He’s still laughing when I end the call.
My hand tightens around the phone, jaw locked so hard it aches. I shouldn’t let him get to me—not after everything—but he always does. No one cuts deeper, and he knows it. The man has made a sport out of dragging me down. Always has. Always will. And still, some pathetic part of me keeps answering his calls. I don’t even know why. Britt had the good sense to cut him out of her life completely after Mom died. I should have too, but I didn’t. Not until I’ve broken our final tie.
I am going to win the Cup again. And then I’m going to block that miserable son of a bitch’s number and never speak to him for the rest of my life. Or better yet, the rest of his.
I push myself back from my desk and a sharp pain radiates through my left knee. Christ. It’s like it knew we were talking about it. The Achilles injury wasn’t my fault. What I did after was. I never let it heal, learned to compensate, shifted my weight and favoured one side until my knee was carrying whatmy ankle wouldn’t. Now the pain is chronic. Just another consequence of my actions, or lack thereof.
With a wince, I reach for the top drawer and open it with more force than necessary. I find the small white container, remembering before I even pick it up that it’s empty. It was empty when I reached for it yesterday morning as well. I just haven’t had a chance to go back to Cal for a refill.
Because I’ve been busy. I’m a busy man with a big job that pulls me in several different directions. It’s not that I’ve been avoiding the treatment room for the last six weeks for any reason. Such as a bright-eyed new hire with an air of optimism, a heart-shaped ass, and a mouth that never stops moving.
“Knock, knock!”
I look up to find Will Oliver filling the doorframe of my office—quite literally. He’s six foot five and built like a tank, with deep brown skin and close-cropped black hair faded sharp at the sides. His large brown eyes always look like he’s about two seconds from laughing. He wears a dark green tracksuit, running shoes, and his signature mega watt smile.
He’s a good kid, and one of my most popular players on and off the ice.
“Oliver,” I greet him with a nod. “How’s the shoulder?”
If he’s annoyed I went straight for the injury instead of the pleasantries, he doesn’t show it. Not his style. Will’s been rehabbing an AC joint sprain after a nasty hit early last month. The injury wasn’t serious enough to need surgery, but enough to sideline him for a few weeks.
“It feels great,” he says, beaming. He lifts and lowers his left arm like he’s a child that’s just learned close up magic. “See?”
The man’s so giddy it almost makes you forget he’s missed twelve games.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“My mobility’s almost back to normal, and Elliot says it’ll continue to improve.”
I swallow hard against the bitter taste creeping up my throat. “That’s good.”
“She says now that the pain’s gone, we can focus on building my strength again.”
“Great.”
“But the best part is that I just saw Dr. Cabot, and he’s cleared me for practice!”
“I guess you better suit up, kid.”
I may as well have handed him a basket of puppies.
“Thanks, Coach!” He beams, disappearing down the hallway toward the locker room. “I can’t wait to tell Elliot!”
My jaw tightens, the echo of his words stirring up the memory of my first—and only—conversation with our newest team physio.
“Your gait is off.”
I’m well aware, Ms. Baker.
I know the limp is there. I’ve lived with it for more than ten years. And I know everyone else sees it too, even if they never say a word. Out of respect, maybe. Or fear. Possibly both.
No one talks about it. Not my assistant coaches. Not my players. Not even the media. They all pretend it’s not there, like ignoring it will make it disappear. Aside from my asshole of a father, no one ever acknowledges it.
But she did.
She didn’t do it to be cruel. It wasn’t because she was trying to prove a point or make me feel small. She said it because she wanted to help. Because she gave a damn.
And for some reason, her genuine concern pissed me off even more.
