1. Hayden
Chapter 1
Hayden
Having a best friend is a hindrance to a person’s sanity. Someone really should have warned me about this. Preferably at age five, before a too-big, clumsy white boy sat down at my table with a Superman lunch box, declared that I looked interesting—“I’ve never seen a brown person in real life before, how the heck did you get your skin like that?”—and decided for the both of us that we’d be friends.
As a kid who had been told all my life to be on my best behavior anytime I’m out of the house, I gave the white boy my best smile and said, “I was born like this, and yeah, sure, we can be friends.”
“Did your mom eat a bunch of brown paint when you were in her belly?” he had asked.
I shrugged. “No idea. Did your mom eat white paint?”
“Gee, I hope not. I mean, who would pick white? That’s so boring. Brown is at least a color . But why not blue? That’s my favorite color. Have you ever seen a blue person?”
“No.” I fiddled with my sandwich. “I think purple would be cooler. I like purple.”
“Purple is cool too.” He grinned then, eyes lighting up with an idea. “When we have kids, we’ll drink blue and purple paint. I’m Ian, by the way.”
And because I was five and stupid, I had shrugged, convinced this would be a great plan. “Okay. I’m Hayden.”
Turns out, drinking paint isn’t how your skin gets colored. I was worried the next day when I explained this to Ian, relaying the information I got from my parents. What if he didn’t find me interesting anymore? What if he doesn’t like my skin after I explain? I didn’t understand why, but Dad warned me sometimes white folks don’t like us because of our skin. He told me that I can’t ever let them make me feel small or lesser than them. That if that boy didn’t want to be friends with me because of that, then I shouldn’t want to be friends with him either.
But that was my first friend—my only friend, no one else had said a word to me all day the day before—and I really didn’t want to lose him. I was so relieved when he just shrugged the whole thing off, said my skin was still cooler than his, and asked if I wanted to go to the slide.
Now, as I stand in front of the hockey arena, I find a tiny part of myself wishing that boy hadn’t been quite so welcoming. Maybe then I’d be back in New Orleans, enjoying the heat and the good food and a job I loved, instead of here in way-too-far-north Michigan just before winter to work a job I once vowed I’d never do.
With a slightly dramatic sigh, I tighten my grip on the shoulder strap of my leather messenger bag and head inside.
The familiar earthy-rubber-chemical-sweat scent of the arena brings me back to high school for a moment. An ache develops in my chest as I think of Ian’s mom pressed up against me on one side with my mom on the other, the three of us freezing our asses off as we cheered our lungs out for him. It’s been far too long since I’ve visited Ian’s mom—it’s her fault more than anything, the little world-traveler that she’s become, but still. I make a mental note to ask Ian when she’ll come to visit next. Seeing her would be the only highlight of this move.
I follow the rhythmic sound of skates on ice until I reach the boards closest to the only man on the ice not wearing gear. I lean against them and smirk as I listen to him bark orders. Would all of these men respect him if they knew he went through a phase in middle school where he was adamant that Britney Spears was God’s gift to Earth? Or that in high school he was dumb enough to try snorting sugar sticks, only to end up in the damn hospital and grounded for a month?
“Switch!” Ian barks, blowing his whistle after.
I follow it up with a whistle of my own, smirking when he whips around to look at who would dare whistle at him. His shoulders relax when he spots me, his face splitting into a shit-eating grin. And of course it does—the bastard convinced me to do something I didn’t want to do, and he always grins like that when he wins a battle.
It takes all of my professionalism not to flip him off. Instead, I give him a two-finger wave.
He flips me off.
Typical .
“Why don’t you put some skates on and get out here?” he calls, drawing most of his players’ attention. The sound of skates slows as they turn to look at me.
I roll my eyes, refusing to let my face burn beneath all the staring. I’m no longer a skinny, inexperienced queer boy trying not to melt around all the hot jocks my best friend hangs out with. In fact, now I put jocks like them on their knees, and I’m never the one blushing. “You couldn’t pay me enough for that.”
He laughs. Which is fair, considering I had said that exact same thing when he first told me he needed an athletic trainer last minute and begged me to come work for him. Unlike then, I’m not giving in now. The one and only time I put skates on ended with a broken arm, a bruised ass, and a personal vow to never, ever do it again.
Ian turns back to his players. “This is our new athletic trainer, Hayden Wallace. He’s doing us an enormous favor by coming last minute, dropping everything to be here before our first game of the season. You’ll all treat him like the savior he is, you hear?”
