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Chapter One

“Emotionally wrecked. Cataclysmically devastated. Savagely destroyed. Words I use to describe the Renegade players after losing the seventh game and leaving the playoffs empty-handed. Not a good look on our boys.” Penni’s Puckleberry Tea

Boh

I’d barrelled through bigger opponents than the one standing between me and freedom.

Bigger.

Tougher.

Formidable defensemen who made their living wrecking guys like me.

I shoved my shoulders back, tightened my hands around the crutches, and eyed my adversary.

Seven years in the National Hockey League and a lifetime of youth and junior top-level competition under my belt. I had the ability to shut this shit down, even with a cast hanging off my leg and destroying my balance.

My warden crossed one arm over the other under her chest, pointed chin angling up in challenge. “Please return to your room, Mr. Zacha.”

On the ice, I could have faked to the left and made for the door. Or used my size to bulldoze a path. “You can’t keep me here if I want to leave.”

“Of course not.”

Spoken in such a reasonable tone. Belying the steely resolution glinting out at me from a pair of stern, uncompromising eyes.

I pushed up to my full height. “I already called for a rideshare.”

“Your team physician has dictated you may only depart Brightside accompanied by an approved Designated Medical Guardian. Rideshare drivers, unfortunately, don’t qualify.”

“That’s the thing,” I said, heat flushing up my neck. Angry heat. Embarrassed heat. Frustrated heat. I sucked in a deep breath through my nose and moderated my tone. “I don’t need a fucking guardian .”

The crux of my problem. The staff of Brightside, paid by the Richland Renegades organization to get me back into playing form and out of public view, had no problem playing the dual roles of healer and warden. Normal rules didn’t apply when a NHL contract was in the mix and Old Man Pendleton was paying the bills.

Movement in the parking lot behind the Evil Gate Warden snagged my attention. A man crossed the parking lot with a gangster strut straight off the set of a mafia movie. The two-sizes-too-big navy suit gave him away. His face featured regularly in my nightmares, both of the waking and dream variety. The smug lawyer stalked toward the entrance of Brightside, wreaking of the determination to add misery to my life.

Two months of living under a microscope, of eyes scrutinizing, judging, deciding. That was the worst part—the loss of any material decision making. Did Boh eat the right meal today? Did he attend physical therapy and show effort? Had he fallen off the balance board during his vestibular rehab session?

I battled two hundred pound professional athletes on the regular, but suddenly I couldn’t be trusted any more than a two year old. Couldn’t be trusted to find the residents’ cafeteria without knocking into walls much less be released home.

NHL contracts were a bitch. A hot coal of resentment burning an ulcer into my gut.

Concussion.

My second in six months. Common enough injury in my line of work.

Only this time, I didn’t shake off the symptoms. Ne . This time, the headaches lingered, the sensitivity to light, the blurred vision, the dizziness, the spotty memory, the mood swings, it all lingered. The list of symptoms went on and on and landed me smack in the middle of physical rehab hell, otherwise known as Brightside Brain Injury Center.

What a fucking joke.

I stepped back from the gray-haired door warden, my fingers tightening around the crutches in a death grip. Between her and the team lawyer, my chances of escape melted away as fast as snow under a summer sun.

My limbs vibrated, and I hobbled another step away from the door. I’d be seeing the ortho doc soon and hopefully get rid of at least one of my hassles, but for now, I wasn’t supposed to be putting any weight down on my casted ankle.

Fine, whatever. No fucking weight. Rules and more rules, each one another scrape along a raw nerve. Ceding more control into someone else’s hands.

A couple of my teammates had come by to visit, despite the wreck I’d made of the postseason. I’d barely managed to hold their gaze as they checked in on me. Their genuine concern adding another layer of guilt to the mountain already smothering me.

The lobby walls shrank in around me.

