Page 63 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

Maverick

Monday came before I was ready, and I was on the seven o’clock ferry heading to Seattle.

Gabrielle suggested I pack all my stuff from the cabin and take it with me.

While I found it weird, her reasoning made sense.

What if the doctors needed me to stick around for a few days for more tests?

Wouldn’t I would want all of my clothes and stuff with me?

She wasn’t wrong, but it still struck me as odd.

I didn’t argue though, and since I didn’t have much with me, I crammed everything I owned into my two duffel bags and headed to the ferry.

It was choppy waters sailing across the Sound, but we made it to the mainland only fifteen minutes behind schedule, and I headed to the medical imaging center attached to Dr. Avery’s clinic for my scans.

Even though I’d only been on San Camanez for a few weeks, it took me a hot minute to re-acclimate myself to the chaotic city driving.

Did San Camanez have any streetlights? I couldn’t remember coming across any.

After being put through the gamut of tests: MRI, CT, and X-Ray, I had fifteen minutes to spare, and took a seat near the window in Dr. Avery’s patient waiting room at nine forty-five. I was mindlessly scrolling on my phone when an alert popped up.

Raleigh Franks, husband, father, and right wing for the Portland Storm added to the list of accused players in the SA scandal rocking the NHL.

While I wasn’t surprised, I sure as hell wasn’t happy about it.

Dammit.

Henderson and Franks were decent players, even if they were shit people. They were first string and now the team was without them, and me, as we geared up for the playoffs. Would we even qualify at this point, given the way the team was playing and the growing division in the locker room?

A text from Roman made my phone vibrate as I clutched it a little too tight in my palm. We must have gotten the same alert at the same time, and he wanted to check in with me.

(Roman)

Not surprised. Just disappointed. And disgusted.

(Me)

Why do we have to have such douchebags as teammates? This is going to hurt the whole fucking team.

(Roman)

Get better sooner and get your ass back on the ice. We need you more than ever now if we have even a slim chance of making the playoffs.

(Me)

At the doc now to get more scans and see how things are healing. Cross your fingers it’s good news.

(Roman)

??

I heaved a big, weary sigh. Franks was just the second player to come out of the Storm with these accusations, but I was certain he wouldn’t be the last. The industry was a cesspool of entitled, talented athletes who’d had smoke blown up their ass since they were kids and thought they were immune to consequences because of their bank account and “importance” to the league.

It was time for the league to wake up and start holding players accountable.

But we all knew it started before the league.

This went back to the parents, the high schools, the colleges of these athletes who prioritized winning over raising decent human beings.

“Mr. Roy?” the receptionist called out. “Dr. Avery will see you now.”

I stood up and followed the short, curvy woman with poker-straight black hair to the middle of her back, down the long hallway to exam room five.

“He’ll just be a few minutes.”

I climbed up onto the exam table. “Thanks.”

She left me there and closed the door. I pivoted from the waist to both sides, checking on my spine rotation.

No twinges or pops. I’d been a good boy following not only doctor’s orders, but Maz’s orders too.

I did my stretches, I rode the recumbent bike, and besides rigorous sex with a certain uptight single mom, I took it easy.

Dr. Avery took more than “a few minutes.” So, like any addicted-to-their-phone-adult, I found myself scrolling through all the various news articles doing the customary deep dive into Raleigh Franks and his sordid ways.

What I didn’t expect was that it was his wife who actually turned him in.

She found a Bingo card on his phone with various physical descriptions of women he needed to sleep with, as well as a group chat with other men discussing which ones they’d successfully conquered.

It made me sick to my stomach.

No where though, did it list the names of the other men. So either that was going to come out later, and the media was just checking their facts and sources, or Franks hid his partners in crime better than he did his Bingo card.

Shaking my head as I read through the different spots on the Bingo card—because yes, that was included in some of the images—I felt more convinced, more vindicated than ever that the podcast I was starting was the right thing to do.

We couldn’t continue to let this kind of misogyny go on.

Not in the league, not in schools, not anywhere.

The door opened, and I set my phone, screen down, on the table. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Roy,” Dr. Avery said, setting my file on the counter before washing his hands. “How are you feeling?”

“Feeling great. I’ve been seeing Rolph Mazurenko, doing my stretches, and taking it easy. I can’t remember the last time I’ve gone this long without having to take any painkillers, or without feeling stiff when I go to bed.”

He dried his hands. “That’s fantastic.” Grabbing the file again, he flipped it open and set it on the table beside me. My scans were there, but like hell if I could interpret them. “Shirt off, please.”

I tore my Henley over my head and set it to the side as he gently poked and prodded my back, my hips, and along my spine. “Well, I hate to say this, but …”

I held my breath.

“Judging by your scans, Rolph’s assessment that he sent over on Friday, and what I’m seeing here, you’ve made a remarkably fast recovery. There’s no sign of fracture in your L3 or L4.”

My jaw dropped, and I exhaled. “You hate to say this? What the hell, doc?”

He huffed a small laugh. “I mean, it’s great news.

I just hoped you’d give yourself a bit more time to rest and recover.

But medically speaking, you … you’re free to return to the game.

” A sadness flickered in his blue eyes. “Know though, that you still have degenerating osteoarthritis. That is not something we can fix with bone cement and rehab. It’s just part of your genetic makeup.

A casualty of working in a high-contact sport with a grueling training regime.

Which means that this could, and probably will, happen again.

That part of your spine is simply weaker.

” His lips twisted regretfully. “I’m advising you to, at the very least, take the rest of the season and the summer to heal.

If not, consider retiring. You’re twenty-six years old, Maverick.

You have so much life ahead of you—if you don’t cause irreparable damage first. Is hockey really worth a diminished quality of life? ”

I blinked at him.

“You can put your shirt back on now.”

