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Chapter Nine
Cole
“S top freaking out, Hendrix,” Remy groans into the phone as I pull into the player parking lot near the arena.
“I’m not freaking out. I just want to make sure the ink is dry on the paper before I set foot inside this place,” I grumble, throwing the rental SUV into park and leaning my head back on the seat.
Today is supposed to be my first day as the newest member of the Portland Timberwolves, and I fucking hate it. Remy made it perfectly clear that I had no other choice. Either risk never getting back on the ice, injury or not, or take the offer from the Timberwolves. I’d like to think that my playing would be good enough to get me on any team, even as a free agent in a few seasons, but I run the risk of the Wolverines telling the world my little secret, and that’s one thing that can’t happen.
“The last thing I need is to have moved my entire life back into my childhood bedroom, only to be told to get the fuck out of the locker room.”
Coach Mercer has a thing or two to say about me being added to the roster this season, and none of them are good. Remy told me I was overreacting, but Coach Mercer is not one to sugarcoat things. He made it perfectly clear his feelings about me being on his team when he called me with the information about training camp. One false move and I’m gone. If I cause any type of ruckus in his locker room, I’m gone. If I give his golden boys a hard time, I’m gone. He never actually said the last one, but it was implied.
He also reminded me I was only being given this chance because of my brother’s oh so innocent request to the team owner. Although I still have no idea how he managed to get said favor in the first place or why he called it in to get me on the team.
“I’m more worried about the fact that your entire life can fit into a small ten by ten bedroom.” Remy chuckles, but I don’t find him the least bit humorous.
I didn’t have much that was actually mine in the luxurious condo I had in Boise. The future was all there when I bought the place, but beside some clothes and a photo of me and my father, I didn’t give a crap about anything else.
“Hockey is my life, Remy. Everything else is expendable.”
Images of Michele, with one L, not two, flash through my mind, catching me by surprise. Calling her beautiful is an understatement. She is Aphrodite in the flesh. Her flawless golden brown skin and soulful brown eyes have been on my mind since the moment we met. Sure, hockey was my life, but I might have someone running a close second. I don’t get it. I’m a man with a libido. I’ve been with women when the need arose, but never anything like this. Being a professional athlete has its perks, after all, but relationships have never been my thing.
Michele has consumed my mind, but what is it about her? What makes her so special that I suddenly turn into a simpering fool? This is a distraction that I do not need right now, not that I even know where to find her. I’ve tried everything but breaking into the therapy center to find out anything I can about Michele—her phone number, address, work schedule—anything to give me a clue on how to find her again, but it seems the woman of my dreams is nothing but a fantasy. Too bad she isn’t Cinderella and left her shoe for me to find her again. Jesus, I’m in freaking trouble.
Besides, the last thing I should be doing is navigating a new relationship. Everything I do from now on will be under a microscope. The press and coach will look for any excuse to send me packing, not to mention I doubt Michele would want to be in the spotlight. These are not the best conditions to start a relationship, and there is no way anything between Michele and me could be a fling. I feel entirely too much for her already. I can’t imagine what would happen if we spent any amount of time together.
The best thing for me to do is keep my nose clean, both figuratively and realistically, until the buzz around my trade dies down. Once I’m back on the ice, I won’t have time for anything or anyone besides hockey. It’s the way it’s always been and the way it will always be until I’m six feet under.
“Dear God in heaven. You Hendrix boys are a piece of work. Maybe you’ll come home and find a nice lady to fall in love with like Cooper,” Remy groans teasingly.
“I’m nothing like Cooper,” I growl, my entire body lighting with rage. “I wish that you and everyone else would stop comparing me to him.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Cooper is the Antichrist. Yada yada.”
“You have no fucking idea what you are talking about, Remy. If you only—” I begin, but snap my mouth shut. I inhale deeply through my nose, trying desperately to calm down. The last thing I need to do is head into the locker room, itching for a fight.
“You know this is getting old, right? He’s your big brother and basically saved you from never playing hockey again.”
“Yeah. Cooper to the fucking rescue,” I respond, my voice low but tight, like a rope pulled to taut.
I lean over, pulling open the glove compartment and pulling out a familiar baggie of red pills. I managed to snag a few bags when I was in Boise, but I need to make them last. I promised myself I would stop, that I wouldn’t touch these things unless I needed them, but right now is an emergency. I just need one to take the edge off before I head into the building. Right, just this once, and then I’ll stop. Having made up my mind, I open the small baggie and shake the familiar tiny red pill into my hand before adding another and popping it into my mouth.
“Cole, I didn’t mean it?—”
“I know how you meant it, Remy,” I snap, my irritation at the subject of this conversation bubbling just below the surface.
Instead of having some off-the-cuff joke or snarky comment, my response is met with silence. Neither of us says a word for a few moments, unsure of how to continue from there.