Through the lobby window, sunlight bounced off the hood of an older model car speeding up the center strip in the parking lot. When the silver car rounded the center island to pass under the canopy, the bright white decal of a rideshare company showed on the side window and I nearly groaned. Behind the wheel, a woman eyed a phone mounted on the dash. Definitely my rideshare.

Never had an old beater of a Honda looked so good. But then, that Honda suddenly represented everything I needed right now. Escape from Brightside. Escape from the stupid ass clause in my contract that controlled my every action.

Between the team attorney and purveyor of bad news, Declan Walsh, and the Evil Gate Warden in front of me, and my crutches, I had about a two percent chance of making my escape out the sliding glass door and into that sedan.

Maybe less, if my body decided to betray me again and my head started spinning.

I shuffled back another couple steps as the attorney entered the lobby, the cheap soles of his Oxfords clacking against the polished floor. My shoulders sagged and the crutches dug into my armpits. The warden blessed the newcomer with a severe smile.

“Mr. Zacha,” the attorney said in a tone I’d last heard when my mother dropped me off for ?kolka as a kid.

I locked the knee on my good leg and flexed the muscles in my chest. Just what I needed, the two of them lining up against me. Fuck this. “I’m leaving.”

As if announcing my intentions again would result in a different outcome. The definition of insanity, right? Repeating an action over and over and expecting a different result. But wasn’t determination the same thing, if the opposite side of the coin? Practice until perfect day in and day out. I’d give my left nut to be in a shot practice right now.

The door warden spoke then. “Not without a Designated Medical Guardian.”

“I’m not twelve, for fuck’s sake.”

The attorney shifted forward. “We spoke with Mr. Landon and he’s not able to meet the conditions of your contract, unfortunately. The General Manager denied your request for Shep to be appointed your medical guardian.”

Shep Landon, one of my teammates and closest friends. I had zero interest in rooming with the guy—I valued my privacy too highly for a roommate when I wasn’t on the road for the team. But if signing myself over to him got me out of this place, I’d have taken the hit.

“We can put a call out to the team, see if one of the other players—”

I shifted back a step, cutting off Walsh's words. Fat chance. I wouldn’t be a charity case. Someone the rest of the team would pity, when they weren’t secretly hating me for costing them the playoffs.

The team attorney shifted again, a “V” dipping between his brows, not giving up on his stupid idea. “We would have to conduct an evaluation—”

The glass door swished open with a sudden blast of hot air and the woman from the Honda hustled inside. Take-out containers loaded her arms while an enormous purse dangled from one slim shoulder. Across the other, a pair of bright pink roller skates bounced as she strode inside.

Her mouth moved, but I’d shifted to the center of the lobby and couldn’t make out her words. By the way her gaze skirted us to search for the directional signs she must have been speaking to someone on her phone. Maybe not my rideshare driver, after all. She paused, tipping up on her toes like she’d stopped too quickly and I almost smiled.

Around me, the team’s attorney checked his phone, while the door warden kept a wary eye in my direction. As if I’d bolt through the sliding glass door if she dared take her gaze off me for even an instant. Maybe if I had two healthy legs, she’d have the right of it. Even without a ride, I’d make a run for venku and hope for the best.

But between the crutches and the vertigo, I didn’t like my chances. Or the hit my pride would take if I landed flat on my ass in front of this crowd.

Honda Girl moved closer, her eyes still scanning the big lobby. “No, there is no sign here saying this way to the Sunshine Suites.”

Because this place where the Renegades had stuck me to recover out of the way of the press and for my “own safety” was just that sick, Brightside labeled their patient rooms. I’d been assigned a room in the Sunshine Suites, too, cringing every time one of the staff said the words. Sunshine and Brightside and get me the fuck out of here.

Once upon a time, I’d have laughed my current predicament off. Found the humor, charmed the staff, and taken the downtime to catch up on the latest Korean dramas. But these days, my patience sank to an all-time low. My tolerance non-existent. Anger became my default. Irritation a constant gnawing under the skin.

