Page 11

ELEVEN

RILEY

I’ve walked through United Airlines Arena hundreds of times, but it’s different today.

I’m not here for a game.

I’m not here for a team meeting.

I’m not here for a morning skate.

I’m here because I’m regaining control of what’s left of my lower body, and I’m fucking terrified.

“Morning Mr. Mitchell.” Darnell, one of the longtime arena custodians, waves in my direction. “Good to see you.”

“Morning, sir,” I answer, getting my head out of my ass.

I might be pissed off at the world, but the last thing I’m going to do is give the man who’s worked for the team for three decades the cold shoulder.

I wince and maneuver down the hall with my prosthetic leg and walker. The leg isn’t the final product, only a preparatory prosthesis used to help my residual limb stabilize in volume and shape, and it’s uncomfortable as hell. I’m not used to the weight and the way it alters my gait, so I have to hold out hope it’ll get easier to use.

I don’t have much of a choice.

I knock on the door to the athletic trainer’s office even though I’m the only one in the hall. The boys are enjoying their last week before training camp starts, so they won’t be around. I opened Instagram last night for the first time in months and saw photos of them in different parts of the world.

Ethan and Grant, the youngest guys on the team, rented a yacht and are sailing around the Caribbean. Hudson, Madeline, and Lucy are doing a week down in Florida at the theme parks. Maverick and Emmy are in Michigan to propose a PWHL expansion team.

I stopped scrolling after that. The idea of posting a photo from my couch while everyone else is out living their adventure-filled lives seemed depressing as hell.

“Come in!” Lexi calls out, and I push down on the handle.

“Hey.” I move gingerly into her office. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries. I’m finishing breakfast, so you let me have a few more minutes to eat.” She smiles up at me from her desk, the last bite of a bagel in her hand. “Give me two seconds and I’ll be ready.”

“Take your time. That walk kicked my ass, and I could use a second to catch my breath.”

“Wonder why it kicked your ass.” Lexi wipes her hands on a napkin and tosses it in a trash can. She twirls her hair into some sort of updo, pinning it in place with a large clip. “Probably because you haven’t been doing your exercises, right?”

“Is this how working with you is going to go? You’re going to keep calling me out?”

“Yup. Tough love, Mitchy. Do you want me to kiss your ass?”

I blush and dip my chin.

There are a lot of things I’d like Lexi to do to me—with me and for me too—and none of them are appropriate for the workplace.

I’ve had a crush on her for goddamn years, but I guess I need to start getting over my attraction to her.

We’re going to be in close quarters together. She’s going to see me when I’m vulnerable and incapable of performing in certain areas of my training, and I’ve always hated failing.

And failing in front of a beautiful girl?

No fucking thanks.

Plus, from what I’ve overheard from her conversations with friends, she’s not someone who’s interested in relationships.

She likes physical intimacy, not emotional attachment, and I still haven’t figured out how the hell I’d even navigate that with the current state of my body.

Women in the past have used all sorts of phrases to describe me: cute. Sexy, but in a nerdy way. Hot as hell when I slide a blindfold over their eyes. The man of their dreams when I kiss their wrists, untying them from the ropes I like to use to keep them still while I eat them out.

I wonder what they’d say now.

“No. I don’t need you to kiss my ass.” I shove away every thought I’ve ever had about Lexi and lock them in a box where I won’t be able to find them. Platonic only. I will not dream about the curve of her ass or how much I like her long legs. “But thanks for the offer.”

“Good.” She pops to her feet with more energy than I’d expect from someone at nine in the morning. “Don’t get comfortable. We’re going to the training room.” Her eyes flick to my sweatpants. “I hope you brought shorts.”

“I didn’t. I, ah, didn’t want people to stare at me.”

“I get it, Riley, but it’s just me. I’m not going to stare. This is my job. I’m going to look at you like I’d look at any of the other guys in the locker room. You’re built a little differently now, and it’s no big deal.”

