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TEN

LEXI

Brody Saunders was a phenomenal hockey player.

I’ve watched tapes of him skating, and I was in awe. I’ve never seen someone move across the ice like he did. It was like poetry in motion. Athleticism disguised as raw, unfiltered beauty, and a talent I haven’t seen from anyone since.

A center and former number one draft pick who left Boston College after his freshman year, he led his team to two Stanley Cup championships in three years. He was the league’s point leader for five consecutive seasons and on his way to being one of the greatest of all time before a freak injury sidelined him.

I read about what happened: the way his teammates’ blade sliced the skin above his knee and the surgeries that followed. How poorly his rehabilitation was handled. The training staff rushed to get him back on in the lineup to salvage their season, and he wasn’t the same player when he returned.

Forced to retire prematurely because of lingering pain and a blow to his ego, he slid into a leadership role with ease. After bouncing around between associate and assistant coaching gigs, he became the head coach for the Stars before I joined the team, and I know he’s responsible for a lot of their success.

Coach is rough around the edges. He’s sarcastic with a dry sense of humor, blunt, and not afraid to hurt your feelings. The only time I see him smile is when he’s talking about his daughter, Olivia, who just turned twelve.

I’ve always liked the guy and his take-no-shit attitude, but his presence is intimidating. At six-six with dark hair and dark eyes, if someone told me he was a serial killer, I’d believe them.

“Sit.” He closes the door and walks around his desk. I comply immediately, dropping into the chair and tapping my foot. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“So, you’re not wringing your hands together and bouncing your leg?” He lifts his chin at my clasped palms. A smirk curls on his mouth. “My mistake.”

“Sorry.” I put my hands at my sides and offer him a sheepish smile. “You and I never talk one-on-one, and I’m nervous. Blame my daddy issues.”

A surprising noise that sounds like a laugh comes out of him. “I’m, what? Six years older than you?”

“Can’t say I spend my days looking at your Wikipedia page, Coach. Do you spend your time looking me up?”

A full laugh comes next, and I relax. “You know I don’t sugarcoat things.”

“You definitely don’t.”

“I want you to offer me the same courtesy.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Do you really think you can get Riley to skate again?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Could he play in hockey competitively again? Maybe, but I don’t want to promise anything.”

“He hasn’t been doing well since the accident.”

“Well, obviously. His world has been upended.”

“I mean mentally.” Coach pauses. “His mom mentioned he expressed numerous times about wanting to…” He trails off and clears his throat. “Not be here anymore.”

“Here, like, in DC? He requested a trade?”

“No. Alive.”

I grip the arm of the chair and inhale sharply.

Mental health has always been a controversial topic in professional sports, especially with male athletes. In recent years, more and more players have been open about the struggles they face off the ice: depression. OCD. Suicidal thoughts.

Social media doesn’t help. I see the comments posted on the Stars’ official accounts after a loss. Some of the messages are horrific. They’re things I could never imagine saying to anyone, and they make me sick.

I don’t want to think about the unread messages the players might have sitting in their inboxes.

I’ve always known Riley to be one of the happiest guys on the team. He’s always smiling. Always joking with everyone. He loves kids, loves to volunteer, and I’ve never seen him get mad at anyone.

Before today, I guess.

To hear he’s struggling so deeply breaks my heart. It makes me want to burst into tears, because I want to help. I want to make him laugh. I want to make him smile again, and I’ll do anything to help ease the pain he’s carrying.

“Thank you for telling me,” I finally say.

“You’re going to be working with him in a close capacity. I wanted you to be aware. I don’t think he’s having those thoughts anymore, but it’s important to me you have all the information.”

“I’m going to do my absolute best to work with him physically, but I don’t want there to be any unrealistic expectations. It’s going to be an uphill battle. The odds are going to be stacked against him.”

“Lexi, the fact that he showed up to our meeting today blows all my expectations out of the water. If he skates again, great. I just want him—” Coach stops to fix the picture frame on his desk. His phone lights up, and he glances at it briefly before turning it face down. “Here. With us.”