“Yes, Coach!” they chime.
“Jules, finish off this drill and run cool down.”
A particularly large player—which is saying a lot in this crowd—skates forward just enough to stand out. “Yes, sir.”
I barely contain my snort. Ian gives me a look like he’s aware of this, hurrying off the ice and shucking his skates.
“It’s so cute how authoritative you are here. It’s like they actually respect you,” I tease, keeping my voice low. “Do they know you’re deathly afraid of spiders?”
“Fuck off.” He snags an arm around the back of my neck and yanks me forward, his other arm coming around my back to tighten the hug. We laugh together as we soak in the familiar warmth and feel of our bodies being close. “I missed you, man.”
“Missed you too,” I admit, smiling as I get a whiff of his oh-so-familiar scent of ammonia, sweat, and the cheap cologne he’s been using since puberty hit. I know what I’m getting him for Christmas. “Still can’t believe you got me to come here.”
He pulls out of the hug, grinning like before. “You’ll like it here, I promise. It’s a great group of guys, and the staff is excellent.”
“And the snow?” I ask, wrinkling my nose at the thought of the weather forecast I checked this morning. Snow later this week. In October . It’s disgusting.
He chuckles. “The snow… you get used to.”
“Really?”
“No. Not really.” He shrugs. “But every time you get your car stuck, or your boot goes farther than you expected and you wind up sunk to your knee, or you have to spend ten minutes scraping off your windshield, just remind yourself that you love me.”
I frown at him. Scowl, more like. “That love only stretches so far.”
“I’m not too worried.” He winks at me. “Come on, let me show you around before the guys are finished. Then I want you to meet our high-priority players.”
“Lead the way, Boss .”
He shoots me a warning look that doesn’t hold up considering the smirk he’s clearly fighting. “Keep it up. See what happens.”
“I haven’t been scared of you since the seventh grade, buddy.”
“We agreed not to talk about seventh grade ever again.”
I put my hands up in surrender. “Fair enough. That was dirty of me.”
With a flick to my cheek that stings enough to earn him a middle finger, he leads me down the first hall and starts pointing things out—the locker room, supply closet, equipment manager’s closet, equipment vault. He explains that the floor above us is where the GM and the rest of the backend staff can be found. Apparently the only one that ever really comes down here—unless there’s a problem—is Tara, the public relations and social media coordinator.
“She’s a huge hockey fan, so she likes to come watch practices.” He smirks. “Plus, I think she enjoys the view.”
“Of you or the players?” I tease, waggling my eyebrows at him.
He rolls his eyes, but an amusing blush creeps along his cheeks. “The players. But she’s pretty cool. I grab a drink with her sometimes. I think you’ll like her.”
“Just a drink?”
“Just a drink,” he assures. “I told you, I’m not on the market.”
“You did tell me that. You failed to tell me why, though.”
“Not now. We’re at work.”
I nod. “Yeah, okay, moving on. Does this place really bring in enough money? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“We actually do pretty well. There’s not a whole lot to do in the Upper Peninsula for indoor entertainment, so people were really excited to have the arena built here. Plus, hockey is a huge part of the local culture, so that helps.” He shrugs. “We also work a lot with the community, which makes a huge difference, I think. We have theme events and give tickets to community groups and get businesses to sponsor nights. We offer coupons to anyone who has vacation rentals in the area to give to their guests and discounts to guests at the hotel nearby. We have youth hockey teams come and play during intermissions or before the games. We only sell out for rivalry games and playoffs—and one or two of our more popular theme nights—but it’s plenty.”
“I’m low-key impressed. Were those all your ideas?”
He snorts. “No. Tara. She’s brilliant.”
When I give him a look, he rolls his eyes. “ Stop . Tara and I are just friends.”
I put my hands up. “I said nothing.”
“Your face said it for you.” He stops after turning a corner. “This is the staff hall. If you turn right at the corner at the end down there, you’ll be back at the ice. It’s one big loop. This is my office. Assistant coach’s office here—his name is Brian Jeffries, he’s a good guy, but pretty quiet. This is the office for my goaltender coach. There’s the office that our physical therapist and doctor share. The doc only comes twice a month. The PT comes two hours a day to work with whichever players need him at the time, usually late morning between practices. You can coordinate with him and the doc to make changes to the schedule if you need. I’ll give you their information.”
“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”
“Come on, let me show you your workspace and introduce you to your intern,” Ian says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and dragging me along.
I shrug him off with a scowl. “No one will take me seriously if you keep acting like I’m your kid brother.”
