Page 48 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

The halls of HCI were quiet when Mickey left Dakota’s studio that same day.

He was only a little dizzy and although he could hear some faint ringing, it wasn’t as bad as it had been when he arrived earlier.

He found himself wandering slowly, taking in the familiar red, orange, yellow, black accent colors and the fierce hawk head logo. He should go home. He knew Rafe was probably waiting there and he knew they should talk more.

He also knew he’d been kind of a dick to Rafe this morning.

He hadn’t meant to be. He just couldn’t always stop the frustration from seeping out.

And it was hard to think straight, to focus , to talk when his head felt like this.

It was like he was perpetually off-balance, teetering on the edge of plummeting over some invisible cliff.

It wasn’t until a sharp metallic ozone tang and cool air hit his nose that he realized his wanderings had brought him to the main practice rink.

No one was skating now, but the ice resurfacer must have finished its work recently because the ice was glossy and perfect. Mickey curled his hands into fists as he approached the boards, overwhelmed by the sudden wave of emotion that hit him at the sight. At how badly he wanted to be out there.

Most of the ice was ringed with plexiglass to protect the staff and the spectators during public practices, but he slipped into the rarely used bench area and took a seat.

Without his gear, without his skates, he felt small. Like he had as a young child when his feet dangled, not quite touching the floor.

He missed skating.

It had been bad when he was out with his groin injury but at least he’d been able to hang out in the locker room and joke around with his teammates.

Now, he ached with the loss.

He missed Jesse and Tanner and the way they lifted the mood. He missed Tanner’s weird but effective playlists. He missed Arkady rhapsodizing about his girlfriend and how he was the luckiest man ever.

Hell, he even missed Crawford walking around naked, snapping guys with towels and chirping them and generally being a dick to everyone.

Now, Mickey would give anything to hear the stupid jokes he fired off. He suddenly thought of one Crawford had aimed at him shortly after he joined the team.

How many Germans does it take to change a light bulb?

When Mickey shrugged and said he didn’t know, Crawford answered, Just one. The Germans are a very efficient and humorless people .

It was stupid stereotypical crap, probably something he’d found online, but Mickey had laughed at it anyway.

Crawford had seemed pleased by Mickey’s response, like he’d passed some test or mild hazing ritual or something, thwacking him playfully with a discarded pair of boxer briefs until Mickey had briefly considered tackling him to the carpet to get him to stop.

He’d weighed the satisfaction of taking him by surprise against the chances of ending up pinned on the floor by a large, sweaty, naked man who he wasn’t at all attracted to and decided no, that was definitely not worth it.

But it had made Mickey feel like he belonged. That he was a Harrier. So, the hazing had worked.

Crawford was annoying as hell, but he was part of this team and goddamn it, Mickey ached being away from every one of them.

They needed him right now. And he needed them.

The ice in front of him blurred for a moment, and he swayed a little on the bench, exhausted and dizzy and desperate for this nightmare to be over.

“Hey.”

The bench vibrated and Mickey glanced up to see Tom Bass slide in beside him. He was kind of an average-looking guy, with soft brown skin, a nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two, and kind dark eyes.

“Hi,” Mickey managed past the tightness in his throat.

He had no idea what Tom was doing here. He was a nice guy and fit into the locker room well, but he’d been busy getting settled in a new city with his family and Mickey hadn’t had any personal interactions with him yet.

“It’s tough, huh?” Tom nodded toward the ice. “Being away from it.”

“Yes,” Mickey whispered, looking down at his hands.

“You feel like a part of yourself is missing.”

Mickey nodded. Unable to say it aloud this time.

“And then you start spiraling. What if this is it? What if I never play again?”

He nodded again, because what else could he do?

Tom laughed but it wasn’t loud or mean. There was nothing mocking in it. Just soft, rueful understanding.”Yeah, I’ve been there.”

“Concussion?” Mickey managed to squeeze out.

“Yep. Got a pretty nasty conkie when I was about your age.”

Mickey huffed out a laugh. He wasn’t familiar with the term conkie but leave it to hockey players to come up with cute little nicknames for a life-altering condition.

“So what happened?” Mickey asked, the stranglehold grasp on his throat finally easing a little. “How’d you fix it?”

Tom shrugged. “I didn’t. I had to wait until my brain healed.”

“How long were you out?”

“A season and a half.”

Mickey gaped at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“How did you not go crazy?”