“So do I. It’s going to be slow at first. We’re not going to see a lot of improvements right off the bat. Based on his lack of balance with his crutches while only using his newly dominant leg, it’s obvious he hasn’t been doing any of his rehabilitation exercises. But we’ll get there,” I say.

“I know you know this, but don’t?—”

“Rush him. I won’t. We’re going to go at his pace, not mine.”

Coach tosses me an appreciative glance. “I have a meeting with Kirk in a few. We haven’t released an official press statement about Riley’s future with the team yet, but the media outlets are hounding us. That’s the plan for this afternoon.”

“Smart. I’ll work on a detailed long-term recovery plan and send it your way.”

“I don’t trust anyone else with this undertaking, Armstrong.”

“You aren’t Team Stuart?”

“I want to punch that guy in the fucking face. He went to college with one of the alternate governor’s sons, so it’s above my pay grade, but I swear to god if any of my players have a single complaint about him, he’s gone. That includes you.”

I smile, feeling appreciated. “Between us, I also want to punch him in the face.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Coach looks at me. “Get our boy back, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, his ask making my soul ache.

We exchange goodbyes and I take a deep breath when I step out of the arena and into the late-morning sun. That meeting was emotionally charged, and I need a second to decompress.

When I look to my left, I spot Riley leaning against the wheelchair ramp leading to a security checkpoint. He’s staring at his phone. His shoulders are curling in, and I make a split-second decision.

“Hey,” I call out. He jerks his head up. His eyes meet mine, and when he doesn’t scowl, I take it as an invitation to walk over. “What’s up?”

“Waiting for an Uber,” he says. “Hopefully I won’t get in another accident and almost die.”

“Glad to see you have some humor left in you.” I point to my black Audi across the street. “I can drive you.”

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t really a suggestion. It’ll give us a few minutes to talk about your rehab sessions we’re starting on Monday. Do you want to walk, or should I pull the car around?”

“I can walk.” Riley glowers at the road, and I’m adding stubborn to the list of his new personality traits. “You don’t need to baby me.”

“I wasn’t sure, given the way you acted in the conference room.” I hear the click of his metal crutches following me when I start for the car. I slow my stride so I don’t get too far ahead of him. “Are you going to team dinner tonight?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Gosh. You’re a peach.” We reach the crosswalk, and I hit the button for the pedestrian signal. “You lost your leg but picked up a bad attitude? Working together is going to be so fun.”

Riley huffs. He shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “Sorry.”

“For what? Being a dick?”

“Yeah.” He rubs the crutch tip into the pavement and looks down at me. I’ve always felt tall standing at five-ten, but he’s making me feel short. “None of this is your fault. I don’t mean to project. My parents flew back to Chicago the other day, and everything’s been an adjustment while I learn to fend for myself.”

“It’s not my fault. And it’s not your fault either.”

“If I had gone to Hudson’s house like he asked… if I had stayed at the club later and not been such a party pooper, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Maybe an asteroid is going to hit Earth tomorrow, and we’re all going to die. Do you want to keep playing this game?” I ask, arching my eyebrow.

“Point taken.” The crosswalk tells us it’s our turn, and we move across the street. “This is the most I’ve talked to anyone besides my therapist or parents in months.”

“Did you already forget your social skills?” I open the passenger door for him when we reach my car. “You’re better than that.”

“Am I?” A wince crosses his face when he lowers himself into the seat. “Not sure that’s true.”

“Do you want to keep these in your lap? Or should I put them in the back seat so you have more room?” I ask, gesturing to his crutches.

“The back seat is fine. Thanks.”

“There are your manners.” I grin and open the door behind the wheel, making sure the crutches fit across the seats. “Let’s get out of here, Mitchy.”

He tells me his address and I plug it in, turning out of the parking lot and heading for his apartment. Neither of us says anything, and I don’t want to push him to make conversation. The last thing I want to do is build a divide between us before we even start working together.

