Page 1 of Something Reckless

EASTON

“ N ext road trip, you’re wearing a diaper.”

Through the windshield, I watch my three brothers bickering as they exit the gas station convenience store.

Lincoln snatches the car keys from Rocco’s hand and climbs behind the wheel of our oversized rental SUV.

“I have a small bladder. Show some fucking sympathy.” Rocco tears open a bag of nacho chips as he slips into the spacious backseat. He bumps into the back of my seat a dozen times as he shifts around, getting comfortable.

Oliver juggles his own pile of convenience store snacks as he yanks open the other rear passenger door.

“We’re all out of sympathy. Why have you been chugging down back-to-back energy drinks all day anyway?

” My youngest brother stretches over my shoulder to drop the packet of chocolate-covered almonds and the licorice I requested into my lap.

“Had a long night. This babe from the gym came over and kept me up way past my bed time.” Cracking open yet another energy drink, Rocco lets out an obnoxious yawn. “ Caffeine was the only thing keeping me from running us off the road when I was the one driving earlier.”

Lincoln dutifully checks his mirrors and starts backing out of the parking lot. “Well, we’re not stopping for you again. You’re gonna have to hold your next piss until we get to Fairy Bush.”

I can get onboard with that. I’ve lost track of how many stops we’ve had to make on the eight-hour drive up from Oliver’s place in Chicago.

I shouldn’t complain—my brothers have been taking turns behind the wheel while I’ve been sitting here in the front passenger seat like a useless log. But at this point, I’m just so ready to get to our destination.

Oliver lets out a grunt. “Don’t count on it. This is Rocco we’re dealing with. I lost all faith in him that time he got wasted at Chloe Chapman’s house party and peed all over her grandma’s couch.”

I huff out a chuckle at that. The sound startles me. It’s the first time I’ve chuckled since I-don’t-know-when.

Lincoln laughs along, taking a gulp from his coffee cup as he merges back onto the highway. “Oh, that was a low blow.”

Rocco retaliates with a hard shove to Oliver’s shoulder. “Hey—I’m sensitive about that stuff!”

“Sorry,” our youngest brother mumbles. “Feeling a little… snippy right now.”

For the record—Oliver is always feeling a little snippy. Cranky bastard.

Still, I feel for him. The poor guy is stuck in the backseat with Rocco and his smelly-ass cheese dip, so I don’t blame him for being at his wit’s end. We all are.

The guys continue to trade jabs throughout the drive. I stay quiet. Just staring out the window and ruminating.

This trip back to our hometown isn’t exactly a vacation for me. Not like it is for Lincoln, Rocco and Oliver.

I made it nine years into my professional hockey career without a serious injury. Then, near the end of this last season, I had to go and fracture my goddamn fibula. While it’s not exactly the worst injury I could have faced, it’s still pretty serious.

I’m no spring chicken anymore. I’m twenty-seven now, and in hockey years, that makes me, well, old .

Why did this shit have to happen to me? Especially now that I’m finally playing for a team that has what it takes to go all the way.

The Sin Valley Saints are only in our second year in the professional hockey league.

We had a few high-profile hiccups in our first season, missteps that threatened to ruin our credibility as a team.

But ever since we ironed those issues out, our performance has been strong, our fanbase has been growing, and—maybe we’re a bunch of delusional and overambitious dipshits—but we’d been hoping we could take home the championship cup this year.

That dream went right down the shitter after I sustained my injury.

I let my team down. I let myself down. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’ll ever get another shot at the championships.

In any case, I have the summer to recover from my broken ankle. And how well I recover will determine the fate of my career. Can I bounce back and return to the sport I love? Or is it time to hang up my skates for good and move on?

Lincoln keeps sending me worried looks from the driver’s seat. My oldest brother also happens to be my sports agent. So it’s safe to say that he knows how much is at stake here. That’s why he rented me a cozy hideout in the small town where we grew up.

“This will be good for you, Easton,” he says, like he’s reading my mind.

“None of the distractions of the city. Plus, people know you well enough that they probably won’t be all stupidly starstruck every time you venture outside.

You can recover, take it easy, enjoy some normalcy and focus on yourself. ”

I stab my fingers through my brown, greasy, overlong waves. “Yeah, I guess.”

Flipping down the sun visor against the setting sun, I get a glimpse at myself in the small mirror.