Still softly arguing with whoever she spoke to on the phone, the woman turned until she faced my happy little trio in the middle of the lobby. Catching my eyes on her, she cocked her head in question. A previous version of me would have smiled and pointed her toward the hall with the elevator she needed. Taking in her long ponytail, pink lips, and the way her little denim jacket stopped just under full tits and left her midriff bare, that previous version of me probably would have escorted her to the elevator, charmed a name out of her and scheduled another meeting.

But today’s me narrowed my eyes on her and dared her to approach. Instead of turning away, she winked. When she chased the wink with a teasing grin, fire poured into my veins like scorching acid. Did she recognize me? Another jersey-chasing puck bunny? How fucking dare she wink at me? Another day, another me, and I’d have taken in the soft humor in her eyes and returned it with a laugh of my own. But I couldn’t share in the absurdity of the situation, couldn’t think past the rules and control and threats to my future.

“You can’t leave without a guardian, Boh.” The lawyer’s words cut through the room.

She winked as though she knew who I was and humiliation roared through me.

My stomach churned, threatening to toss up my lunch even as a band of tension tightened around my chest. Sucking in a deep breath proved impossible. I swiped my hand over my face, dragging my fingers through the sweat of desperation on my forehead. No way I would deal with another minute of this fucking nightmare.

My gaze riveted on the stranger, I spoke. “I have a guardian.” My voice loud enough to bounce off the marble floor and rattle the gaudy chandelier over our heads, my gaze riveted on the stranger in the room. I’d steal the unacceptable humor right off her smiling face.

“She’s right there.” I nodded at the woman, savoring the widening of her eyes and the little “O” her mouth formed in her surprise. I hobbled closer, shifting to put myself between her and the hallway leading to the Sunshine Suites elevator. The band around my chest slackened. Like the proverbial deer stuck in the headlights, she stared up at me with big blue eyes. I’d struck her speechless and damned if I didn’t feel the first real glimmer of humor in too damn long.

“Right, babe? Too busy talking on the phone to notice I came down to meet you.” And this time, I winked.

My wink broke her spell and she scrambled back a step. “What? No, I—”

“What’s your name, ma’am?” Walsh plowed forward with the grace of an old school defenseman. The kind that could hit like a runaway train, but never mastered how to skate.

He wore a messenger bag and his motion sent it swinging, knocking into my crutch, sending it flying smack into the stranger’s leg. My balance suddenly shit, I stumbled forward, as graceful as a baby bird testing featherless wings. I careened right into the woman, tumbling us both down to sprawl across the floor. In a weird twist of science, momentum sent take-out containers soaring up, lids separating from their bases and showering food across the once-pristine floor.

Between the warden’s surprised screech and the attorney’s demands for a wheelchair echoing in the big lobby, I shoved up from where I straddled the woman’s legs, my hands braced on either side of her thighs. Some sort of thick concoction oozed down my cheek to drip with a splat onto her bare belly. Her stomach muscles contracted, bounced.

“Boh, get up, for fuck’s sake. Quickly! Ma’am, are you injured?”

Walsh . But I didn’t look away from the faintly green substance decorating the stranger’s smooth skin. The sound of the other woman’s voice sent the one beneath me scrambling backwards like an angry little crab. Globs of food smeared her jacket, up her belly to her chest, and higher still to grace the curve of her cheek. Her hair looked like someone had dumped a bowl of spaghetti over her head.

I awkwardly pushed back to give her more space, landing on my ass with a grimace as my body jarred with the impact. As recently as a week ago, such a move would have set my head to banging and shadows over the vision in my left eye. I let out my breath, grabbed the crutch nearest me—the other had shot across the room—and heaved my body upright.

Plastic containers littered the slick floor. Globs of food dripped from my head and clothes and from the stranger who’d lost her grin. Her eyes burned, bright and vindictive. Her look scalded, setting a fire sizzling across my skin.