The Hawks’ ortho had told him it wasn’t healing as well as it should be. Maybe, in his eagerness to get back out on the ice, he’d gone overboard with his training. Surely an extra thirty minutes with a few wrist flexions and extensions shouldn’t have been so catastrophic. Yet here he was, with the possibility he might not be back at all.
The org had been previously supportive but were waiting for the injury update before they entered into contract negotiations. Now? He was damn sure his current overlords were going to dump him. After all he’d done for them, the team was willing to give him up with the flick of a wrist—or wrist fracture.
The numbers for wrist injuries aren’t good, Bast. Statistically it makes more sense to give you up and get the better draft pick.
Asshole management, always looking for the new and shiny.
He re-focused on the screen again. Right now his boys were on the wrong end of two and zip, and they still thought they could do without him. Sure, he might be useless this minute, but it wouldn’t always be this way. He’d be back to form soon.
If he said it enough times, it might come true.
A few minutes into his visit, he was still riding under the radar. He rarely went this long without a fan coming up to ask him about the Hawks’ Cup win four years ago or his goal-scoring streak from a couple of seasons back. Lately those queries had gone by the wayside, only to be replaced by more bothersome ones like: How’s the wrist, man?
Well, I thought it was better, but maybe I was trying to convince myself that I’m not a washed-up loser after all.
His phone buzzed with a text from Reid.
Twenty minutes out.
He shot back a quick response.
Bast
If you need extra time to kiss your girl goodbye …
Reid
She’s trying to kick me out the door. Won’t be long.
Before he could react to that, another text came in, this time from his agent, Kit Mallinson.
Got a second?
He’d been waiting for this. Dialing Kit, he headed outside to get some privacy. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Just had a chat with Fitz over at the Rebels. He’d like to talk to you, sooner than later.”
Fitz, as in Hale Fitzpatrick, the Rebels’ newer GM. He’d been sniffing around for a while but Bast had been putting him off, not ready to make a move. Now all that had changed.
“But my contract isn’t up until July.”
“And you know in your heart they won’t renew. You’re essentially a free agent in all but name, and if you want to stay in Chicago—which I know is important to you—then having the Rebels in your back pocket would be the way to go.”
Kit had said Bast might have other offers, but he hadn’t sounded all that hopeful. Wrist injuries, man. So tricky.
“Does he know about the likelihood of surgery?”
“Yeah. Didn’t faze him, but the Rebels are gamblers. Always have been. This would be either the most forward-thinking move of the modern hockey era or a huge mistake they’ll never recover from.”
Let it be the former because his agent was right about one thing: Bast loved Chicago and wanted to stay here. The on-ice clash with his brother might have broken his wrist, but it started them on the road to fixing their relationship. It had been a childhood dream to play with Reid instead of against him. If his damn wrist would only cooperate, this season they could create magic together on the same team.
“Set up the meet. Can’t hurt to hear what they have to say.”
“Will do.”
Bast hung up and took a moment to let the March chill awaken his senses after the bar’s heat, but really he needed the time to assure himself all was not lost. That he still had something to offer. This was good. Moving forward with his career and not letting the bastards beat him down.
Only this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He should be getting the full support of his current org, not having to make nice with the top brass of a different one. He flexed his wrist, like that could convince him he was in good enough shape for this fight. It felt good, but apparently not good enough for the Hawks. And then because he was feeling unusually masochistic, he checked Marina’s Insta.
A bikini pic, of course, Marina by a pool with Brian Costa, a linebacker with the Packers, her mouth in that sexy pout he knew so well. The hashtags were typical of her usual posts. #PostSeasonRelaxation #Poollife #Balilife #Islandlife #fuckthis
Okay, not the last one. Marina would never. She was incredibly conscious of what it took to be the perfect WAG. The designer duds, the toned body, the carefully curated images. They had dated for a few months off and on last year, took a break and were back together just before his injury. He had hoped she’d see him through that, but by January—only a month after he was decked—she had given up. He was too sad-faced in her pictures, too “real,” completely harshing the vibe she was trying to create. By the time the Superbowl rolled around, she had found another guy who better suited her image.
A winner.
(Okay, not completely, but Costa had graduated to the most popular sporting event in the country, and while the Packers didn’t win, he had remained injury-free. Much more in tune with Marina’s narrative.)
Annoyed with himself, Bast closed the app and snatched another cold influx of air. He was almost tempted not to return to the bar, to tell Reid he’d decided to head home to wallow. Watching a game he couldn’t play, surrounded by the fans who would normally adore him when at his peak, chatting with the man who had caused the injury in the first place, seemed like a special kind of purgatory. A punishment for how easy he’d had it until now. The press liked to compare his road to Reid’s, always pointing out that he hadn’t had to fight to get to his position. Not like the elder Durand who had struggled every step of the way. These days that kind of underdog backstory held more appeal.
Just thinking that put a stopper in Bast’s self-pity outpour. If he went home now because he was #sadface about his ex and not being ready for primetime on the ice, then what did that say about him? Besides Reid deserved every piece of good fortune coming his way. He had worked his ass off to get there and Bast’s injury was an accident. Shit happened.
His thoughts strayed to Cecy, the little girl with cancer. How fair was it that this beautiful soul had to suffer like that? Not fair at all. Yet here he was whining about a delay getting back to the sport he loved more than anything. Because that was all it was: a temporary setback. Life went the fuck on, and Bast needed to remember he was in a blessed position.
Another team wanted to talk to him—how lucky was he to still be in the conversation?
He headed back inside and retook his seat, just in time to see Smithy, the Hawks’ left winger, send a wicked drive that whizzed past the wrong side of the pipes. A collective groan went up in the bar, the crowd operating as one roiling beast in pain.
Except for the woman beside him.
She hadn’t been there before he left to call Kit. He would have noticed this raven-haired beauty, but in his five-minute absence, she had settled in and ordered a Rolling Rock. Not only that, but an empty shot glass sat sentry beside the green bottle.
With sleek, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a stubborn tilt to her chin, and rosy cheeks, she looked like Snow White on a bender.