Play well. Stay clean. Come home to me."
"I will. All three."
The flight to San Jose was uneventful. I sat next to Marcus, who'd clearly been assigned as my road trip buddy. We didn't talk about it explicitly, but I knew. Coach had put us together deliberately.
"First road trip clean?" Marcus asked.
"Yeah."
"It's hard. Different hotels, different routines, body's tired, pain flares up. Your brain's going to try to convince you that you need something. Just remember—you don't. You just think you do."
"What if the pain gets really bad?"
"Then you tell the trainer. They've got non-narcotic options. It won't be as effective as pills were. But it'll be enough." He paused. "And if it's not enough, you sit out a game. Better to miss one game than relapse and miss your career."
San Jose, Day One: Fine. We practiced in the morning. I felt good—well-rested, focused, no pain. The game that night went well. I played eighteen minutes, got an assist, we won 3-1.
After the game, some guys wanted to go out. Bars. Celebrating the win.
I went back to the hotel instead. Called Harper.
"How was the game?" she asked.
"Good. We won. I felt solid. Now I'm in bed at 10 PM like an old man while my teammates are out partying."
"You're not an old man. You're a person in recovery making healthy choices."
"It's lonely though. Being the one who can't go out. Can't participate in team bonding."
"Is Marcus there?"
"Yeah. He stayed back too. We're going to watch film and order room service."
"So you're not alone. You're just doing different bonding."
She was right. Marcus and I spent two hours analyzing game footage, eating overpriced hotel burgers, talking about life. It wasn't lonely. Just different.
Los Angeles, Day Two: Harder.
We practiced in the morning. During a drill, I got hit hard—shoulder to shoulder collision that sent me into the boards awkwardly. Not illegal. Just hockey. But I felt something tweak in my back. Old injury site. The place that had hurt for three years before I finally got surgery.
I finished practice but I was limping. The trainer noticed.
"You okay, Lawson?"
"Back's tight. Old injury. Nothing serious."
"Want me to check it?"
"I'm fine."
But I wasn't fine. By afternoon, the pain was significant. Sharp. Radiating down my left leg. The kind of pain that used to send me reaching for pills immediately.
I took the non-narcotic medication. It helped slightly. Not enough.
At dinner with the team, I could barely sit. Marcus noticed.
"Your back?"
"Yeah."
"Tell the trainer. Actually tell them. Not the 'I'm fine' version. The truth."
After dinner, I found the trainer in the hotel gym. "My back's really bothering me. The pain's pretty significant."
He examined me. Tight muscles. Inflammation. Reduced mobility. "You should probably sit out tonight's game. Let it calm down."
"I can play through it."
"You can. But should you?" He looked at me seriously. "Crew, I know your history. I know what playing through pain used to mean for you. Don't go back to that pattern."
"It's not the same. I'm not going to use."
"Maybe not. But playing injured when you don't have to isn't recovery behavior. It's addict behavior disguised as toughness."
His words hit hard because they were true.
I sat out that night's game. Watched from the press box. Felt like a failure. The team lost 4-2 without me, which my brain immediately turned into "you let them down, you should have played, you're weak."
After the game, in the hotel room, the pain was worse. The anti-inflammatories weren't touching it. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, brain screaming at me to just take something, anything, it's just one pill, nobody would know, you deserve relief.
At 2 AM, I called David instead of Harper. Didn't want to worry her.
He answered on the second ring. "Talk to me."
"I'm in so much pain. The medication isn't working. My brain is telling me to use. I know I shouldn't but I really want to. I can't sleep. I can't think. I just hurt."
"Where's the pain?"
"Back. Old injury. Same place that started the whole pill problem three years ago."
"So this is triggering. Physical pain plus location-specific trauma. That's why it feels so intense." David's voice was calm. Steady. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. Box breathing. With me. Four counts in, hold four, four out, hold four. Ready?"
We did breathing exercises for twenty minutes. It didn't stop the pain. But it made it manageable. Bearable.
"Better?" David asked.
"A little."
"Good. Now I want you to text your trainer. Right now. Tell him you need stronger non-narcotic pain relief. There are options. Muscle relaxers, different anti-inflammatories, maybe a cortisone injection if it's that bad. But you need to advocate for yourself."