“You’re right. Professionalism.” He drops his arm, putting on a serious face that is impossible to take seriously.
I roll my eyes at him. “You’re just as bad as you used to be, you know that? I thought for sure you’d have matured in the last three years.”
“Three years,” he echoes, shaking his head. “Has it really been that fucking long?”
“It has. My fault.” I wince, thinking about those three years. Two years wasted on a toxic asshole who made me feel worthless, plus a year of avoiding everyone because of the shame.
“Both our faults,” he corrects. “This job took all my attention. I should have seen it sooner. Fucking Eddison. That manipulative little—”
“Another time,” I say, not wanting to spend my first day at this job talking about that.
“Fine.” He looks around, making sure the coast is clear, then plops a kiss on my cheek. “Love ya, man.”
“Yeah, yeah, love ya too.”
Ian gives the order for all players with current injury profiles or any new issues they’d like to discuss to stick around after practice. While I wait for the first to arrive, I listen to my intern Maggie as she explains how everything is organized and shows me the tablet that holds all of the players’ files and the previous AT’s notes for each. She seems skittish around me, like I’m going to yell at her any second. I offer to make her a cup of tea from the station of supplies by the sink. She relaxes a little, accepting the offer, but still seems wary.
The first player lumbers in just as I’m handing over a mug of tea and earning my first real smile from her. Progress .
“This is our goalie!” she informs me, tapping at the tablet before handing it over. It’s now open to the correct file—Knut Larsen.
“Knut,” I say, stepping forward and offering my free hand. “I’m Hayden Wallace. It’s great to meet you.”
“I’m hoping to say the same,” Knut says with a slight frown. “We’ll see what you say about my groin.”
With an arched eyebrow, I turn my attention back to his file. “Says here you’ve got a finicky left side, but no sign of tendinosis. Says…” I stop reading aloud, starting to realize why people didn’t like my predecessor. Told him he needs to strengthen his groin more and just push through the pain—will be better in the long run. Player ignored my suggestions. Told him not to bother me until he’s ready to listen. “Jesus. Never mind.” I put the tablet off to the side, deciding to approach this from the beginning instead. “When did it start to hurt this most recent time?”
I swear, I see a few of his defensive walls already dropping. “A week ago.”
“Alright. When you walked in, it seemed like you were having a little trouble moving around. Is there pain when you walk?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to assume he didn’t check you for a strain?” Knut’s expression twists as he shakes his head. “Of course not. It says you didn’t want to listen to him—does that mean you haven’t been pushing through the pain? You’ve been resting?”
“Haven’t skated in a week. Just been doing dry land, upper body mostly. Anything lower body hurts pretty fucking bad.”
“Good. Not the pain, but you listening to your instincts, that’s good. You could have done a lot more damage to a strain if you’d pushed through it. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking.” I gesture to the nearest table. “Have a seat. Maggie, do we have a portable ultrasound machine? I’d like to do an MSK.”
She nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll grab it!”
While she does that, I help Knut up onto the table and ask permission to remove his outer shorts, keeping his compressions on. I frown at the bruise I find just above his knee. There was clearly some sort of tearing.
“What happened to cause this most recent issue?”
“I was in my butterfly to the left and the puck came to the right. I stretched out and it, well—did whatever the hell it did. Hurt like a bitch. Some of the guys helped me skate off. I came straight to McArthur.” He looks down at his injured groin, frowning. “You’ve already done more than he did.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.”
Maggie helps me get the ultrasound machine set up. I talk Knut through everything I’m doing, pausing to show him the screen when the tear is displayed. “Proof that you were right. It’s already healing, so I’m thinking it was on the wrong side of a grade 1. Have you had strains like this before?”
“Yeah, back in college. It was a grade 3, same spot. I’ve had issues with it getting sore from time to time, but this is different. I told him this was different. He didn’t listen.”
I shake my head. “ I’m listening. This is a strain, no doubt. It’ll be an easier and faster recovery than your grade 3 though, especially if you listen to me. I know we’re just meeting, but give me a chance, okay? I promise, I can get you on the ice by our third game at the latest. I might be able to get you out there for our opener, depending on how things go. But only if you listen to me.”
He looks right at me. “You believed me. Now I’ll believe you.”
