Page 3 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

Maverick

Luckily, it was just me in the hospital room with him. So we could be a bit more candid with each other than if my agent, coach, or team rep were there.

I leveled my gaze at him as I lay there in the bed. “What do you think, doc?”

He pursed his lips together and nodded. “Your nerves are being compressed, which is contributing to the pain. Have you been experiencing any numbness or weakness?”

“If I said no, would you believe me?”

Resting a hand on my shoulder, Dr. Avery’s blue gaze turned serious.

“Maverick, you were lucky this time. We were able to perform a kyphoplasty, which is fairly non-invasive, all things considered. We inserted a balloon into the fractured vertebra to restore its height and shape, then injected bone cement. It should reduce your pain and improve your mobility. But honestly, I think you need to take a long, hard look at what kind of quality of life you want after your hockey career. Because if you keep going the way you are, that career is going to end sooner than you think. And you could wind up in a wheelchair.”

“How soon until I can play again?” I asked.

He kept his disapproval to a nostril flare and nothing more. “You’d be wise to sit out the rest of the season and aim for a return in the fall.”

“It’s early February!” I exclaimed. “We still have five months left of the season. Can’t I just keep taking an Aleve before the game, then sit in the ice bath after? That’s what I’ve been doing since the start of the season, and it’s been working out just fine.”

The doctor didn’t look impressed at all.

“In addition to your spinal fractures, you also have a concussion. And not your first this season. It is my professional opinion that you sit out for the remainder of the season and rest. Physiotherapy and rehab are going to be important. There’s no nerve damage—this time.

But at the rate your discs are degenerating, and osteoarthritis at your young age …

Maverick, you need to take this seriously. ”

“Noted,” I said stiffly.

“I’d like to keep you one more night for observation, then we can discharge you. I’ll send in a physio consult—”

“We have a team physiotherapist.”

“Who has to report everything to the coach and team reps.”

“So?”

“So, maybe you’d like to keep the true nature of your health private until you’re ready?”

I rolled my eyes. “Send them in.”

Dr. Avery nodded, his expression grim. “I recommend you go see Rolph Mazurenko. He’s out of Los Angeles, but he’s the best. Worked with the Ukrainian Olympic team, then the US Olympic team. If you can get in to see him, that’s your PT god.”

“Rolph Mazurenko,” I murmured, not liking the idea of having to find a temporary apartment in LA. “All right then.”

The doctor gave me another one of his closed-mouth smiles, then took his leave.

I glanced out the window at the drizzly February day in downtown Seattle. I’d been in the hospital for three days now. Of course, Coach Nilsson came to check on me, along with Woodman, and even Hoff. But the team was already in Calgary to play the Cougars tonight.

“There he is,” came the irritating sound of my pompous-ass agent, Vance Pye.

Vance turned the corner, entering my room, all smarmy smiles and buffed Oxfords.

“So, what’s the diagnosis? Is it chlamydia?

” He snickered at his own joke, but I didn’t find it funny.

“How soon can we get my best player back on the ice?”

I met his brown eyes. “Not sure.”

“You’re not sure, or the doctor’s not sure?”

“ We’re not sure,” I replied. “All depends how the healing goes. How the rehab goes.”

“This could affect you signing this year, man. We need to get you back on the ice.” He sat down on the edge of my bed near my hand, the outline of a vape pen in the front of his pants pocket.

He loved root beer flavored vape juice, and it was disgusting to smell.

He glanced at the open hospital door, then back to me, leaning in a little and bringing his voice down.

“I know a few players—hockey, soccer, football—who just take cortisone shots. It reduces pain and inflammation so you can play.”

I glared at him. “Cortisone doesn’t cure the problem. It just alleviates the symptoms. All those players are just making things worse by playing on injuries and numbing the pain.”

Vance didn’t seem convinced and merely scoffed.

“Well, we need to get you into the best rehab money can buy. Daily sports massages, maybe with a hot Swedish chick?” He bobbed his brows up and down.

“Acupuncture, IMS, PT, infrared therapy, hypnotherapy. Whatever it takes.” He brought out his phone. “I’ll make some calls.”

“Actually, I think the doctor has recommended a physiotherapist I’m going to try.”

Vance’s clean-shaven jaw dropped. “What? Here? The team has a physiotherapist.”

That was precisely why I wanted to take the doctor’s advice and use someone not beholden to the multimillion-dollar team that signed their checks.

And if I had to go to LA to see Rolph Mazurenko, rather than go home to my condo in Portland, then so be it.

I liked Portland, but I’d much rather rent a hotel or a penthouse with an ocean view in the Golden State for a few months and maybe be able to play a few games during the playoffs.

