“Fuck!” I roar into the empty space of my apartment. But the echoing sound of that word bouncing off the walls only reinforces the truth.
I’m alone.
Shelley might not have been anything serious, but I at least thought she cared about me as more than just a professional hockey player who could give her access to a certain lifestyle. I had my doubts; I always do. I’m cynical about women, especially in my line of work. I’ve seen too many teammates cheat on their wives, or be cheated on, or get divorced and get taken for everything they have. When you’re in the limelight like we are, you tend to attract a certain type of woman. I’m not saying every woman out there is like that, but the ones I’ve experienced only wanted me for two things. Well, maybe three.
My fame. My money. And my dick.
“Fuck them. Fuck all of them,” I mutter to myself as I pour another generous shot of whiskey. Fuck my teammates, coaches, trainers, doctors, friends, girlfriends — fuck them all. Fuck them for living the life I should be living. Fuck them for turning their backs on me when I need them most. Fuck them for having everything I’ve ever wanted, while I’m left empty-handed.
I drain the second glass. Probably too fast, but I don’t give a shit right now. Where I used to welcome the pain as a reminder that it could have been worse, now I want oblivion.
I want to forget that the last few weeks ever happened. I want to forget that my life is over. That there’s nothing for me but the slimmest thread of hope that I might skate again. A thread that’s so tiny, right now it’s invisible and might as well be nonexistent.
My thoughts start to feel fuzzy, courtesy of my friend Jameson. Before I let everything go, I manage to type out an email to my agent, telling him to book me a flight to Vancouver and a seaplane over to the island.
I’m going home.
Chapter two
Jude
My eyes slowly blink open, focusing on the plain beige wall to the side of the unfamiliar bed I’m lying on, taking in the early morning light trickling through the blinds. Beyond those blinds is my hometown, Dogwood Cove. At least here, I don’t have to contend with the looks of pity from the team or even from random strangers who recognize me on the street. Of course, the trade off is that eventually, I have to deal with my well-meaning but overbearing family.
Lying on my back, I stare up at the ceiling fan spinning around in a circle. Ceiling fans have it easy. Nothing is expected of them except to keep turning and move the air.
And now I’m thinking of ceiling fans as animate objects. Great.
My phone starts to vibrate, and I reach my arm out to silence it, cringing when I get a whiff of myself. I’m a disgusting mess. I know there’s a lot of fucking messages on there. But I need coffee, and probably a shower, before I read them. Most of them came in last night, and I ignored them, setting theDo Not Disturbfunction. I’m betting most of them are from Kasey, my best friend from the Blaze. He’s been worried about me, especially after Shelley’s dramatic exit. His wife Daphne was the one who took over driving me places, bringing me food, and not letting me wallow in my lonely apartment for the few days before I left to come here. I owe the two of them more than I can say, their friendship kept me sane ever since my injury happened.
Throwing back the covers, I push myself up to sit on the side of the bed, gingerly lowering my leg. The rush of blood flow makes my head spin with the pain. When I can finally blink my eyes open, they immediately go to the small bottle of painkillers sitting on the bedside table. It would probably be wise to take them before my first physical therapy appointment today.
But fuck that. I don’t need them.
I grab my crutches, lever myself up, and make my way into the tiny bathroom. This apartment is a far cry from my place in Montana, which is all sleek lines, chrome fixtures, and screams of money. Not that I necessarily like that style, but it’s expected. The building is one that several players live in, and it was just easy to settle there. This place is smaller, with nature photos that were clearly shot in the surrounding area adorning the walls, and comfortable-looking furniture. Ethan, the town mayor, and my current landlord, let me know he tried to set up the apartment to be easy on me, removing loose rugs and installing the grab bar and bench seat in the shower that Doc informed him I’d need. There’s even an elevator, even though the building is only three stories.
Leaving my crutches leaning against the sink, I slowly spin on one foot and carefully hop over to the shower bench. By the time I get my boxers down to my ankles and sit down, I’m breathing heavily. It’s embarrassing, honestly, and I’m glad no one is here to witness this shit. It’s shocking how much harder everything is when you’ve only got one working leg.
A shower might wash away the sweat and travel grime; it might even clear my head from the whiskey. But it can’t wash away my reality. Which is what faces me when I eventually turn the water off and look for a towel, only to realize the towel rack is on the other side of the room.
“Fuck.”
I manage to get out of the shower using the bench and pull myself up to stand. It’s a precarious stretch to reach the towels, but I don’t want to try hopping while I’m wet. Even I’m not that much of an idiot; wet feet hopping on a tile floor is a recipe for disaster. Once I’m toweled off, I crutch back into the bedroom completely naked and flop back down on the bed, exhausted.
There’s a heaviness that won’t leave me alone. I feel as if I’m dragging around a hundred-pound weight on my injured leg all the goddamn time.
I hate that something as simple as taking a shower takes everything out of me.
I hate that I can’t sleep without reliving the moments and days after my injury.
I hate that I don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone.
I hate that I have no idea what to do with myself.
I hate that my future has been stolen from me.
A pounding on my door breaks my self-pity spiral. At first, I think it must be Ethan, but then the pounding starts again, and I realize it’s way too obnoxious for him. Which means only one thing.
My brothers are here.