Whoa. Jump scare!

I look like shit.

Wrinkled clothes, dark circles under my eyes, unkempt facial hair, worry lines creasing my forehead.

Not the aesthetic I usually go for. But this new visual is a perfect reflection of my shitty mood.

Rocco reaches forward and claps me on the shoulder. “Sorry I can’t be away from the team too long. I’ve already used most of my vacation days. So I’ll be traveling back and forth from Sin Valley when I can.”

Rocco is one of the personal trainers for my hockey team, The Sin Valley Saints.

And while my ass is going to be laid up all summer, the rest of my teammates still need to prepare for the upcoming season.

It worries me, thinking about how much time I’ll be missing with the team.

Still I know that I need to lick my wounds, focus on healing, and block out the rest of the noise.

“We have your back if you need anything, though,” Oliver adds.

I’d bet he’s eager to get back to doing…

whatever it is he does. My youngest brother is super hush-hush about the pr ivate security job he took since getting out of the military.

I never ask him for details. I just pray it’s not something that’ll get him locked in the trunk of a mobster’s car with a cloth bag over his head one day.

In any case, my family has always been my support system.

Lincoln has been my sports agent ever since I signed my second professional contract.

Rocco got a job as a trainer for the team right after he finished college.

Oliver…well, he may not work in the sports industry, but he’s smart as hell and he’s the most observant person I know.

He always has the best advice, and he’s even given me some clever ideas for hockey plays.

And of course, I wouldn’t have gotten this far without Mom. She’s my rock, my biggest fan and my self-proclaimed life organizer.

I’m lucky to have a solid support system.

Lincoln loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his crisp white shirt. “I’ll be in and out of town, too, taking care of my kid and trying to juggle my clients in Sin Valley.”

Having my brother as my sports agent means knowing that he’s always in my corner. But he’s still figuring out life after his divorce. He’s got to focus on his business and his son.

With me practically having one foot out of the sports world, I’m sure he’s already making contingency plans for what his life will look like if he loses me as his star client.

“You’ll get lots of time to yourself. We won’t be in your hair the whole summer,” Lincoln tells me. Then he grunts. “But I can’t make any promises about Mom.”

The guys all chuckle.

Our mother got to town earlier in the week to get things set up for us. Only heaven knows what she’s been up to. She’s been doing a lot of running around but I know she doesn’t mind.

Monica Raines appointed herself as my personal assistant the minute I retired her from the three low-paying jobs she held down while my brothers and I were in school. After a lifetime of overworking herself, being on my payroll now is her equivalent of living her best life.

“You just need to focus on attending your outpatient physiotherapy sessions at the local hospital,” Lincoln goes on.

“And continue your phone sessions with the team’s psychologist this summer to make sure you get your head back in the game, too,” Oliver chimes in.

All I do is grunt in response.

“And most importantly, don’t become a fuddy duddy like these two,” Rocco chides, motioning to Lincoln and Oliver with his chin. “Make sure to have some fun.”

“Not sure what kind of fun I’ll be having while I’m limping around on crutches,” I grumble.

Rocco exhales harshly. “This doesn’t have to be the end of the road for you, East. Remember Jude Kingston? He tore his ACL—twice—and he’s still one of the top ten tight ends in pro football.”

My brother proceeds to list off a bunch of other professional athletes who got injured and then returned, going on and on about each of their comeback stories.

He would know. He’s worked with some of them personally.

But I don’t remind him that for every stunning comeback, there’s an unlucky sucker who meets a dead end.

I’m terrified that sucker might be me.

When I don’t instantly cheer up, Rocco gives my shoulder another shake. “Come on, bro. It’s not that bad,” he says appeasingly.

But it is that bad.

I sustained a serious multi-fracture that required surgery. Sure, bones heal, but try stuffing a shattered foot back into ice skates and pretending that it’s as good as new.

On top of the agonizing ankle pain, the muscle mass I’m going to lose in this leg is going to be off the charts. And no general manager wants a weak defenseman limping around on the ice and getting his ass handed to him.

So, yeah. Chances are good that I’ll never play hockey again.

I’ll admit it—I have an over-sized ego—and I can’t bring myself to imagine coming to the end of my hockey career without having a championship ring to my name. That’s the part that keeps me up at night.