Wake of Second Chances

1

What Doesn’t Kill You…

Max

“I mean, at some point, something’s gotta give, right?” Zayne looks at me, his light hazel eyes so round and hopeful, I hate having to disagree and burst his bubble.

“Sorry, Zee. Check the bookings,” I say, pointing to the computer screen. “We’re in August and we barely have any reservations.”

He lets out a heavy sigh that touches me deep in my heart.

“I’m not sure how much more we can handle,” I admit. “Honestly, if you weren’t going back to school full-time in September, I might have to fire you.”

He’s too quiet.

I look over my shoulder, meeting his gaze. “Relax, Zee. I’m kidding. Things aren’t that bad.”

“Not funny,” he replies, his deep voice low.

Zayne’s my best friend, and I hate lying to him.

He’s built his life around this inn nearly as much as I have.

His mother, Carina, is the cook, so he practically grew up here, which is why he’s the perfect fit during the summer.

But anything more than the twenty-hour weeks he does now, and I’d likely have to cut him loose.

Or cut my salary even more than I already have. And with the recent addition of Celia as our bookkeeper, things are tight. Tighter than I’d like. Too tight for a struggling old hotel like the Adams Inn.

“Maybe Celia’s right,” Zayne says.

“About?”

“Asking your brother for help—”

“Nope,” I say, emphasizing the p. “Like I’ve told you and Celia, that’s not happening.”

“But Max, we need to do something. We can’t—”

The phone rings, interrupting him.

“Ah, saved by the bell.” I wink at him, lifting the receiver to my ear. “Front desk,” I answer.

“Maxine, I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“No apologies needed, Mabel. What seems to be the problem?”

Mrs. Mabel Gardner is our one and only recurring guest at the inn.

Over the last five years, for one weekend each month, sometimes even longer, she stays in the room that her late husband Neville and she spent their honeymoon in way back in 1962.

She keeps up the tradition to preserve the memories of Neville in her aging mind, which is possibly one of the saddest, yet loveliest things I’ve ever heard.

“Well, you see,” she begins, clearly uncomfortable. “The toilet’s clogged again.”

Of course, it is. I squeeze my eyes together. “I’ll be right up.”

I hang up the phone and glance at Zayne.

“Toilet acting up?” he asks, reading my mind perfectly. I nod, then offer him my best puppy-dog eyes. “No way. I did it last time,” he contests.

“Ugh. Rock, paper, scissors, then?” I fist one hand over the other.

Annoyed, Zayne stares blankly at me before giving in and doing the same with his hands. We shoot, but I lose two out of three.

“Dammit.” I shove my chair back, grab the toilet snake and plunger from the supply cabinet in the back office, then head upstairs to Mabel’s room, finding her waiting at the door, a kind smile on her wrinkled face.

“I’m so sorry to bother you again about this, Maxine.”

I wave a hand through the air. “Nonsense. Don’t worry about it. If anything, I should apologize to you. That toilet is due for a change.”

So is everything in this rundown house.

She nods politely, letting me inside.

“I know you’re attached to this room, Mabel,” I begin. “But are you sure I can’t offer you another one so you don’t have to deal with faulty plumbing?”

“No, thank you, my dear. This is our room. I wouldn’t dream of switching.”

“But I could let you have the honeymoon suite,” I offer, wiggling my eyebrows. “It has a Jacuzzi.” That leaks, I think, but it’s not like she’ll actually use it.

“That sounds lovely, but I’m fine here. Clogged toilets and all.” She affectionately rubs my arm, then sits on the small loveseat while I head into the bathroom and begin clearing the drain.

After about ten minutes of wrangling with the snake, I loosen the clog and clean up.

“Good to go,” I say, stepping out, but find Mabel asleep on the couch, her delicate hands tucked beneath her papery cheek. She looks at peace, smiling, reminding me of my late grandmother.

As quietly as I can, I cover her with a blanket, then leave the room, closing the door behind me.

After putting the tools away, I shove Zayne’s feet off my chair and sit back behind the desk. “We need to find a plumber and change the toilets. I’m sick of doing this.”

“Cha-ching!” Zayne jokes, but he’s right. What money could I even use to pay for all the repairs needed here? We’d need a windfall. Some random gift from above.

“Isn’t the Powerball jackpot up to a billion dollars tonight?” I ask.

Zayne taps a pocket of his dark jeans. “Yes ma’am. Got the winning ticket right here, baby.”

I check the time. “I’m going to the store.”

“But we need to set up for class.”

Right. Our weekly paint night with the local retirees.

“You set up. I’ll be back in ten. Need anything?”

“Can you pick me up something sweet? With peanut butter?”

“You and your peanut butter,” I kid with a laugh, then grab my purse and head out.

Outside, the air is still and muggy, but a pleasant, cool ocean breeze drifts up from a block away and hits my skin. I stop in my steps and take a huge inhale, letting it fill my lungs and ease some of the panic rising in my chest.

Zayne’s right, we’re running out of options. Celia’s suggestion to let my brother Hunter help might not be as bad as I thought. But asking him for help would mean that Spencer and Mitch would find out, too, and that creates a searing pain deep down in my stomach.

The inn might be close to hitting rock bottom and shutting down, but I refuse to ask for help. If I have to sell my blood or organs, I won’t let this fail. I can do this myself. I’ll do anything to make the Adams Inn a success again and to bring in more than just elderly people with broken hearts.

Mitch

If it’s not the name, it’s the face.

It’s the deep-set green eyes, the serious brow. The brown hair that sits on top of my head in a messy mop. It’s the straight edge to my nose, the slight bump near the top from the time Malenkov broke it in the playoffs. Fucking prick.