Tom grinned and winked. “Who says I didn’t?”

Mickey’s laugh was a little louder this time. Came a little easier.

Tom shrugged again. “You have any hobbies?”

“Uhh, not really. Not ones I can do right now, anyway.”

“Well, think about finding one or you will go crazy.”

“What did you get into?” Mickey asked.

“Oil painting.”

“Really?” Mickey blinked. He hadn’t seen that one coming. He didn’t seem like the artistic type.

Tom shrugged. “Look, I was really fucking bored. And that shit takes a lot of time, so …”

“No, I’m not knocking it,” Mickey assured him. “I like to bake and Rafe knits, so …”

“Nice.” Tom flashed him an easy smile. “Baking’s not so great when your head feels like shit though, I’ll bet.”

“No.”

“Hmm. I’m trying to think of some of the other stuff I tried. Oh! Do you like animals? You could volunteer at a shelter, maybe.”

Mickey considered the idea. “I—I could look into it.”

He probably wouldn’t be a ton of help there on days he was feeling dizzy but the thought of being surrounded by animals seemed kinda nice.

He liked cats and dogs and he’d had a Schnauzer mix named Gunther when he was growing up. Gunther had been high energy and had been so excited every time Mickey took him for runs through the neighborhood or shot balls at him in the garden behind the house with his hockey stick.

“Good,” Tom said. “And you know, it helped me a lot that I had Krista. And my kids.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Tom knocked shoulders with him. “So lean on Rafe through this, dude.”

“I …” Mickey’s throat spasmed. “But I want him to be able to lean on me .”

“Nothing’s stopping him from doing that while you lean on him. It can be mutual , you know.”

Mickey hesitated, unsure of how to word this without giving way too many details of their sex life to his teammate. “But we are, uh…”

Tom snorted. “Like you are on the ice?”

Mickey rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t find a way to make you both happy.

” Tom shrugged. “I’m talking out of my ass here because I don’t know anything much about that kind of thing.

But Krista and I got married young and we’ve been through hell and back together.

She’s my ride or die lady and if there’s one thing I do know after all these years of marriage, it’s that you can’t fix anything without talking about it. But you might fix it if you do .”

“True,” Mickey admitted.He thought about it some more. “True.”

“And good luck, man,” Tom said, rapping his knuckles against Mickey’s thigh.

“Thanks.”Mickey bumped shoulders with him in appreciation. He was a good guy.

“Anytime.”

Mickey nodded still staring out at the ice.

But Tom shifted to look at him. “Hey, Mickey. I mean it.”

Mickey turned to look at him, surprised by the intent look on his face.

“If life starts to feel too dark and hopeless, come to me. Or Rafe or Hoyt or Racine or anyone . Whoever feels the safest. Don’t suffer in silence.

The worst part of a concussion isn’t how fucking awful you feel or even being away from the game.

It’s how hopeless it makes you. It’s the sneaky voice telling you nothing will ever get better.

Your life will aways be like this. The world would be better off without you.

Don’t ever let that voice win, you hear me? ”

Rafe wound up talking to Gavin for way longer than he expected. They’d only wrapped up because Gavin had a meeting with Finn.

“Drop by any time you’d like,” Gavin said with an easy smile as he rose to his feet.

Rafe stood to clear away his lunch stuff, scraping the rice into the empty container. He couldn’t do anything about the stuff on the floor but … hopefully someone would come through with a vacuum.

He tipped the container into the trash and frowned when he turned and looked through the sliding door of the balcony overlooking the rink and saw a couple of guys sitting on the bench by the practice rink.

They were too far away to see their faces clearly, but Rafe recognized the red hoodie. It was his , something he’d bought at a concert a few years ago with a distinctive splash of color on the front that was impossible to miss.

Mickey had taken to wearing it lately, wandering around the apartment in Rafe’s massively oversized hoodie and his own shorts. Now, Rafe stepped closer to the door and saw Mickey was talking to Tom. He recognized him from the hideous neon green crocs he wore everywhere.

“Hey,” Rafe said, nodding toward them. “Did you arrange for that?”

“Arrange for what?” Gavin asked, sounding confused as he stepped closer and peered out.

“Tom talking to Mickey,” Rafe explained.

“Oh, no. But Tom has a concussion history so maybe he took it upon himself to talk to him? I’m not sure, but that would be my guess. Why? Are you jealous?”

“No,” Rafe said truthfully. “It’s good if he’s talking to someone.”