Chapter One
Tanner
Then
I knewwhat the doctor was going to say before he even came into the room, but that didn’t do a damn thing to lessen the nerves twisting my insides into knots as the door to my exam room swung open and Dr. Pendry walked inside.
“Okay, let’s just see what’s going on here,” he muttered as he stuck the X-ray film up on the viewer. I looked down at my lap as I struggled to swallow the lump the size of an avocado pit that had suddenly formed in my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to look at that fucking film. I already knew what was on it. The image might as well have spelled out the wordsYour Season Is Overin neon.
“Ah. Just as I suspected. You’ve suffered an athletic pubalgia.”
A goddamn sports hernia.Fuck my life.
As the doctor prattled on, saying words like “rehabilitation” and “physical therapy”, all I could think about was how my future in the NHL was up in the air. I didn’t know what would happen come next season, and I’d just ended this one on a hell of a low note.
As far as injuries went, this was far from the worst. Certainly not a career ender. Hell, I was lucky enough I didn’t even need surgery. But seeing as it was coming on February, I was out for what remained of the regular season. Which added insult to the injury since my team, the Rebels, hadn’t made it into the playoffs this season.
I sure as shit hadn’t helped our chances, given that I’d been playing injured for longer than I should have. Unfortunately, I’d let my pride get in the way of my physical health and look where that had gotten me.
I’d just celebrated my thirty-seventh birthday a few months back, and I sure as hell had been feeling my age and everything I’d put my body through lately. The awful truth—the truth I had refused to see until now—was that I wasn’t sure I had another season in me.
There wasn’t a day I didn’t wake up in pain. I did everything in my power to take care of myself—I ate right, I exercised—but hockey was hard as hell on a person’s body. Most guys retired before they got to be as old as I was. But I’d spent the last few years pushing myself even harder than I had when I was a rookie, for Christ’s sake. All to show that I could still hold my own with the new kids that came in every season.
And now I was paying for it.
My head was in such a fog that I barely remembered the rest of my appointment. I moved on autopilot as the doctor prattled on about anti-inflammatory meds and instructions on compression and wrapping the injury.
I stepped out of the building and into the frigid cold. Despite the temperature, the streets and sidewalks of D.C. were just as busy as always.
I caught recognition in the eyes of a couple people as I passed. It was damn near impossible not to be recognized in the city when I’d played for their team for so many years and even won them two Stanley Cups. Usually, I appreciated my fans—at least the ones who weren’t assholes any time we lost—but I wasn’t in the mood today. I didn’t feel like stopping for selfies or to sign whatever they had on hand, so I kept my gaze down and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up in a pathetic attempt to hide my identity.
D.C. had been home to me for years. I loved the city, but with the news I just received, I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I needed to get the hell out of here. Go somewhere where people didn’t know who I was—or at the very least, didn’t give a damn.
I hunched my shoulders, trying to burrow deeper into my hoodie and coat as I moved down the sidewalk toward my condo, pushing the pain in my abdomen to the back of my mind. I’d learned a long time ago to compartmentalize. When I was younger, I’d played through injuries worse than this. That was probably why I could no longer bounce back the way I used to.
My cell buzzed continuously in my pocket, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull it out. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment.
The doorman of my building greeted me with a nod that I returned as I beelined straight for the elevators. There was an unopened bottle of expensive-as-shit Scotch upstairs that was calling my name. It was supposed to have been for after—once the season had ended. I didn’t drink during the season. I needed a clear head at all times if I was going to give my job a hundred percent. But it had become a tradition to crack open a bottleof fine Scotch once it was over to celebrate some much-needed time off.
However, just then, I felt more like drowning my sorrows. There wasn’t much to celebrate with today’s news.
“Christ, it’s about time you got back. We’ve been waiting for-fuckin’-ever.”
I rolled my eyes at the sound of the intrusive voice and tossed my keys in the bowl I kept on the table just inside the front door.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize I have company I needed to hurry for.”
I rounded the corner into the large open living space. Sure enough, the assholes I called friends and teammates were hanging out like they owned the place.
The Rebel’s left winger, Caleb McClusky, was lounging on my sofa, his feet kicked up on the coffee table as he flipped through one of the many paperbacks littered around my apartment. Our starting center, Mateo Lee was rummaging through my fridge, making himself a huge ass sandwich with what looked like everything I had. Then there was Luke Christof, our center and team captain, sitting at the island. My stack of mail and catalogues I hadn’t gone through yet was by his elbow, and it looked like he’d been flipping through it. Not surprising, given how intrusive these fuckers could be when they wanted to.
I was close to all the guys on our team. You had to be in order to do what we did. A team didn’t flow right if there was discourse in its ranks. But these three guys were more than just teammates. Hell, they were more than friends. They were my family, and out of all of them, I’d known Luke the longest. I’d been in the league longer than he had, but we’d both joined the Rebels around the same time. I’d stood up as his best man at his wedding, and had been one of the first people to meet their first daughter when she’d been born two years ago.
I headed in the direction of the kitchen, knocking McClusky’s feet off my coffee table as I passed. “What are you assholes doinghere?” I asked as I snatched the envelope from Luke’s fingers and stuffed it and the rest of my unopened mail, into a drawer where he couldn’t get at it.Nosy bastard. “Shouldn’t you be resting up for tonight’s game?”
Lee looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “The hell you mean, what are we doing here?”
“Why do you think we’re here?” McClusky asked in offense. “We’re here to make sure you’re okay.”