“I’m going to make some calls,” Vance said, the look in his soulless brown eyes telling me he wasn’t on board with my decision, and he was going to see who else he could rally to his cause to get me to change my mind.

The answer was: nobody. But I’d rather he made himself scarce and try, than annoy me anymore.

Honestly, as much as I tried to see the good in everyone, Vance Pye made searching for his redeeming qualities like a Where’s Waldo .

I kept him on as my agent because he was a good agent. A good human, not so much.

“Can you make those calls outside?” I asked, reaching for my phone. “I’ve got a headache, and I’d rather have some quiet.”

All he did was nod, his phone already to his ear as he headed out.

“Can you turn off the light and close the door?”

More nodding, but at least he did as I asked.

Ah. Peace and quiet.

I didn’t, of course, have a headache. I was hopped up on so many painkillers, a headache might as well be Mars. I was, however, unable to stop thinking about that beautiful face I saw in the crowd three nights ago, right before they shoved me into an ambulance.

Gabrielle Campbell.

Did I actually see her? Or was she a figment of my concussed brain? If so, why after all these years was I seeing her again?

While she had technically been my “host mom” for three years, I never really saw her as a mother.

She was a fantastic mom though. To Damon and Laurel.

To me, she was a woman who worked her ass off to get a college degree while recovering from a traumatic past I never figured out.

But I could tell she had one. Her aunt helped her out financially, but Gabrielle wanted to bring in some income on her own.

So that’s why she offered up her spare room to an out-of-town hockey player.

Over the years, I’d periodically hear her on the phone with someone cryptically discussing her ex-husband, their divorce, and keeping the kids protected.

I never pried, but I was always very curious.

Her tenacity and how much she loved her kids was what stuck out to me about her the most. I never had a crush—per se—but I always found her pretty.

It wasn’t until a month before I graduated high school and left their house that I started to develop feelings .

I was hungry one night and came upstairs from my room in the basement and heard her moan from behind her bedroom door.

It was all I could do to not stand outside that door and listen more—but I didn’t.

And I never acted on my feelings, because it was no more than a boyhood crush on a nice, attractive woman who was so out of my league, not to mention older than me.

Was she still in Spokane? Or did she live in Seattle now?

How were the kids? Back when I lived with them, Damon idolized me. Apparently, that was the other reason Gabrielle wanted a hockey player in their house. She needed a positive male role model for her son, which led me to believe her husband had been abusive.

I punched her name into Google now, and the first website to pop up was a law firm in Spokane, which had her listed as a practicing attorney.

Holy shit.

The law firm’s website said they specialized in helping women. Gabrielle had become a badass lawyer fighting for women, helping them flee abusive relationships and get custody of their children.

Was she still there?

I hit the phone number on the bottom of the website and put my cell to my ear.

“Leaena Law, how can I direct your call?” came the chipper voice of the receptionist.

“Hi, yes, I’d like to speak with Gabrielle Campbell if she’s available, please?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Gabrielle no longer works in the office. She handles very specific cases remotely and by referral only. Have you been referred by someone?”

“No. Thank you. Have a nice day.” Then I hung up.

Hmm. She didn’t work in the office and only handled specific cases, and by referral. Also, remotely? So where did she live?

All other search results for Gabrielle came up empty. So I switched gears and typed in “Rolph Mazurenko.”

While Mr. Mazurenko was still a practicing physiotherapist, he was no longer in Los Angeles.

Thank god for that.

He now worked at a place called “Unger Wellness.” A multi-therapy healing facility on San Camanez Island, which coincidentally was just a short ferry ride from Seattle.

That sounded way better than LA. A quiet, relaxing little island where I could rest and recoup while getting world-class physiotherapy?

Sign me up!

I called Unger Wellness immediately, only a little groggy from the pain meds, but promised to have Dr. Avery send the referral posthaste.

Once I had my initial visit scheduled, next on my to-do list was to find a place to stay.

While several of the seasonal swankier places to stay on the island were closed down for the winter season, there was some availability in a modern, albeit small, cabin right on the beach. And these cabins were also located on the same property as the Sound Bites Pub and San Camanez Brewery.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the painkillers, but excitement flared inside of me at the idea of getting off the mainland for a bit. Even though I was seriously worried about my career.

With a former NHL player for a dad and two older brothers also in the NHL, the skates I had to fill were enormous—and I never seemed to measure up. Even though my feet were the biggest of the four of us.

San Camanez Island was touted as being this place of solace, tranquility, and respite.

A little slice of heaven just outside the city.

And I needed that. I needed a break. I needed to regroup and decide where I wanted my future—my career—to go.

And if I was willing to sacrifice my health for that career.

Something told me San Camanez was just the place for that to happen.