Page 5

Thierry

A fter my faux pas with Pope, and he’d stopped playing, I strived to find what I had with my best friend again, with someone else.

There was nothing like the feeling of being so in-sync with someone that blocking shots and protecting the goalie was effortless.

There were days I doubted I’d ever find that genuine connection again.

“I don’t like him–the new kid,” Dad grumbled as I placed my mug on the waiting coaster on the side table. “Too much showmanship, not enough grit.”

I smirked, crossing my arms. “Next thing you’ll say is that they don’t make players like they used to.”

“Well, they don’t. I’ve watched all of them: Gordie Howe, Bob Suter, Mario Lemieux, Wayne Gretzky, Patrick Roy.

..” He motioned to the television, “These guys, they’re all about social media videos and trick shots.

Not playing the game.” He then looked me in the eye.

“You have that spark, son. You’re going to be in the Hall of Fame one day.

Being a coach is just another stepping stone to greatness. ”

The confidence my parents had in me was the boost I needed to get my ass back on the ice. I’d been throwing myself a pity party since the injury, and I needed a swift kick in my ass. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Now,” he said, putting his tablet aside. “What do you know about your new team?”

That’s the million-dollar question. I hadn’t even researched the organization or their stats.

I wanted to go into the venture blind. All I knew about the Mountaineers was their place on the leaderboard.

They ended the previous season in fourth place in the Western Conference.

Not bad. But not great either. If they wanted to vie for a championship this year they had to do better.

Be better.

“I’m going in with a clean slate. I don’t want to taint my opinion of the team or the players,” I said, proud of myself for staying neutral. “Watching them on the ice will give me a better perspective for what they need to work on and how I can help them.”

“They’ve already sized you up,” he muttered. “Probably think you’re going to be a weak link because to them you’re still a player, not a coach.”

“Or,” I countered, “they’ll see me as the person who can carry them to a championship.”

I already had one ring tucked away in my safe deposit box at the bank, along with my Olympic silver medal and bronze.

(My Gold medal went everywhere with me.) Not to mention my parents displaying my U9 and U18 accolades in my childhood bedroom.

I thought this year could be the one where I’d go for my second NHL ring.

Though, the tiny voice at the back of my mind said I’d been thinking a little too greedily. I needed to temper my expectations.

“This is going to be your make-or-break year,” Dad mumbled. “The injury...” He shook his head. “Damned fluke if you ask my opinion.”

Tell me about it.

The hit wasn’t bad. A stupid check off the boards and I continued playing until halfway through the third period when my knee stopped bending the right way.

The training staff got me off the ice and into the training room within minutes.

Once they had my socks off and all my padding, I could finally see the damage I’d done.

Under the harsh incandescent lights and pensive stares of the medical/training team, I knew I’d fucked up.

My skin was a marbled mess of reds, purples, and blues.

The swelling made my knee look more like a cantaloupe than a joint.

They bypassed an x-ray knowing with all the swelling they wouldn’t see anything, anyway, and went straight for the MRI.

“Linky’s tore up about it,” I said. “Guy doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body.” The fact we’d been teammates during the Olympics, made him feel even worse.

“We’ll get you back on that ice,” my dad stated. “Come hell or high water.”

I laughed. “Stop being so dramatic. I’m here to finish rehab and find my groove as a coach. I’m not here because everyone lost faith in me. Besides, I’ve made my peace with having to retire early. Sometimes shit happens.”

A knock came at the door before it squeaked open and the booming voice of one of my oldest and best friends—second to Pope—called out, “Has the pro superstar made it back to us paupers?” Wes.

I couldn’t tell you how I ended up on the guy’s radar, only he’d been friends with Pope when we were kids, which meant I’d automatically been included.

Situation hadn’t changed even when Pope and I fell out.

“In here, asshole,” I said, raising my voice, causing Sir Duke Ellington’s ears to perk up.

I appreciated Wes being my friend, especially after everything with Pope. Particularly when I hadn’t told a soul what happened between us. There were a few times in high school Wes had stepped in to protect me, even though I’d learned by then how to handle those types of situations on my own.

He was like a big brother to me.

