As it turned out, the ride had been over last season. During a game against the Tucson Roadrunners, I’d taken a hard hit and slammed into the boards skates-first at just the wrong angle. Both my knees had gotten fucked.
The club had done everything possible to help me recuperate. Players had access to all the best medical care available. I’d had surgery and rehab and PT and acupuncture. I’d been injured before and come back from it. I hadn’t expected this one to be any different. I also hadn’t anticipated my recovery taking as long as it had. It was almost four months before I’d been cleared to practice again.
And then, after one particularly grueling physical therapy session, I’d caught the look my trainer and the coach had exchanged. It had not been a good look. I asked straight up what my chances of getting back to full strength were and gotten not very good news. News I’d already known deep inside. I was never going to play pro hockey again.
So, I did the one thing I hated above all else: stone-cold sober, I’d sat in the characterless living room of my latest rental condo and taken a good, hard look at my life. What did I have to show for eight grueling years literally fighting for a chance to prove I was good enough?
Not much.
I had some money in the bank, but not nearly enough to live on for even a couple of years, let alone the rest of my life. I had no spouse, no partner, no kids. Didn’t own any real estate. The only thing I had going for me outside of the ability to hit a rubber puck really hard, was a nine-year-old bachelor’s degree in business communications.
Not exactly where I’d pictured myself at sixteen.
Not where anyone had pictured me. I was supposed to have been in the NHL. I was supposed to be settled by now—rich, successful, happy, and fulfilled.
Now here I was back in my hometown with exactly none of those things.
My mother would have been so disappointed. Maybe it was better she had died while I was at my peak. Star of the high school hockey team. Homecoming king.
My father was disappointed. Oh, he never said it directly, but it was there in every pointed question about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
Ryan, well, I think he was disappointed but he kept hanging around. Case in point, him in my office, rummaging around my closet. Vinny made a face at Ryan’s back, gave me a wink, and left.
“What are you doing here?” I asked after the office door shut.
“Looking for jerseys for you to wear tomorrow.” His voice was muffled by the contents of the closet.
“By ‘tomorrow,’ I assume you mean the tournament?” The MacWilliams Invitational Golf Tournament was the last charity fundraiser of golfing season, and kind of a big deal around these parts. Sponsored by the local Lion’s Club, each team raised money for their own charity. My team, Team Ice Cold, was raising money to support Special Olympics.
“Why do you need a jersey?” I asked.
He turned to me, two sweaters in his hands. “I don’t. You do. For signing autographs, remember?”
Crap. I’d forgotten. I’d promised the organizers I’d do a signing as well as donate some items to the silent auction.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Ryan said matter-of-factly while he closed in on me.
“No, I remembered,” I lied. “Just didn’t think I had to dress up to do it.”
“Of course you do,” he said, holding up the jerseys and looking from one to the other. “This one I think.” He thrust the shirt at me. “Try it on.”
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” I muttered, pulling the stiff fabric over my dress shirt and shifting my shoulders to help the sweater settle.
“You’re doing it to promote the rink,” Ryan answered.
“It’s not even my most recent team.” I plucked the jersey away from my torso, frowning down at the thick Bakersfield Lightning logo.
Not that the Lighting was a bad team, far from it. But it had been two, no three, seasons since I’d played with them. Technically my last team had been the Ontario Reign. I’d played half a season for them before getting injured. They’d finished last in the AHL, just like their parent club, the LA Kings, had in the NHL. I like to think it was because I hadn’t been playing, but truthfully, I’d spent a lot of time in a suit as a healthy scratch watching the guys lose from the press box.
“I know it’s not the most recent team jersey, but you played for them for three seasons. It’s the one most people remember you from,” Ryan said in a tone of tried patience.
I tugged at the jersey, trying to get it to fit the way it used to.
“Everything okay?”
“It’s a little looser in the shoulders than I remember.”
Ryan gave me a little half-smile and squeezed my bicep. “It’s okay, babe. No one expects you to be in the same shape you were while you were playing.”
Ouch. Jesus, Ryan. I mean, sure, I wasn’t at the top of my form anymore, but that was only to be expected after being injured and retiring at the end of last season, but it wasn’t as if I’d developed a beer belly and chicken legs. I still worked out daily and still fit in my clothes. Most normal people weren’t going to keep up the brutal exercise routine and strict diet of a professional athlete. “So, what am I supposed to be doing tomorrow?”
“You just smile and look pretty, babe. Sign some autographs, kiss some babies. Pose for photos. And play nice with Symanski when we’re golfing.”
“Who’s this guy again?” I asked. Ryan had been muttering something about additional investors and opportunities we couldn’t pass up, and I hadn’t pressed for more details.
“He’s an investor,” Ryan said.
“Well, that sounds nice and vague.”
“You’ll like him,” Ryan promised. “He’s got big plans for this place.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, pulling the jersey over my head. “And how much is it going to cost me?”
“Takes money to make money, babe,” he said. “Trust me. This guy is legit. I checked him out.”
Ryan was always looking for the next big break. My unwillingness to go along with his plans was one of the things keeping us from being together. He thought I was boring. I thought he was reckless with money, particularly with my money.
“Let’s go get lunch and I’ll show you what he showed me,” Ryan said.
“I just got here. I have work to do. Besides, I thought you had plans.”
He scowled at the top of my desk and started moving things around. Sliding the stapler to the right, jogging a stack of papers. “They fell through,” he said to the accompaniment of pens clicking against the bottom of the coffee mug I used as a pen holder.
“You got stood up,” I said unkindly. “Not my problem anymore. We’re on a break, remember?”
He stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked at me with a disappointed expression. “I didn’t think that meant we weren’t friends anymore.” He sighed, his shoulders slumped. “I guess if that’s what you need, it’s okay. I get it. I’ll find someone else to take my place tomorrow.” He turned to go.
“Ryan, wait.” I grabbed his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re golfing tomorrow, I never said I didn’t want you there.”