“I’m sorry.” Remy exhales softly. “Everything you’ve accomplished has been on your own merit, Cole. You’re a great player, and Coach Mercer and the rest of the coaching staff know that.”
I exhale loudly, pushing out all the anger at Remy’s words from my system as the foggy calm of the pills settles on my brain. There’s something different about this particular cocktail. I should definitely give my compliments to the chef.
I didn’t really feel much different at first, just the usual warmth spreading through my chest and my limbs. The edges around my anger soften as the tension in my shoulders release. Then it hits me. Not like a truck or a wave crashing into the shoreline, but more like slipping into warm water without realizing how cold I was. Everything around me feels quieter and lighter. Instead of my mind racing, trying to ensure I remain one step ahead at all times, I’m calm and floating on a cloud.
The tension in my brow seeps from my skin as the bitterness and anger about this situation lessens. It doesn’t disappear completely, but it feels more contained and locked deep inside me, where no one can touch it.
“Okay,” I respond, the day seeming brighter and more hopeful than it did a few minutes ago.
“Okay. That’s it?” Remy questions, probably concerned about my lack of reaction and maybe a little curious about my sudden change of heart. “Are you feeling okay, Cole?”
“Yeah. Just peachy,” I respond lazily, the world around me swaying back and forth like a hammock rocking in the wind as I open the door and climb out. “I need to get going. Can’t be late for my first day of work.”
“Right.” Remy’s voice trails off, probably wanting to pry more, but decides against it. “Behave and mind your manners. I don’t want to get a phone call from Coach, telling me how you and your brothers couldn’t play nice.”
“I’ll try, but I make no promises.” I chuckle, reaching into the back seat and grabbing my hockey bag.
“That’s all I can ask,” Remy responds before hanging up the phone.
Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I make my way toward the player entrance, not knowing how I’m going to get past security. When Coach Mercer called me to tell me what time to arrive today, with a warning of what could happen if I was late, he didn’t bother to mention where I could get my player pass.
I approach the entrance, waving at the security guard before stopping on this side of the gate. The man’s eyes widen in surprise before he holds his hand out toward me. “Good morning, Mr. Hendrix. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I grasp his hand in mine, shaking it firmly. “Cole is fine.”
I force a smile, waiting for the man to either release my hand or say something of note, but he does neither. Just continues to stare at me in wonder, his eyes scanning my face, searching for lord knows what.
“Can I have my hand back?” I grumble, causing the man to jump and release my hand.
“I’m sorry. I just never thought I’d meet you in person. I’m a huge fan of yours. And your brothers. You three are a legend.” The man chuckles, lifting his hat to run his hand through his disheveled hair before dropping it back to his head. “Sorry again. What can I do for you?”
This isn’t the first time, and probably won’t be the last, that I’ve run into someone starstruck at seeing me enter the arena. It’s usually a fan of some sort, not the employees, but something tells me this guy is new. “I’m starting training camp today and don’t have my player badge. Can you direct me to someone who can help get me sorted out?”
“You’re what?”
Did I fucking stutter?
“I’m one of the newest members of the Timberwolves and have to get inside before Coach has my hide for being late.”
“Holy fucking shit, really?”
I’m losing my patience with this man, but before I can give him an earful, a petite woman comes skidding around the corner. Her short, curly hair bounces as she skids to a stop in front of me, positioning herself between me and the security guard. She doesn’t look old enough to be working anywhere, let alone for the team, but who am I to judge?
“Good morning, Mr. Hendrix. Sorry, I’m late, but I got lost trying to get from the main offices to the locker room and missed my turn to the players’ entrance.”
She huffs, pulling her pink lip between her teeth and nibbling on it. Her caramel-colored eyes flick back and forth, not focusing on anything in particular. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“Just a little.” I chuckle, not wanting to embarrass her even further. “Want to start over?”
Her cheeks pink slightly as she flashes me a shy smile. “Yes. Hello, Mr. Hendrix.”
“Cole. Please call me Cole.”
“Hello, Cole. My name is Alycia Torres, and I’m the public relations intern working for the Timberwolves this season. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she whispers softly, her eyes locking on the center of my chest.
“The pleasure is all mine,” I respond, bending down slightly so I can look into her eyes, causing her to take a step back. “Do you have a badge for me?”
“Yes,” she responds breathlessly, her cheeks pinking even more. “Elena instructed me to take you directly to the locker room so you can get situated. You won’t be practicing today, but you have a meeting with the head athletic trainer and your physiotherapist.”
“Bummer. I would’ve loved to see you on the ice, Mr—I mean Cole,” the security guard responds, his disappointment written all over his face.