“There are a lot of marks on my body.” I follow her through the door to the brightly lit space full of treatment tables and exercise equipment like bands and stability balls. “And I’m not talking about a bruise on my hamstring you’ve seen after a game.”

“Can’t wait.” She smiles and pats one of the tables. “What are you wearing under your sweatpants?”

“Uh. Briefs?”

“Perfect. Strip, Mitchell.”

The room is suddenly a thousand degrees.

She’s seen me in less than my briefs before, including a small towel draped over my ass while she worked on a cramp in my calf before game four of the Stanley Cup finals. I know it’s my own fault for not wearing what she asked me to—clothing that wouldn’t restrict my mobility—but my cheeks still burn when I move my walker to the side and hook my thumbs in the waistband of my pants.

What if there’s a huge hole in the crotch? What if I accidentally put on the joke underwear Maverick got me last year that has hot sauce bottles all over the back with the words smack my ass across my dick?

Lexi doesn’t watch me undress. She turns her attention to a stack of foam rollers and hums softly as she sorts through the various lengths, grabs one, and tucks it under her arm.

I shove the sweatpants down my thighs and exhale a sigh of relief when I find a pair of black briefs without any suggestive innuendos.

Thank fuck.

“Definitely going to wear shorts next time.” I grunt and step out of the sweatpants. “You could also make the room cooler.”

“It’s sixty-seven degrees.” Lexi walks over in her black pants and long-sleeved Stars shirt. “It’s comfortable, and if I put it any lower, the maintenance staff will be on my ass about electric bills.”

“How often are we going to be doing these sessions?”

“Monday through Friday and twice a day. You’ll have weekends off, and we’re going to have to alter the schedule when the regular season starts.” She gestures at my right leg. “Could you take off your prosthetic for me?”

“Isn’t the point of these sessions to figure out how to move with it on?”

“It would be, if you had been following your outpatient exercises for the last two months. Because you haven’t, we’re starting at square one.”

“Right,” I grit out as embarrassment races up my spine. I sit on the edge of the table and slowly take off my prosthetic. She watches this time, and when I’m finished, she leans it against the wall for me. “Now what?”

“I’m going to run you through a couple of movements to learn the range of motion in your amputated leg. When is your final prosthetic appointment?”

“In a month.”

“Good. That gives us time to catch up. Lie back, please.”

I scoot my ass back until I can lie all the way down, sighing when my body relaxes. This is familiar. I’ve been here, in this exact position, dozens of times. I’ve spent hours on this table stretching, and I try to tell myself this is just another game day morning.

“What’s the most serious injury you’ve worked on?” I ask.

Small talk was part of our routine before, and I’m trying to get my mind back to that place.

It’s how I learned she’s an only child who hates mushrooms. Where I discovered she likes to read under three fluffy blankets, and she always has to wear a pair of socks. She’ll drink a hot coffee even when it’s pushing a hundred degrees outside, and she doesn’t like scary movies.

I’ve shared parts of myself with her, telling her about playing both lacrosse and hockey in high school and the two-hour line I waited in to meet my favorite author when they came to town.

“Besides this? When I was in the ECHL, a guy tore his ACL. That was a hard rehab because he was stubborn as hell. I’m learning you two might have that in common.”

“He sounds like a delight.”

“He was frustrated. I’m sure you can relate.”

“Yeah.” I adjust my glasses and stare at the fluorescent lights above me. “Guess I can.”

“The first exercise we’re going to do focuses on moving your residual limb. Can you bring it off the table and lift it in the air? Good ,” Lexi says. I hope she can’t see the way I’m wincing or the sweat on my hairline. “And lower it for me? Perfect, Riley.”

“How many times?”

“What’s your favorite number?”

“Zero.”

“Nice try.” She laughs. “Let’s do ten reps.”

“Goddammit.”

“Come on, Mitchy. You can do it.”

I’m not used to being on the receiving end of praise that doesn’t stem from how I’m playing on the ice or how fast I am with the puck, but I like it. I like the way it dips low in my stomach then moves up and across my shoulders. How it lights me up and makes me feel invincible, if only for a second. It’s how I’m able to focus, how I’m able to blow out a breath as I count each rep, and I’m proud I don’t yell out while my body screams in pain.

