Cold Shoulder (Portland Titans #1)

Chapter 1

KNOX

The noise of the crowd intensifies until it’s bouncing around in my head.

Each one of them came out tonight to have a good time, maybe escape their lives for a few hours.

For some reason, they came to share that with us tonight.

Sixteen years into this journey as the starting center for the Portland Titans hockey team, and it never fails to amaze me.

Coming here night after night, hearing the crowd shout my name while I’m racing down the ice still gives me a jolt.

Too bad there’s a clock hanging over my head counting down the minutes I have left.

I’m lucky that I got this long to live my dream. Thirty-eight isn’t old, but it’s ancient for a professional athlete. Every day I come to practice I’m more than aware my time is running out.

My fingers lock around my stick, and I have to use all the willpower I have to force each digit to unlock.

The tendons in my hand and forearm burn all the way up to my shoulder.

I clench my teeth and keep the tough look on my face that threatens violence.

It’s part of the show, the reason my fans call me Hard Knox, a play on my name, but now it’s the mask I wear to keep everyone from finding out that my shoulder is fucked.

I’ve known since the offseason. It started with a twinge every time I reached for something.

Then my shoulder started making this clicking sound every time I tried to use it.

Tendinitis isn’t new, or unusual for pro athletes.

At a certain point we all get used to living with some amount of pain.

That’s the cost of pushing your body to the limits.

I did all the things I have always done in the past. I rested, iced my shoulder, and took anti-inflammatories. In the past that would have been enough, but the pain continued to grow instead of getting better. I knew I had to bite the bullet and go and see the team doctor.

“Knox, you know that being a professional athlete isn’t a career you can do forever.

At a certain point there’s going to be something that takes you off the ice.

I think for you it’s going to be your shoulder.

I don’t think this is a simple case of tendinitis anymore.

If you keep going at this rate you’re going to shred the ligaments in your shoulder and that will require surgery,” Dr. Frost told me when he examined my shoulder.

The part that he left hanging in the air was that, at my age, I would never recover enough to get back on the ice. Even the Titans, the only team I’d ever played for, wouldn’t take me back after such an injury. I couldn’t even blame them.

I’m selfish though, and I want one last season. I want to have this time to savor every moment on the ice. If this is all I’m going to get, I won’t let a little pain hold me back.

I wince and shake out my arm. Okay, maybe a lot of pain.

Still, I can handle it, because I know it won’t last forever, not as long as the memories will.

All I have to look forward to when I leave is settling into the monotony of running my family’s business.

I’ll be living off the memories I make this season for the rest of my life.

“Are you ready to go back in, Knox?” Coach Henry asks.

I stretch out my fingers, ball them into a fist, and repeat a few times before I nod my head.

“Good man,” he approves. He’s the only one besides the doctor who knows what I’m playing through right now.

I go back on the ice and face off against Dean Fellows, the opposing center for the San Diego Surge. He smirks at me. At twenty-five he’s just hitting his stride, and cocky as hell. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s probably got a decade of games ahead of him, and I’ve got eighty more games, if I’m lucky.

“Hey, old man. Think you can keep up with me?” he taunts.

I snarl back at him. There was a time I’d join in the shit talking, but it’s taking all of my focus to play the game. He makes the mistake of reading my silence as weakness though. I might not have the same speed I did a decade ago, but my experience fills the gap.

My arm screams at me, but I get control of the puck and pass it to my best friend, Weston Cavanagh.

We fight past their defenders, passing the puck back and forth.

The Surge expects me to send it back to West who has got himself in a decent position to score, so they split off to guard us both.

Doing so completely left our left winger, Dante Moreau, wide open.

I manage to pass the puck off to him just before Dean checks me hard against the glass.

The pain is so intense, for a moment my vision goes white. The crowd disappears, and the only thing I can hear is the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears. The sound of the buzzer indicating a goal finally snaps me out of the fog of pain.

The entire thing lasts seconds, but it feels like an eternity.

It’s long enough for the coach to realize that something is wrong.