Nodding, I tugged my Henley over my head and shoved my arms through the sleeves. When I poked my head through the neck, I was met with the doctor’s concerned, almost fatherly expression. Certainly more fatherly an expression than my own father ever gave me.

“I’m going to say this one more time, Maverick.

” He reached out and rested his hand on my shoulder.

“You have more money than most people will ever have in a lifetime. You’ve played the game.

Now, I think you need to decide what else you want out of life.

A wife? A family? To live into your eighties not bed-ridden or in a wheelchair?

Is the game really worth giving up all that you could have? ”

I couldn’t speak. My tongue was tied into a million knots and my throat grew tighter than a drum. I swallowed as best I could as my body heated up and my palms grew sweaty where they clutched my knees.

Dr. Avery’s mouth dipped into a frown. “Take the season off, Maverick. Your body might be healed, but there’s something going on behind your eyes that tells me maybe there are other things that need to heal too?”

I clenched my molars tight, my nostrils flaring as I maintained eye contact with the doctor.

“I’m happy to delay sending my recommendation to the team doctor if you’d like?”

I barely managed a nod, and after one final look of concern from the blue-eyed man in a white physician’s coat, he released my shoulder and left.

I sat there for a little while longer, letting his words roll around my brain until I thought it might explode.

I needed to talk to someone about this. I couldn’t make this decision on my own.

I wasn’t the only person at play here anymore.

I had people in my world that I cared deeply for, and I needed to consider them.

I needed to talk to Gabrielle.

No way could I wait until I got back to the island to talk to her. I was a jittery mess and not sure I’d even be able to drive until I hashed this out with the person who meant more to me in the world than anyone else.

Sitting in my truck, I dialed her number, my hand shaking as I put the phone to my ear.

Luckily, she picked up on the third ring. “Hey. How’d it go?”

Just hearing her voice eased so much of that strain in my sternum that I was finally able to suck in a deep breath. “Um … I, uh … I got the all clear to play again.”

Silence.

I swallowed.

“And …”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said on an exhale.

“Do I go back and play with them this season, help them get to the playoffs? They certainly need it now that Franks is also in trouble for the same shit as Henderson. If I can play with my team, finish the season with them, I should, right? Or do I just retire now? Or wait until the fall and hope that the Storm signs me again?”

More silence, and this time it had my pulse spiking and my gut queasy.

“Gabrielle?”

“You need to play,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t come back.”

“What?” I breathed.

Don’t come back?

“Let’s … let’s not fool ourselves, Maverick.

You were always going to go back. All of the other options—including us—were plan B.

And don’t plan for retirement at the end of the season.

You don’t know what the future holds, but we both know it’s not on the island.

It’s not here with us. You’re meant for …

” She swallowed. “You’re meant for far greater things than San Camanez. ”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she croaked out. “Go play the game you were born to play. The game you excel at. You’ll regret it … you’ll resent m—you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.”

Where the hell was this coming from? “You don’t mean this. W-what is going on? Can we talk about this some more, please? I’m really struggling. The doctor is talking about quality of life and that I could end up in a wheelchair if I keep playing.”

“I … I have to go. Um, let me handle Damon, okay?”

“What? I’m not just going to abandon the kid.

Any of the kids. We have watercolor and woodworking.

Metalwork. And I have another cheese making workshop booked.

I have a bowl to paint with Hugh. We haven’t finished our bat boxes.

And Damon’s been doing all the editing for me.

I need to at least explain …” Scrubbing my fingers into my hair, then down my face, I rested my hand over my heart where the tension was back and worse than ever.

“Leave that to me. It’ll be okay. Go play hockey.”

“Gabrielle!”

“Goodbye, Maverick.” Then she hung up.

She fucking hung up.

I called her back immediately, but it went to voicemail. Then I texted her, pleading with her to tell me what the hell was going on and why she was doing this. But I got no response.

My brain felt like it was going to shatter into a million pieces.

Nothing made sense. Sunday was like a dream come true.

We had dinner like a normal family of four, joking and laughing around the table.

Then Damon and I played video games while Gabrielle and Laurel baked cookies in the kitchen.

Then Gabrielle and I made love, and she fell asleep holding my hand—which was a big deal for her since she wasn’t the most tactile person when it came to affection.

She kissed me goodbye when I drove to the ferry and I thought for sure I’d be returning to the island, to these people I loved so much, and the place where I felt more at peace and happier than I’d ever been.

And now she was telling me not to come back.

This woman and the emotional whiplash were going to kill me.

With a shaky breath, I called Dr. Avery’s office and went through all the prompts until I finally reached a real human.

“Hey, this is Maverick Roy. I was just in to see Dr. Avery. Can you tell him to send my file to the team doctor, please? I’ve changed my mind and I’m going to play again—now. Thanks.” Then I hung up.

Next, I shot off a text to Roman.

Clean bill of health. How soon do you think Nilsson will have me on the roster?

He messaged back immediately.

If he knows what’s good for him, tomorrow night!

Despite the turmoil raging inside of me, I smiled. I’d need to get back on the ice and practice a bit, as well as hit the gym before I made my way into a game again. The playoffs started in less than a month. Hopefully, I’d be in tiptop shape again by then.

Hopefully, we’d still have enough of a team to play, because something told me Henderson and Franks weren’t the only ones from the Storm playing Bingo.

I was good at compartmentalizing, putting everything not on the ice out of my head while I was in my skates and with my team.

But now that I had more in my life than just hockey, would I be able to keep that focus?

Or would I be at center ice thinking about the people here on the island and how much I missed them?

My entire life had revolved around hockey since the day I was born, and now that I knew there was more out there, more to do, more to enjoy than just scoring goals and skating, I’d never felt more unsettled about my future and where I fit into Gabrielle’s.