You can do it .

For her, I’m going to try my damn best.

When we finish the first exercise, we go into hip movements and something Lexi calls a pelvic tilt. She works on my hip flexor and bursts out laughing again when I mumble a string of curses as she pushes down on my amputated leg.

It hurts like fucking hell , but under the pain, there’s something else: thoughts that I may be able to do this.

We stop for a ten-minute break, and I’m grateful when she brings over a bottle of water. I chug the fluids down in three gulps and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, already utterly fucking exhausted.

I’ve been lucky not to have any major injuries throughout my career. I’m glad I’ve kept my body healthy, because I can tell these sessions aren’t going to be a walk in the park.

And Lexi?

There’s a gleam in her eye. A spark of excitement I’m desperate to hold close to my chest.

It’s the first time in a long time I’ve been anything other than miserable and pissed off, and I don’t know how to react.

“This is humbling.” I toss the empty bottle in the trash and groan. “I’m getting my ass kicked.”

“It’s going to take some time for things to not feel difficult. When we’re not working on your rehab, you’ll be with the conditioning coaches to rebuild your upper body strength. You’re going to be a totally different guy by Christmas.”

“You’re going to turn me into the Hulk, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to try my best.”

“Can’t wait.” My phone buzzes on the table. My agent’s name scrolls across the screen, and I push myself up on an elbow. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“Of course not.” Lexi flashes me a pretty smile. “We’ll start back up when you’re finished.”

“Thanks.” I slide my thumb across the screen. “Marcus. You finally tracked me down.”

“Only took me fucking weeks,” he says on the other end of the line. “Did you block my number?”

“No.” I adjust my position so I can lean against the wall behind me. “Okay. Yes, I did. But only because I wasn’t ready to talk.”

“Are you ready now?”

“I guess.”

“Good, because I just had a nice chat with Brody fucking Saunders who told me he’s leaving you on the Stars’ payroll? That would’ve been nice to know,” Marcus says, and I can’t help but smile.

He played years before I came into the league, but he’s always been a businessman. After he won the Cup and became the record holder for most points by a Black player in NHL history, surpassing the great Jarome Iginla, Marcus retired. He said he was ready to move on to the next thing in life, which was helping young athletes earn the money they’re worth.

He’s been a shark, pushing the Stars for a contract extension and making sure I’m getting paid like my veteran teammates. I’m not the best skater or scorer on the team—those titles belong to Maverick—but I’m damn good at what I do. On any other squad, I’d be a top priority. The go-to guy. But I’m happy here.

Or, I guess I was.

I don’t know what the hell I am now.

“It’s contingent on a few things.” I say.

“Like?”

“Physical therapy. Rehabilitation. I’m working with Lexi Armstrong. She’s?—”

“I know who she is.”

“You do?” I frown. “How?”

“I know things, Mitchell. Things that would blow your mind. Is she there with you right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Put her on for me.”

I look at Lexi. “My agent wants to talk to you.”

“ Me ?” She points at her chest. “Why?”

“I’m not sure, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Marcus, it’s that he doesn’t like to be told no.”

“We have something in common then. A mutual bond.” There’s not a lick of apprehension in Lexi’s eye when she takes the phone from me and presses it against her ear. She might be a goddamn superhero. “Hello?”

After a few seconds, Lexi is laughing. She’s nodding along, humming in agreement about something I can’t hear, and looking over at me. When she hangs up, she gives me a wide grin.

“I like him.”

“Most people do,” I say.

“He wants you to call him tomorrow. He also asked if I was making you suffer, and when I said I was, he told me he didn’t want to take up my time.”

“Asshole,” I mumble. “But I love him.”

“And he loves you, which is why you’re going to call him.” Lexi taps my thigh. “Sit all the way up, please. And put your hands behind you.”

“At least buy me dinner first, Lex.”

