Page 12

TWELVE

RILEY

Coach

Don’t make me kick your ass for not showing up to the game tonight.

I’m counting on you, Mitchell.

Me

I said I’d be there.

Coach

You also said you’d meet up with me and Marcus on Monday, and you didn’t. Same with the first day of training camp.

Me

I was tired.

Coach

I’m tired every fucking day of my life.

Me

It must be exhausting to be so annoying.

Coach

Watch the attitude.

I’m a persistent motherfucker. Don’t test me.

* * *

I look up at the sign welcoming everyone to tonight’s preseason opener at the arena and pull on the sleeve of the jersey I was asked to wear. Fans are filing inside, some holding homemade signs and others decked out in Stanley Cup champions gear from head to toe. I’m sure the boys are on the ice warming up, and this will be my first time seeing them since the night of the accident.

I’m nervous as hell to be around them.

What if they forgot about me?

Even worse, what if they hate me because I pulled away from them?

I rub a hand over my chest, startled when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I maneuver over to an alcove away from passing people so I can have some privacy and lean my crutches against the brick wall. I still need them to feel comfortable on my feet, and I can’t wait to be rid of them.

“Dad?” I answer. “What’s up?”

“Hey, son. Are you at the game?”

“Yeah.” I drop my head against the bricks and sigh. “I am.”

“Are you standing outside the arena and delaying going inside?”

“Do you have a camera on me?”

“No.” He laughs on the other end of the line. “I did the same thing the first time I reentered society after my amputation.”

“You did?”

I think of the party my mom put together to celebrate his release from the hospital. Some of his buddies from the station came out, and so did the family he helped save. A couple neighbors stopped by, and from what I remember, we had a good time. There was laughing. Games. Drinks and good food. His friends swapped stories about Dad being an idiot, and he smiled all night.

“It took me forty-five minutes to work up the courage to come out of the kitchen and visit everyone,” Dad says. “And that was after I threw up three times.”

“Really? I don’t remember any of that.”

“I didn’t let you see it. I put on a brave face on the outside, but inside, I was shitting bricks. The last thing I wanted was to be treated differently, and I was convinced everyone was going to start walking on eggshells around me. I was afraid of the awkward conversations that were bound to happen because how is a moment like that not uncomfortable?”

“What happened?” I ask. “It didn’t seem awkward.”

“When I walked out of the kitchen, I froze, and everyone stared. You remember Jimmy Jackson, right?”

“Yeah.” I smile at the mention of the station’s former chief and one of Dad’s best friends. “Of course I do.”

“He walked up to me, stuck out his hand, told me he’d be pissed as hell if I didn’t dress up like that leg lamp from Christmas Story for Halloween, and that was it. It was acknowledged, and we all moved on.”

“I’m worried I won’t have anything in common with the guys anymore. They have skating and hockey, and I don’t. Did you ever feel like that?”

“In the beginning. My goal was always to return to my job, and I eventually did, but even if I hadn’t, my friends would’ve stuck around. I had one less limb, but I wasn’t different from the guy they used to know. Your friends haven’t left you, have they?”

“No. I’ve been the one to shut them out and do the ignoring.”

“Because you’re still coping with what happened, and no one is going to fault you for that. If they do, they can fuck off.”

I laugh. “Thanks, Dad. I wish you and Mom were here.”

“We could’ve been if you hadn’t waited until this morning to send a text about what was happening today.”

“I know. That was shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for your grief, son. It’s hard as hell, but you’re going to make it to the other side. You know I’m here if you need anything. Questions. Complaints. Halloween costume ideas,” he says. “Your mother and I are so proud of you. We’ve always been proud of you, and we’re going to keep being proud of you.”

My phone buzzes five times in rapid succession in my hand, and I know it’s Coach blowing up my messages to ask where I am. “I gotta run, Dad. Well. Not literally. Can’t do that yet. It’s more like I’m going to limp inside with my crutches because I’m still unsteady on my feet.”

“They suck, don’t they? Give it a few more weeks and you’ll be done with those things except for when you’re not wearing your prosthetic.”

“I’m thinking about installing a urinal next to the bed just so I don’t have to use them in the night when I need to pee.”

Dad laughs. “Shucks, Ri. You’ve always been damn smart.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, kid. Which jersey are you wearing tonight?”

“The retro one from two seasons ago the merchandise team designed for our fifty-year anniversary. I assisted Mav on three goals the game we wore these. First time in my career doing that. Maybe this thing is lucky.”

“That one’s always been my favorite. Chin up, son. The finish line is closer than you think.”

We exchange another round of goodbyes, and I shove my phone in my pocket, feeling less alone.

* * *

I’m shaking when I open the door to the Stars’ locker room, and my crutches aren’t helping my steadiness. I’ve avoided the space when I’ve been here for my rehab sessions, but there’s no way around it tonight.

I guess it’s as good a time as any to confront the reality of my future: being a spectator, not a player. Never putting on hockey pants again unless I join a beer league down the road.