It’s not a silly thing, as much as it may seem to be—his belief in me, that is. The trust between an athletic trainer and a player is like nothing I’ve ever seen elsewhere. I saw it for the first time in high school when Ian got hurt in a way that very easily could have ended his career. The school’s AT took him by the hand as he sat there crying and told him they were a team, that his dreams were the AT’s dreams, and that they’d get him there together. Ian trusted him and it worked out. That’s what I’ve wanted to be ever since—the person in these athletes’ corner, the one they trust, the one to give them hope for their future. I have no idea where Ian would have ended up if that injury had taken him out. A community college, at best. An alcoholic like his father, drinking himself to an early grave, at worst.
“Since it’s already healing, I don’t want you to fully rest it any longer.” I wince when his eyes light up. “Wait, no—I’m not saying you can get back on the ice. But we’re going to start working this groin area. We’ll start with myofascial release massages. I’m going to show you how to do it and then send you on your way. Every two hours until bedtime, I want you doing what I show you three times. Do the same tomorrow morning—every two hours. I’ll have you come in at this time tomorrow and I’ll take a look, see how the muscle is holding up.”
He doesn’t necessarily look happy, but he doesn’t argue either. I help him over to the stretching mats while two other players come in. I nod at them and tell Maggie to get their intakes done, adding the order to ignore whatever their McArthur files say and to start from scratch. Then I show Knut how to massage his strain with the smallest foam roller we have, explaining how it should feel and ensuring there’s absolutely no pain, just mild discomfort. After I have him show me that he can do it, I help him to his feet.
“Do you have a roller like that at home?”
“No, sir. Just a regular-sized one.”
“Borrow it, then. Bring it back with you tomorrow. I also want you to get some tart cherry juice if you can. It may not make a huge difference for this particular injury, but start drinking it every day. You’ll see a difference in your muscle recovery moving forward.” I grab one of my brand new business cards Ian had jokingly given me earlier and write my cell phone on the back of it before handing it over. “Text or call me anytime, day or night, with questions or if the pain gets worse.
He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Really?”
“Really.” I smile at him, even as I’m feeling a new wave of hatred for this McArthur jackass who clearly didn’t care about these players. I can’t decide what I’m more pissed at Ian for—letting this guy be the team’s AT for two years, or putting me in a situation where I’m going to feel too dedicated to helping these athletes to be willing to leave anytime soon. “Take it easy, Knut.”
He shakes my hand, much more enthusiastically this time. “Thanks, Hayden.”
I turn away from Knut toward my next two players. Maggie ushers one forward who introduces himself as TJ and informs me that he’s pretty sure he’s had a concussion for a few days now. I suppress a sigh and guide him to a fresh table, since I haven’t had a chance to clean Knut’s yet.
It’s going to be a long day.
My eyes start to ache around nine. Since it’s only day one and I already have solid plans for the high-priority players as well as a few strengthening ideas for the players who aren’t currently injured but are injury-prone, I decide to call it. A quick late-night dinner and a good night’s sleep are definitely in order. The rest of my work can wait for tomorrow.
A soft, rhythmic sound draws my attention when I step out of the locker room and into the main hallway. I follow it as it grows into the sharp, crisp sound of blades on ice, discovering that I’m not alone in the building despite the late hour. There’s a player out on the ice, moving in no particular pattern or order, only dressed in partial-gear since he’s alone.
Despite it making me a total creep, I linger in the shadows and watch him. With only a few lights on, probably just enough for him to feel safe skating, it’s hard to tell who he is. Not that it matters. I probably wouldn’t recognize him anyway. Anyone I met with today was strictly told not to hit the ice until at least tomorrow’s practice, if not longer.
Whoever he is though, he’s good. Smooth. Even with this seeming to be more for fun than anything else, his form is flawless. I would know—I spent years watching Ian force his body to be the same. I wonder if this player had to work that hard too.
I wonder why he’s here so late, all alone in the near-dark.
He suddenly bursts forward, skating crisp zig-zags as he shuffles his stick like he’s controlling an imaginary puck. He’s nothing but a blur for a few moments before he wraps around the back of the goal nearest to me. He uses the curve to slow himself, letting his skates just glide along the ice as he comes down from the high of a pretend breakaway.
His head falls back. I can’t see his face, but I get the feeling his eyes are closed. Pope is spelled out in white across the upper back of his sweatshirt—a dark blue, not the colors of this team. It might not even be his name, then. Might be someone else’s. Or it could be an old sweatshirt from his time before playing here.
My head hurts too much to care anymore. I slip back into the shadows before he can notice me and head home, more than ready to be done. Whoever Pope is, I’m sure I’ll meet him eventually. There’s no reason to put him on my radar until he needs it.