“Maybe next time,” I grumble, unable to hide my disappointment. Remy warned me I’d need something more than my therapist and surgeon to sign off on my return to play. The Timberwolves take their players' health seriously. If I were still in Boise, I’d be back on the ice like nothing happened, maybe with a few steroid doses, just to make sure I was able to get the job done.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the locker room.” Alycia flashes me a blinding smile, running her badge in front of the sensor to unlock the turnstile.
“Are you sure you can find your way back?” The security guard chuckles as I push my way through.
“Yes,” Alycia responds in a clipped tone, as she spins on her heels and heads back the way she came.
I don’t say a word as I follow behind her. There isn’t much of a difference between the home team’s and the visiting team’s entrance, other than some team memorabilia and a trophy case with different plaques and awards lining the wall. The Stanley Cup from last year is there front and center, a soft white halo surrounding it, stopping me in my tracks.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Alycia’s soft voice sounds from beside me.
I don’t say a word, my eyes remaining focused on the cup and all its glory. I can’t believe that I almost had a chance to hold this above my head. Skating around the entire arena with it raised high after bringing the win home for my team.
“I always stop and look at it whenever I pass by.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, bringing my mind back to the present.
“You must pass by it a lot, with getting lost down here all the time and all.” I look down at her and smile.
“Touché.” She giggles before heading to the end of the hall and coming to a stop, her head swiveling back and forth.
Covering my laugh with a cough, I come to a stop beside her. “Lost again?”
This poor girl seriously has no sense of direction, but I doubt she is going to admit it, so I decide to throw her a bone.
“I think the locker room is that way.” I motion over my shoulder with my thumb, the complete opposite direction the lady was headed.
“How do you know?” She spins around, her eyes flicking up to mine for a few moments before focusing on the floor.
“Because of the sign.” I knock my knuckle against the green-and-white metal sign on the corner.
“Right. The sign,” she whispers, her eyes remaining focused on the floor, and we head down the hall and come to a stop in front of the locker room door. “Here we are.”
“Thanks for the escort. You are much better than the security guard, Joe.”
“His name is Terrance,” she quips, her lip pulling up into a slight smile. “Here is my card. If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks, Alycia. It was nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand for her to shake, and she takes it quickly.
“It’s my job.” She winks playfully at me before continuing down the hall and disappearing around a corner.
“Hope she doesn’t get lost again,” I mumble to myself before taking a deep breath and pushing through the locker room door.
The familiar scent of sweat and rubber hits me like a wave as I step inside. The only thing missing is the metallic smell of blood that commonly fills the air after a game or a rough practice. The air is usually heavy with it, like it's been exhaled by every player that’s entered the space.
This area is clean. Too perfect. Not a towel or jersey out of place, signalling the start of the season. Each player has their own "stall"—not quite a locker, not quite a cubby. It looks more like a personal shrine: nameplate above, hooks for gear below, shelves stacked with everything from visors and gloves to tape and water bottles. In some lockers. green jerseys hang like flags, ripped off a knight. And the skates, looking viciously sharp, hang from hooks inside each locker.
I make my way toward the back row of lockers tucked in the corner near the showers. C. Hendrix is written in bold letters above one of the cubbies, but instead of the team's green jerseys hanging in a place of honor in every locker, there is a white one hanging from one of the hooks.
“Rookies, get the shit lockers,” I grumble, knowing this is what I’ve been reduced to. Talk about a fall from grace.
I drop my bag and plop onto the bench in front of it, taking in the rest of the area. It looks just like any other locker room I’ve been in over the years. It's a large, wide-open area, aside from a row of lockers lining the outer wall. Not fancy, but definitely expensive. The floors look like they were made to be hosed down—dark, industrial, practical. Thick wooden benches circle the room in front of the lockers. Each one is a little worse for wear, scuffs from skates and gear bags lining the top and sides of each.
But the locker room isn’t as chaotic as usual without any of the players talking loudly as they dress or, sometimes, undress for practice. The locker room will probably never look this clean again, especially after all the players fill in and claim space for their own gear and belongings.
In the middle is a large whiteboard with nothing written on it, but once the season starts, Coach Mercer will have strategy scrawled in dry-erase—arrows, numbers, notes that would probably only make sense to the players who have spent their lives living one period and penalty shot at a time.
The locker room is silent. The only sound is the hum of the air conditioner, a contrast to the loud, aggressive music that probably plays before each game. Something to help each player get the blood pumping and shut out the noise of everything else—fans, pressure, maybe even fear—each player taking the time to focus on winning the game.
For the first time since I woke up in the hospital, I feel whole. I may not know my place on the team or if I’ll even set foot on the ice wearing a Timberwolves jersey, but it doesn’t matter. Because it’s not about scoring goals, the hits, the fights, wins, losses, and rituals. This place is more than just a locker room. It’s my home.