I step forward and stare at my cubby.

There’s no gear. No sticks, no skates. I can’t find the water bottle I forgot to take home at the end of last season, and I wonder if it got tossed in the trash with my jerseys.

My last name and number are still etched across the wood, but it’s only a matter of time before someone from arena operations comes in and peels the nameplate away.

With the regular season starting in fifteen days, the team officially put me on the LTIR this week. It means I’m going to be out at least ten games, even though we all know I’ll never suit up in a Stars jersey again.

I get it.

It was a strategic business move by management. It lets the Stars exceed the salary cap for a new guy who will take my spot on the roster, and I check ESPN every day to see if any signings have been announced.

Free agency is done. I doubt the team will initiate a trade so early in the season, and I’m betting they’ll call up someone from our AHL affiliate, the Virginia Comets. Lexi told me she hasn’t heard any names being tossed around, but when it happens, I know they’ll give the new guy my old space.

For as nice as everyone’s been to me, I don’t expect this to go on much longer. They need to move on. They need to figure out a new lineup so they can get back to winning games. Come April when the boys are making a playoff push, I’ll be watching from the tunnel.

Alone.

A forgotten has-been.

I trace over the letters in my name and sigh. I’m tempted to rip the sticker off, but before I can, there’s a loud noise behind me.

I whip around and find Maverick standing in the entrance to the locker room wearing his full gear. His helmet falls from his gloved hand when his eyes meet mine. He gapes at me, blinks twice, then pops his mouth open.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

“What’s up? What’s up ?”

Maverick charges toward me. I’m afraid he’s going to yell at me for ignoring everyone and leaving the group chat. For disappearing for months and falling off the face of the earth. When he drops his gloves like he’s ready for a fight on the ice, I brace myself for a swing.

No punch comes.

Instead, he’s wrapping his arms around me. He’s hugging me so tight, my feet come off the ground.

“Fuck,” I mumble.

“Jesus Christ, man. I’ve been so fucking worried about you,” he says.

“I’m fine.” We both know I’m bullshitting him, but he doesn’t call me out on it. He only hugs me harder until a sob works its way from my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m so glad to see you.” Maverick pulls away and looks me up and down. He doesn’t blink twice at my crutches. “You look?—”

“Don’t lie to me, Miller. I look like shit.”

“I was going to say scrawny as hell. Fucking Ethan could kick your ass in arm wrestling, and that Canadian is the weakest one on the team.” He grins. “Fuck, dude. The boys are behind me. They’re going to?—”

“Riley?” Grant yells. He drops his stick and nearly trips over his skates when he runs to me. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me, G-Money.”

“Thank fuck. I missed the shit out of you, Mitchy.”

Familiarity grips me when the rest of the team files into the locker room. They’re all there, crowding around and giving me a group hug.

Ethan kisses the top of my head and proudly shows off his new tattoo hiding under his shoulder pads: a motorcycle with a dozen hearts around it. Ryan Seymour digs through his duffle bag and pulls out the card his daughter made when I was still in the hospital, and I smile at the scribbled drawing that looks like it could be flowers.

Or eight stick figures on a stripper pole.

Even Liam gives me a hug, but as soon as he pulls away, he bites his jersey. He starts talking to himself like he does before every game and pretends it never happened.

Hudson is the last one to make his way over. He unclips his helmet and grins. “Hasn’t been the same without you around, Ri.”

“Took me a while to come back.” I shrug. “Still not sure I want to be here, but I’m working on it.”

“Don’t do that.” He levels me with a serious look and a frown. “Don’t go dark. You can do that shit with the media and people who don’t know you, but don’t do it around us, okay?”

“I’m not?—”

“You are. Which is fine, Riley, but we’re your brothers. We want to see the messy and fucked-up parts of your life, okay? After my mom passed, I was broken. The guys on the team were the only thing that saved me. And I’m not saying you need to be saved. Just… let us be waiting with a life jacket if it starts to feel like you’re drowning, okay?”

His mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, and when she died, he slipped into a trance. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. He went through the motions of playing hockey, but he didn’t really play hockey.

I don’t want to get like that. I don’t want to be so far gone I’m not recognizable. Judging by the sympathetic glances being tossed my way, I might be halfway there.

“Yeah,” I say, bitterness sitting heavy on my tongue. “Okay.”

“Mitchy!” Ethan yells. “I’m adding your ass back to the group chat. You missed a lot of shit.”

“You haven’t missed anything,” Hudson says, and it’s another lie. They’ve all moved on, and I’m sure I’ve missed hundreds of things like birthdays, important moments… Ethan and Grant finally aging out of their ELCs and not being forced to share a hotel room on road trips anymore. “And you don’t have to join the chat again. You know these idiots talk too much. It’s annoying as hell.”

“Might be nice to get my mind off other things.” I gesture at my leg and shrug again. “What’s a few text messages?”