“How’s your summer been?” he finally mumbles five minutes into our drive.

“Busy, but good. I teach Pilates every morning during the week then head to the arena for strategy meetings where we talk about what we’re going to focus on for injury prevention this season.”

“Those reformers are torture devices. How do people like doing that for exercise?”

“Same could be said about skating.”

“You don’t like to skate?” Riley turns to face me, looking horrified. “Who doesn’t like to skate?”

“Women from Florida who think the idea of balancing on a single blade sounds like hell.”

“But you think Pilates is fun? That’s not right.”

“No one asked for your opinion, Mitchy.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him start to smile. But then he hangs his head and frowns, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be happy.

“I haven’t talked to the guys since the accident,” he tells me.

“Why not?” I ask, hoping it doesn’t come off accusatory.

“I don’t know. I don’t want them to feel like they have to do something for me. There’s nothing they can do.”

“They’re your friends, Riley. There are plenty of things they can do.”

“The last thing I want is for them to start pitying me.”

“Maybe if you told them that, they’d understand why you haven’t been around lately.”

“Too logical.”

That makes me laugh, and Riley gives me another small smile.

Progress.

“I’ve been doing research on exercises tailored to your new body, but I want to make sure we’re going down the right path,” I tell him. “I’ve consulted some of the athletic trainers who work with Paralympic athletes, and I think we’re going to get a good routine down.”

“You did all of that? For me?” Riley stares at me with wide, dark eyes. “Why would you put in so much effort for something you’re not sure is going to work?”

“It’s going to work. I won’t let it not work.”

“Have you always been so sure of yourself?”

“I’m a woman in a male-dominated space. I’m the only female head athletic trainer in the league, and I’m the first to hold the title. Even if I don’t believe I can do it, I say I can. So, no. I haven’t always been this confident, but I’m getting there.”

“You should be.” He drums his fingers on his thigh. “You’re good at what you do.”

“I wish everyone thought that way.” I merge on the highway and turn on the radio. “What kind of music do you like?”

“No preference. I listen to pop music when I get—” Riley stops mid-sentence. “When I used to get to the arena.”

“Pop music, huh? Never would’ve guessed.” I smile and fiddle with the volume dial, turning up some hit that’s been playing on the radio for weeks. “I had you figured as a metal fan.”

“What?” He laughs loudly, and it makes me warmer than the late summer heat outside the windows. “The fuck gave you that idea?”

“I’m messing with you. I really expected classical music or something stoic. Harps, maybe?”

“It’s the glasses, isn’t it?”

“You’re a big nerd, Mitchy. Don’t hide it.”

“I like—liked—to play something upbeat before puck drop. Can’t really do that with Beethoven.” He rubs his jaw, a smirk forming. “I do know how to play piano though.”

“Shut up.”

“Dead serious. I took lessons when I was younger. Almost pursued it after middle school, but then I learned how good I am—was, fuck —at hockey, and there was no going back.” He clasps his hands together. His happiness fades away in his dejected tone. “Maybe I’ll pick it back up. I’m going to have a lot of free time.”

“No, you won’t.” I put on cruise control and keep to the right lane. I have no idea if he has any PTSD or anxiety following the accident, and the last thing I’m going to do is blaze down the highway and startle him. “We’re starting physical therapy in a week, and I need you to give it your all. Every day, sometimes twice a day. Think you can handle that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you have a choice.”

Heavy silence falls between us. I tap my fingers to the beat of the song and smile at the sunshine. It takes until I exit off the highway for Riley to talk again, and when he does, his words are strained. “I hate living like this, so I want to be able to handle it. But I’m not sure I’m going to be able to.”

“Of course you are, Mitchy. You have me in your corner,” I say, and his gaze is cautious. Reluctantly optimistic, almost. “If there’s one thing I love to do, it’s prove everyone who’s ever doubted me wrong. That’s what you’re going to do too.”