I think I’m an okay-looking guy. A little broody and imposing at two hundred-twenty pounds, six-foot-one—six-three on skates—which helps with the appeal and with keeping opposing players in their place.

People recognize me because of who I am, and in the rare instance they don’t, then they’re usually attracted to how I make them feel.

Scared with a side of excitement. I’m not really a bad guy, but I’ve learned to lean into my strengths.

And my intimidating presence is definitely one of them.

It brings people in as much as it terrifies the shit out of some.

Take this perky flight attendant who keeps asking if I need more whiskey. She’s already served me a scotch, which is plenty on this one-hour flight from New York, but she hovers at my side anyway.

“Sir, are you sure you’re all right?” she asks with a charming smile.

Am I all right? I am fucking fantastic.

“Never better,” I reply with a smooth smile and keep my eyes on her curvy ass as she walks down the aisle.

When I sit back, a twinge flares in my hip and I hiss.

This shitty injury that refuses to heal properly is why I’m being shuffled around the NHL.

I’m also heading back to the hometown I’ve avoided for thirteen years to see my dad who’s dying of cancer.

And to top it all off, I’m opening a brewery with my best friends, one of whom is the brother of a woman I promised myself I’d never see again.

So, am I all right with jumping waist-deep into a pile of soul-disturbing issues the minute this plane lands? Yeah, sure, I can’t fucking wait.

I get another email from Phil, my agent—Adams, believe me. You’ll get something.

Adams.

Mitch, to my close friends and family.

Bam-Bam Adams to the rest of the world. An unfortunate nickname the press gave me years ago when I got my reputation for being a scrapper. But they have it all wrong. I’m not the tough asshole they see on TV, or the guy who picks fights and starts shit just to get a penalty.

I’m not Bam-Bam. I’m a good guy who needs to defend and help the people closest to me—my teammates. Or at least the ones who considered me their friend before I started losing games. Back when I was a twenty-year-old rookie and star player.

Now I’m nothing but dead weight. I continue to lie about the pain in my hip, denying how it makes playing damn near impossible.

But I refuse to tell the league. This secret is the difference between a new deal or forced, early retirement.

And despite Phil’s indestructible faith in my abilities, the league won’t offer me shit once they find out I’m not healing right.

So, when Phil says I’ll ‘get something,’ I’ll be lucky to get a fruit basket.

I’m an injured thoroughbred being put out to pasture. Or worse—sent to the glue factory.

At this point, if they offered me a job driving the Zamboni, I might consider it. The ice is my home and where I belong. Where I want to be. Way more than Oakwhite Bay, that’s for sure. I don’t see myself quitting hockey for any reason.

The plane makes its descent into Hallstead, and I see the airport out my window. It’s nothing more than a tiny airstrip a few miles inland from the Atlantic coast.

I run a hand down my face, scratching my chin through my bushy beard, wondering what the hell I’m going to say when I get to my parents’ place?

Will everything be the same, or will it be completely transformed and unrecognizable?

More importantly, who will I bump into once I get to the small coastal town?

Panic creeps in, crushing my chest, but I remember that I’ll be seeing Hunter and Spencer soon.

I’ll get to visit our new brewery in person and hug the guys and hang out.

The thought of that alone replaces my anxiety with joy.

Thinking about my brothers from other mothers is about the only thing that makes me happy these days.

Getting to spend a few weeks with them will surely clear my head, and hopefully my soul, too.

But then there’s Maxine Nolan, Hunter’s baby sister, and I’m unquestionably not ready to see her again. She was a huge part of my life once, but she’s also a major reason I left and never looked back.

Mom tells me she’s taken on a more managerial role at the inn since Dad got sick, but that doesn’t explain why she didn’t leave years ago.

Who does she think she is sticking around, helping my parents out, when she played a part in breaking them up?

Instead of sticking around after high school, I wish she’d taken off.

Gone to college. Disappeared from their lives.

Sort of like I did.

Frowning, I drop my head. I can’t be mad at her for staying and handling what was my responsibility. I can’t be mad, but I can sure as hell resent her for swooping in and doing what I undoubtedly should have done. How dare she make me look bad after what she did?

Whatever happens during this trip, I need to remind myself why I left in the first place. What broke us apart. Why I couldn’t take care of it all.

And I’m definitely not the one who needs to make the first move.

Still, even after thirteen years, I can picture her so vividly in my mind, as if she’s sitting beside me. And exactly like back then, conjuring her image makes my blood pump harder and my hands sweaty.

Put me in shoot-outs, one slap-shot away from winning the series, and I’m perfectly calm.

Put me in a breakaway with crazy-boy Malenkov on my tail and vengeance in his eyes, and I’ll laugh it off.

But put me in the same town as Maxine, and every kind of unspeakable emotion and anxiety tears me down.

I shake my head as the wheels touch the ground. The plane bumps down the runway, sending sharp jolts of pain to my hip.

Maxine used to motivate me to go to school every day instead of cutting class. She was the reason I smiled and dared to laugh. And I’ve always hated my laugh. It’s too loud and gruff. But she’s also linked to the terrible memories. To the heartache. To the mess that shoved me away from Oakwhite.

Our last summer together should have been one of the best of my life.

Instead, Maxine turned it into a clusterfuck of drama and turmoil.

She’s the catalyst that changed me from an uncertain, doubtful boy to a driven, but bitter-hearted man.

She represents everything I hate about quiet small towns, the sea, and tiny, freckled redheads.