"At 2 AM?"
"It's his job. He'll be awake. He's probably expecting your call."
I texted the trainer. He responded immediately: Come to my room. I've got options.
Twenty minutes later, I had a stronger muscle relaxer and a plan for a cortisone injection if the pain didn't improve by morning.
"Why didn't you call me earlier?" the trainer asked.
"Didn't want to bother you."
"Crew, managing player health is literally my job. Especially yours. The whole medical staff knows your history. We're here to help. But you have to actually ask for help."
The medication worked. Not perfectly. But enough that I could sleep.
Day Three, Anaheim: Exhausted. Sleep-deprived. Pain improved but not gone. I played that night but I was off. Made mistakes I wouldn't normally make. Coach benched me for most of the third period.
Sitting there on the bench, I felt like a failure. Like I couldn't handle this. Like maybe playing clean long-term wasn't realistic.
Marcus sat down next to me. Didn't say anything. Just sat there. Presence without words.
When the game ended—another loss, 3-2—I went straight to the locker room, showered, avoided everyone.
On the bus back to the hotel, Marcus found me.
"Bad game doesn't mean bad recovery," he said quietly.
"I know."
"Do you? Because you look like you're catastrophizing right now."
"I just feel like I'm letting everyone down. The team. Myself. Like maybe I'm not capable of doing this long-term."
"One bad game. After 117 days clean. After making good decisions even when you were in pain. After calling for help instead of using. Crew, you're not failing. You're succeeding at the hard parts that matter."
Day Four, back to LA: The team had an off day. Most guys went to the beach or explored the city. I went to an NA meeting that David had found for me—small church basement in Burbank, twenty people in a circle, coffee and donuts.
I introduced myself. "I'm Crew. I'm an addict. 117 days clean. On a road trip with my hockey team and struggling with pain management and feeling like I'm failing."
An older woman across the circle spoke up. "You're not failing. You're here. That's the opposite of failing."
A guy about my age: "I'm a construction worker. Physical job. Chronic back pain. I've been clean two years and some days I still want to use so bad I can taste it. You're doing great. Don't let hard days make you think you're doing it wrong."
After the meeting, three people gave me their phone numbers. "Call if you need support. We've all been where you are."
I left feeling lighter. Less alone.
That night's game—fourth and final of the road trip—was better. Not great. But functional. I played my regular shift. No mistakes. No goals or assists but solid defensive work. We won 2-1.
In the locker room after, Coach pulled me aside.
"I know road trips are hard. Especially early in recovery. You handled this one well. Yeah, you had a rough game in Anaheim. But you didn't spiral. You asked for help. You made good choices. That's what I care about."
"I feel like I let the team down."
"You showed up every day. You played three of four games. You handled pain without compromising your recovery. Crew, that's not letting anyone down. That's doing exactly what we need you to do."
On the flight home, I sat next to Marcus again.
"Thanks," I said. "For staying with me this trip. For not making it weird. For just being there."
"That's what teammates do. And Crew? You did great. First road trip clean is brutal. You made it. That's huge."
We landed in Vancouver at 1 AM. Harper was waiting at arrivals even though I'd told her not to come, that I'd take an Uber.
When I saw her, something in my chest cracked open.
I dropped my bag and hugged her hard.
"You're home," she said into my shoulder.
"I'm home. I made it. 118 days clean. Didn't use even when I wanted to."
"That's the victory. Not playing well. Just not using."
"Everyone keeps saying that. I'm starting to believe it."
We drove home in comfortable silence. At the apartment, I collapsed on the couch, exhausted in my bones.
Harper sat next to me. "Tell me about it. All of it."
So I did. The pain. The 2 AM call to David. The bad game. The NA meeting. The struggle. All of it.
She listened without trying to fix anything. Just listened.
"I'm proud of you," she said when I finished. "For asking for help. For calling David instead of suffering alone. For going to a meeting in LA. For handling this the right way even when it was hard."
"It was really hard."
"I know. But you did it. And next road trip will be easier. And the one after that even easier. It gets better. It just takes time."