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Xander

“ X ander, do you have a minute?”

Ha. Jordan—my manager—has got jokes. I’ve got nothing but time since a season-ending injury took me off the ice back in April—right before the playoffs. I’ve been in a sour mood ever since.

Getting injured in your twenties is one thing—your body bounces back faster. But at thirty-four? It’s a whole different story. Recovery is slower, more painful. And it’s killing me.

I broke my collarbone after crashing into the right post while chasing the puck. I lost my balance like a fucking idiot and ended up needing surgery. My arm was in a sling for six weeks.

To say I’ve got time on my hands is the understatement of the century.

“Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Eric contacted me today and asked if I knew when you might get back on the ice,” Jordan says, carefully enunciating every word.

Fuck.

Eric is the general manager of the Carolina Red Wolves, the team I’ve been playing for the last eight years. And the reason he contacted Jordan? Because I’ve been sending his calls to voicemail.

I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone.

“He said they haven’t seen you at the facilities for physical therapy. What the fuck, Xander?”

I let out a deep breath, switch off the TV, and rustle my hair. I’m sprawled on the couch in my penthouse in North Hills, a neighborhood in Raleigh, North Carolina.

I’m not a quitter, but this last season was supposed to be the season—the one where we’d finally become champions. I’d retire on a high note, carrying on my family’s legacy.

“Xander? Are you there?” Jordan’s voice cuts through the silence after my long pause.

I sigh .

“Listen, I know this isn’t ideal,” he begins. “I know you wanted to win the Cup and retire. But this is not the end of the world. You’re a badass, Xander. Let me help you.”

That’s when I snap.

“And how exactly are you supposed to help me, Jordan? I truly appreciate you trying to lift my spirits, but my career is over. Every man in my family who played in the league lifted the trophy, except me. I’m a loser.”

“No, you’re not. Look, I found this place in the mountains where you can get physical therapy and psychological coaching,” he says in a chirpy tone.

“You want me to spend summer in rehab?” I scoff.

I can already see the media having a field day if I end my career at a rehab center.

“This place is like a vault. No one would know you’re there. And if you take recovery seriously, you could be back on the ice for preseason.”

I raise an eyebrow. Now he’s got my interest.

This could actually work.

“Preseason? Is Eric willing to extend my contract?” I ask, a hint of hope sparking in my chest.

“Not so fast, Xander. You know you have one more year left on your contract. An extension would depend on your ability to recover and come back like the motherfucking menace I know you are,” Jordan says, excitement oozing from his tone.

I chuckle. “So, where is this place? ”

“That’s the spirit,” he exclaims like he just won the lottery. “What do you say we meet for lunch?”

I check my phone. It's already eleven.

“Let’s do dinner instead. I’ll see you at seven at Carmen’s.”

I hang up and get off the couch with a pep in my step.

It’s time to get out of this funk.

If I’m done, I’m going down fighting.

“Hey, man. What are you doing here?” Matt, the team’s captain and one of my best friends, greets me as I enter Carmen’s.

We embrace in a one-arm hug. I haven’t seen any of my friends since I left the hospital. And it’s not because they haven’t tried. It's because I’ve been in a sour, grumpy mood and avoiding everyone.

“Not much, just here to meet with my agent,” I say, winking and smirking at Trinity, Matt’s wife.

“Oh man, don’t tell me you’re getting traded?” Matt asks, his face going pale.

“No, not at all,” I rush to assure him. “At least, that’s not what Jordan said on the phone.”

My mind starts racing with the possibility of being traded. Who would want an old, injured player? No, there’s no way.

“Why? What have you heard?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant .

“Nah, I haven’t heard anything.”

I visibly relax. Then he chuckles.

“You still have that fight in you,” he says as he shakes my shoulder gently. “We need you, bro. You know that, right?” Matt presses, just as Jordan approaches.

I don’t feel like opening up in the middle of the restaurant, so I hug Matt and murmur a quick goodbye, promising to catch up soon.

“I’m glad you're spending time with your teammates,” Jordan says as the waiter shows us to our table.

“Yeah, it was nice catching up,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.

I don’t know why I’m on edge, but I feel like I’m about to explode.