Then, when I spent more time on the road than home, Wes had taken to checking in on my parents.

More so after dad’s battle with cancer. They might be healthy and spry for their ages, now , but having someone here I could count on when I couldn’t be, allowed me to focus on the game and my job for the team.

I’d never be able to repay Wes for everything he’d done for us.

“It’s about time you got here,” Wes grumbled, sitting beside me on the couch. “I was wondering if the sports gurus got it wrong.”

“Traffic,” I replied. “Made it out of the arena after the presser, before lingering journalists could hound me. Then got stuck in the tourist bullshit and game day bottlenecking.” Sunday football games in Nashville were the worst not to mention the jam at the Gaylord Center where the Thunderbirds played.

At some point the game on the television had finished and the analysts were talking about the pivotal plays, saved goals, and if not having my presence on the ice had hindered the team. Dad turned off the TV and engaged in the conversation with us before excusing himself.

“You know,” Wes murmured, glancing at my father’s retreating back, “he hasn’t lost a step.”

Between my mother and him, they’d learned how to care for his colostomy bag and his stoma, along with using his feeding tube on the days he didn’t quite feel right.

Which, thankfully, were few and far between.

They also had a nurse hotline they could use if anything ever happened and either of them needed assistance.

“Neither of them have.” I grabbed my hot chocolate now cold and took a sip. Didn’t matter what the temperature was, it still hit the spot. “Hadn’t realized how much I missed being here until I sat down on the couch.”

Wes chuckled. “Still lumpy and too damn soft for my liking.”

“But it’s how I know I’m home.” I shrugged. “So, what brought you out this way? July doing okay?”

He smirked, relaxing back into the couch. “She’s great. I’m sure she’ll want to see you when you get a chance.”

“On my list of things to do,” I replied. “After I check in with the team.”

“Also, I’m here because there’s a party next Friday. You’re going to be there.” He smacked me in the chest with the back of his hand hard enough to make me grunt. “Won’t take no for an answer, either.”

Didn’t think he would. That was the thing about the Mayson clan. Once you were invited into their family or to be part of their friends’ group, you were always a member and being so meant accepting invites to every event, big or small. “Wasn’t going to say no.”

“Good.” He ran his hands down his denim covered thighs. “July and the women will be happy to know you’ll be there.”

I mentally grimaced.

The women were the wives and girlfriends of the Broken Eagles MC .

They were a handful on a good day, downright naughty on their best days.

Over the years, new ladies joined those already part of the group.

Since I’d hardly been home, I suspected their ranks had doubled.

Knowing they’d be at the get together had me a little afraid of what they might be planning. “Sounds like a good time.”

“That’s what I like to hear. I’ll text you the info later. For now, I need to go. I have some stuff to get done.” Wes held out his fist, and I bumped it with mine. “See you soon.”

I nodded. “You bet.”

“Don’t stay away so long next time,” Wes said, starting for the door. “We miss you. All of us.”

I stared at him, not sure what to say or if I should say anything at all. “O-kay?—”

“I know you’re not leaving this house without giving me a hug,” Mom chided, coming out of the kitchen. “Your momma raised you better.”

Wes smirked. “Yes, ma’am, she did.” He opened his arms to my mom and hugged her tight. “I shouldn’t hug you like this, my momma will get jealous and so will July.”

Mom giggled like a schoolgirl with her first crush then playfully batted him away with her dishtowel. “Come to the kitchen, I have plates for you.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Wes said, following her out of the room.

Her conversation with Wes trailed off as they stepped around the corner back into the kitchen. My phone rang a second later, and I glanced at the screen. I wondered how long it would take before Lily-Mae called me. She’d held out longer than I expected. “Hey stranger. Been awhile.” I grinned.

“I have news for you,” she said, greeting me. Excitement lit her voice, and I imagined she was bouncing from foot to foot, like she always had whenever anything good happened.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I asked, grabbing the remote off the coffee table where my father left it.

“I’m pregnant,” she squealed.

Happiness bloomed within me. I’d been present for the births of all her children, along with being the godfather to them as well. “Congratulations! When is the baby due?”

“In June,” she said, and I frowned.

“Are you only finding out now?”