He manages to sub me out without anyone noticing so I can try to recover for a few moments.

Not that I’m needed in the game much from that point on.

Dante’s goal put us up by two, and with only one minute left on the clock in the third.

There was no coming back from that for the Surge.

Coach gives the signal to sub out my replacement. I stand up, ready to get back on the ice.

“Stay seated, Knox,” he says. He turns to see me, and no doubt sees the glower I’m rocking. He comes closer and lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “We’re not taking any more chances with that shoulder tonight. I want you to go see the doc as soon as we get back in the locker room.”

My rising irritation deflates. It’s another reminder that I’m a geriatric in this sport.

Ten years ago he’d have sent me in so we could go out strong.

Now I skate that fine line every game between being competitive and cautious.

So far that hasn’t cost us any games, but we’re only three games into the season.

“Let me take your bag,” Weston says, pulling the strap off my arm.

It’s my good arm, but after compensating for the other one, that isn’t saying much. The strain from always carrying my heavy gear bag on my left shoulder is causing strain to match the right.

I clench my teeth, and keep all the words I want to spew from the tip of my tongue. We don’t offer to help carry each other’s shit. That’s not how it works. We’re a team, and we all carry our own weight, figuratively and literally.

But I can’t deny that I’m struggling underneath all of it. I know without a doubt if I saw one of my friends struggling, I’d step in to help. I’d fight the fucker if they acted like a stubborn ass about it too. So, I keep all the thoughts inside of my head where they belong and accept the help.

He walks with me out to the car I’ve hired to drive me to and from games, all because I’ve been told I have to limit the strain on my shoulder.

Not being able to do something as simple as driving is another thing I’ve had to accept.

All of these concessions I’ve been making chaps my ass, but not being able to finish my last season on top would be worse.

I suppose I’ve been stupid enough to think the guys wouldn’t catch on to the reasons I’ve made so many changes.

Then again, West is my best friend, so it’s possible only he’s noticed why I’ve only been carrying my bag on my left side, have hired a driver, and the coach subs me out more often than before.

“Are you coming over with the guys to catch the Wolves game? I recorded it, and threatened everyone with death if they spoiled the game. Ford Shaw is a beast on the field,” West says.

He’s got a bit of a man crush on the quarterback for Portland’s pro-football team. “Why don’t you just call his agent and meet the guy already? It’s not like there are so many pro-athletes in this city. Just out yourself as the president of his fan club and get it over with already.”

West shudders. “Nah, I’m good watching him on the field. I heard he’s had mob ties or something. The guy plays like a god, but he’s got some scary ass motherfuckers as friends.”

What I want to do is go home and bury my shoulder under several ice packs.

Not something I can do around the rest of the team.

Not that they wouldn’t support me, but they’d also start trying to intervene more on the ice.

I want us to have another shot at the championship, and that won’t be possible if they’re more concerned about me than they are about making plays.

West lowers his voice. “Knox, I know you’re hiding something with your shoulder. We aren’t going to judge you. Aren’t you always saying that we’re family? We always hang out after games, have since college.”

“I know, man, but I’m beat. I just want to go home and see my girl early for a change.”

Madison and I had been together for four years now, and living together for two.

It was long past time I got down on one knee, but something was holding me back.

There were so many changes happening with my career ending, I just didn’t want to add more chaos to our lives.

I know she’s been waiting for me to do it, and we weren’t getting any younger.

The biggest issue is that she loves the life of being on the arm of a pro-athlete.

I wonder if she’ll still want to be with me when I give up that title.

She’s a few years younger than me, but still north of thirty, so we need to talk about the next steps in our life.

The biggest thing we need to see if we can come to an agreement on is kids.

I want them, and I’m not sure she does. Madison claims she does, but she doesn’t coo over babies like my sisters do.

Not that every woman who wants kids loves every baby, but it’s a talk we need to have. No time like the present.

I slide into the back seat of the hired SUV. Leaning over the seat I tell Patrick, my driver, “Take me home.”