Hudson clasps my shoulder and smiles. “I’m really fucking glad you’re back, Mitchy.”

* * *

I hang out in the tunnel while the PA announcer welcomes the crowd. I can feel the electricity all the way down here, and I know the Stanley Cup ring ceremony before the regular season opener is going to have even more energy.

The guys want a three-peat. The fans want a three-peat. It’s expected at this point, and with the depth and talent on the team, they should be able to get it done even without me.

“Hey,” a voice calls out, and I stop tossing the puck I’m holding. When I glance up, Lexi smiles at me.

She swapped out the clothes she was wearing earlier today during our session for a game night outfit of stretchy black pants, a polo, white sneakers, and a Stars bomber jacket. There’s a light blue ribbon tied to her long ponytail, and it matches the logo stitched on her shirt.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Glad to see you can follow directions.”

“Sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

I look out at the ice and watch my teammates line up. Grant stands next to Hudson, filling the spot where I’d be, and my chest pinches tight. “I don’t want to do the puck drop.”

“You’ve done a puck drop before.”

“As an athlete smiling for a photo. Not as the one doing the puck dropping. It’s usually for important people: kids battling cancer. The people who fundraise a million dollars for charity during the Marine Corps Marathon weekend. Not me, the guy with the bad attitude.”

“Riley.” Lexi walks over and stops in front of me. I don’t like how sad she looks. I hate the wrinkles between her eyebrows. The frown lines around her mouth. “You are important.”

“I didn’t go to war.” I pull off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m irritated. Pissed off. Sick of having all this unwanted attention on me that won’t stop. “I wish everyone would quit treating me like I did something special. I didn’t. I’m alive. That’s it.”

“Isn’t that worth celebrating? People are happy you’re okay.” She touches my shoulder before letting go and tucking a clipboard under her arm. I see the lineups for tonight listed and narrow my eyes. “Let them have this, then you can disappear for a while.”

“Why is McDavidson starting with Hudson? Seymour is the better player.”

“Do you think I’m going to question Coach’s lineup choices?” She snorts. “I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath.”

“Not sure who made that decision. It wouldn’t be my call.”

“Look at you. Maybe you have a future in coaching.”

“Doubtful.” I can barely make it through a session of the summer camp we do with the local kids in August. It’s too chaotic. Made up of too many moving parts, and there’s no way in hell I’d survive a full sixty minutes in the pros. “Don’t think it would be my jam.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“Do you mean mentally or physically?”

“Either.”

“That’s a loaded question.”

Lexi tilts her head to the side and stares at me. “We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “We are.”

“You can tell me anything. I won’t judge.”

“Anything, huh?”

“Yup. I mean, if you mention you make molds of your dick with lunch meat, I’ll probably be concerned, but I’m sure I’ve heard much worse.”

I burst out laughing. It’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks, and my sides ache because of it. “Fucking hell. Lunch meat? ”

“Oh, yeah. Salami. Ham. Turkey, occasionally, and?—”

It’s a shame I don’t have a chance to ask about the logistics behind deli meat dick construction, because the PA announcer is saying my name and inviting me to the ice.

I gulp down a deep breath.

“Hey.” Lexi touches my elbow. “If you really want to get out of here, I’ll sneak you out the back. I’ll even find a sketchy van to make your whole experience memorable.”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“I’ll be here when you’re finished,” she says.

“Could you… I don’t want to take my crutches out there. Everyone is already going to be giving me sympathetic looks, and I don’t want to add fuel to the fire. Will you hold them for me?”

“Of course. And take your time, Riley. I’m sure you’re still getting comfortable with your new machinery, but you’re looking much steadier already. Your limp is much less noticeable, and I bet you’ll be off your crutches while using your prosthetic in no time.”

I nod and trudge down the carpet that’s been rolled out of the tunnel for me. Busting my ass in front of thousands of people sounds like my idea of hell, so I take my time. I follow the path onto the ice and past the bench where my teammates are. They give me high fives and pat my head, whooping and hollering loud enough to make me blush when they bang their sticks against the boards.

Maverick and the captain of the Baltimore Sea Crabs, Benny Fowler, smile from the end of the carpet.

“Good to see you back on the ice, Mitchell,” Benny says, not letting our college rivalry from playing against each other at Michigan and Ohio State follow us to the NHL, let alone here tonight. “That light blue sweater is a fuck ton better than the ugly ass yellow one you used to wear.”

“Like your red was any better.” I hold the puck out in front of me. There are tons of cameras surrounding us. Too many bright lights and someone with a microphone I’m going to avoid like the fucking plague. “And I’m not back on the ice, am I? I’m on this side of the puck drop now. Big fucking whoop.”

“Wow. No more Mr. Nice Guy, huh?” Maverick crouches and pivots toward the camera. Benny mimics him, and I stand between them feeling short as hell without skates on. “Always wondered what you’d be like if you were an asshole. Smile, Mitchy.”