“Listen, Xander. The team doesn’t have any plans to trade you. Your future is in your hands. You either focus on healing and come back stronger, or you tank and retire through the back door,” Jordan says.

I frown at him.

Chuckling, he adds, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Matt.”

“I know I need to come back stronger than ever if I want a spot on the team. But damn, I’m fucking terrified.”

I finally let out what’s been on me since the surgery.

“You know better than I do that plenty of players have come back after an injury and gone on to have successful careers. You just need to set your mind to it,” Jordan says as the waiter takes our order.

“It’s not your first injury, Xander. This is a high-contact sport. What has you so spooked this time?”

I take my time thinking it over.

“So, this place you mentioned on the phone, how did you learn about it?”

“The owner is married to Gio Bianchi,” Jordan says, like I’m supposed to know who that is. I give him a blank stare.

“You don’t know who Gio Bianchi is?” Jordan asks, incredulous.

I shake my head.

“Billionaire and philanthropist. Gio Bianchi is none other than the new investor in the Carolina Red Wolves. Actually, he’s invested in pretty much every professional team in North Carolina—men’s and women’s.”

I let out a low whistle. “That’s awesome. But yeah, I had no clue who he was.”

“Maybe it’s because you’ve been under a rock for the past couple of months,” Jordan jabs.

I can’t even be mad at him, because it’s true. I’ve been hiding.

The food arrives, and I immediately start drooling at the sight and the smell that hits my nose. Vaca frita is one of my favorite dishes. The strong garlic and onion scent, combined with the fried plantains, just hits the right spot.

I grew up in a mix of cultures. My dad is Colombian and moved to Massachusetts to play baseball at a D1 school.

That’s where he met my mom, a woman of Polish descent from Western Massachusetts.

What he didn’t know then was that my mom was the daughter of one of the greatest hockey players of all time—Randy Wozniak.

Even though most of the Hispanics in the area are from Puerto Rico, Dad always found a way to share his culture and traditions with me. That’s why plantains are such a rooted memory. I grew up eating patacón during summer and p ? czki around Easter. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“So, where in the mountains is this place exactly?” I ask after enjoying a mouthful of food.

“It’s in a small town called Azalea Creek. It’s half an hour outside Asheville.”

I nod and take another bite, my thoughts drifting to the Berkshires, the mountains in Massachusetts I grew up near, and how every time we visited, I felt at peace.

“And have you checked the place out yet?” I ask, wanting to know more.

“Not yet, but I spoke with Ruin Bianchi, and she gave me good vibes. They have a sports medicine doctor on-site, as well as a physiotherapist,” Jordan says.

I raise an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised.

“Yes, Ruin’s the main psychological therapist. But if you feel she’s not a good match for you, they have other therapists you can speak to. They also offer art and cooking lessons, as well as yoga and other activities, as a way to free your mind and connect with your true self.”

I bark a laugh. “Me doing yoga? There’s no way.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Jordan says, grinning.

We keep chatting as we finish our meal, and by the time we say goodbye, I feel better than I’ve felt in a while.

Maybe going out and breathing some fresh air was a good idea after all.

Back at my place, I take off my shoes as soon as I close the door. I grab an energy drink from the fridge before getting comfortable on the couch.

I need to look up this Azalea Creek place and see what Jordan is talking about.

A quick search on my phone shows me beautiful landscapes. The Blue Ridge Mountains are something else. I’ve visited Asheville a couple of times, since one of my teammates has a chalet there, but I’ve never explored outside the city.

Then I look up Serene Lookout, and I’m pleasantly surprised by the facilities. Everything looks brand new. The rooms are spacious and comfortable, like hotel suites. The gym seems to have every piece of equipment I’m used to, and there’s an indoor pool that’ll be perfect for strengthening my arm.

A scan of the staff lineup shows me that everyone working there is qualified.

Without thinking much about it, I send Jordan a text.

Xander : Sign me up. I’m ready to go to Serene Lookout.

Jordan’s reply comes fast.

Jordan : Excellent. I’m proud of you, man. I’ll set everything up and let you know when you can start your treatment.

Azalea Creek, here I come.