“What the fuck were youbusydoing for the last year?”
“Besides the three surgeries, the constant physical therapy, and being in a shit ton of pain the whole time?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean back in the booth. His gaze focuses on the raised scar across the back of my left hand. It’s not as swollen as it once was, but the surgeon told me it’s unlikely it will ever fully fade. “Not much.”
Just wallowing in my own self-pity for the first half of the year, and clawing my way out of it in the second half. The only things that got me through it were needing to be there for Liam when tragedy struck his family, and knowing that returning to the Rebels was what lay on the other side.
“You couldn’t have returned a single one of my texts?”
“I wasn’t in a good headspace,” I say, and he tilts his chin as his eyes narrow in on me.
“Are younow?”
Is that concern I hear in his voice? “I’m good.”
“What changed?”
I don’t really want to get into it, so I say, “I got cleared to play for the season.”
McCabe doesn’t look like he wants to let that go. “Are you sure you’re good now? Because if you’re not, there are options?—”
“I’m fine,” I say as Sandy slides a turquoise can of beer in front of me. It’s from a microbrewery on the South Shore, and I’m pretty sure I still have a six-pack of them in my fridge at the beach. Then she sets McCabe’s margarita in front of him. It’s in a rocks glass, with half a jalapeño and a slice of lime wedged into the ice.What the fuck kind of drink is that?
“Thanks,” McCabe says as she turns to leave.
“So, there were things you wanted to tell me about the team?” I ask as he takes a sip of his drink.
Setting it down, he looks back at me and says, “Yeah. There have been a lot of changes, and a lot of talk about where you might fit into it all now that you’re coming back. I’m not going to sugar coat it...”
I swallow and nod that he should continue. I’m not used to getting a talking-to by my team captain, nor am I used to McCabe taking on this role. For the past few years before I was injured, he was kind of resentful of being captain. It was always our goalie and unofficial captain, Colt, who’d sit you down and have “the conversation.”
“. . . you’re kind of an asshole, and that’s not the vibe of the team.”
“Wow.” I don’t say anything else just to see what he says next.
“Some of the new guys—Jenkins, Reid, and Hartmann, specifically—have brought a different energy to the team. Wilcott’s done a great job building camaraderie among the players,” he says, and that sounds exactly like something our coach would focus on. He’s the fatherly type, the kind you want to play well for because you don’t want to disappoint him. “AJ’s focused on another Stanley Cup?—”
I cough out a laugh and say, “Among other things.”
It’s the kind of thing that would have made McCabe laugh a year ago, as much as he is actually capable of laughing.
“Not fucking funny, man.” The words are tense, his tone harsh, and I know I just crossed a line I shouldn’t have. “She and I have our personal and professional boundaries firmly in place. But if you so much as say one disrespectful thing about her, I will absolutely go apeshit on your ass. As your captain, of course.”
“I have nothing disrespectful to say about her.” I hold my hands up so he’ll calm the fuck down.
In fact, AJ is the only one in the entire Rebels organization who I felt actually cared that I was gone. She checked in with me regularly, sent me take-out gift cards when I had each surgery, had our team doctor, Olivia D’Angelis, make a house call to check on me once I was done with my final round of PT, then made sure I came in and got cleared by the athletic trainers and Dr. D once my surgeon cleared me to play.
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Tell me about the new guys,” I say, hoping to glean a bit more about what I’m walking into at training camp. I’m really looking forward to getting back on the ice with my team. I just have to get through my stepdad’s wedding in Bermuda first.
“I mean, you know who they all are. Drew Jenkins replaced Piatza when he retired, and has settled into being the Center on our first line.” There were rumors of Jenkins “replacing” me as the team’s unofficial enforcer when I went onto injured reserve, but he’s hardly spent any time in the penalty box this season, unlike when he played for Colorado.
“Zach Reid is the chillest guy in the world,” McCabe continues, referencing a new defender who was traded from Philadelphia. “He alternates between the first and second line defense, depending on where Wilcott needs him. And Luke Hartmann...” He pauses, letting out a gruff laugh. “He’s still a bit green?—”
“Yeah, I watched Game 7.” Like the rest of the world, I saw him choke when Colt got injured in the third period. The whole team played like shit that period, but there’s no question that it was Hartmann who lost us the Cup, which is all kinds of awkward since his family owns the team.
“We’re over that and focused onthisseason,” McCabe says, the warning tone in his voice telling me that this isn’t something to bring up, especially with Hartmann. “Anyway, Hartmann’sactually a really great player and an even better teammate, once you get used to the whole golden retriever shtick.”
“Golden retriever?”