“Oh, Mitchy.” She grins. “Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite.”

We go through another round of exercises. I cringe at the hip extensions and almost cry at the next set of leg lifts. Lexi doesn’t make any comments about my lack of flexibility or how hard all of this is for me, and I’m fucking grateful when she calls time an hour and a half later.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“You’re a hard-ass.” I take off my glasses and grab the towel she hands me, wiping my face. “I’m going to be sore for days. I didn’t know my hips had so many muscles.”

“You’re going to be even more sore when I tell you we’re doing the same thing tomorrow.” She sits on a stool and scoots across the floor so she’s close to the table. “Have you always worn glasses?”

“It used to be only at night when I was getting ready for bed. I get so much sweat in my eyes during games, lately I started switching my contacts out for glasses when I’m not on the ice. It’s a comfort thing.”

“I like them.” Lexi smiles, and it’s her turn for her phone to chime. She pulls it out of her pocket, reads something, and rolls her eyes. “Sorry.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just someone on Tinder canceling our meet-up tonight. He said his girlfriend found out about his account, and he can’t make it.”

She snorts and tosses her phone on the table to my left. The screen lights up with another notification. I sneak a glance at the lock screen and smile at the photo of her and her girlfriends on the ice after our Stanley Cup win, streamers around their shoulders and confetti in their hair.

God.

She’s beautiful.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

“We’re pieces of work,” I offer.

“Amen to that. Let’s not talk about my abysmal personal life. Did Coach tell you about the first preseason game and what they’re going to do for you?”

I stiffen. I haven’t talked to Coach since our meeting last week, and I have no clue what’s going on. “No. Why?”

“The team wants to recognize you with a ceremonial puck drop.”

“A puck drop ?” I throw my towel at the wall and scowl. “Like I’m some kind of hero?”

“I told them I didn’t think you’d be onboard with it, but no one listened.” Lexi moves the foam roller we’ve been using out from under my hamstring. “I tried.”

“What happens if I don’t do it?”

“Coach said, and I quote, ‘I will drag him by his hair until he’s on the ice.’ Don’t think you have much of a choice.”

“Fine.” I sigh and stretch my arms above my head. My shoulders hurt. My neck does too. “I’ll do it, but I’m not going to be happy about it. I hate attention. And I hate people looking at me differently these days.”

“You play in front of twenty thousand fans every night.”

“Played.”

“Should be a good game,” she says, ignoring the correction. “We’re going against Emmy’s team.”

“Is there anything else we need to do today?” I ask. Hearing about the upcoming season isn’t bringing me the joy it usually does. I don’t want to sit here and talk about the team’s schedule. “Or can I go home and soak in the bath for two hours?”

“You can soak.” Lexi is careful when she grabs my prosthetic and brings it over to me. “You need to make sure you’re changing the position of your hips often. And no sitting in chairs for long periods of time. Prop up your residual limb. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She watches me put on my leg, and I’m aware of her attention. She lobs a handful of questions my way and furiously jots down notes on her clipboard. It makes it hard to focus, but I manage to get through the assembly quicker than I did earlier this morning.

“Are you taking an Uber home?” she asks.

“Yeah. I don’t feel comfortable driving.”

“Because of the accident?”

“Because I’ll have to use my left foot, and the backwardness of it all throws me off.”

“If you ever want some company when you try to tackle getting behind the wheel again, I’m happy to be a passenger.”

“Thanks, Lex.” I pull on my sweatpants and reach for my walker. “This wasn’t completely horrible.”

“I’m honored. That’s a nice compliment from the guy who didn’t want to see me when he walked in here.”

I huff out a chuckle. “Guess things change. See you tomorrow?”

“And the day after that, and the day after that. You’re going to be sick of me soon, Mitchy.” Lexi drops her elbow to the table and cradles her chin in her hand. A smirk curls on the edge of her mouth, and her eyes twinkle. “Think you can handle it?”

“Yeah,” I say, and for the first time in months, I might actually believe it.