Chapter Twenty-Six
Leo
I love my family. I do. But if I have to spend another afternoon with my mother treating me with kid gloves or my siblings whispering because they’re afraid to mention hockey around me, I will lose it. More than I already have, that is.
It’s time to get out of this bed. Out of this house.
Nine days of wallowing post-surgery is long enough.
After convincing them to visit downtown Portland and enjoy themselves for a few hours, I painstakingly dress, put on my sling, and order a rideshare to Cleo’s bar—no driving until at least week four, God help me.
The driver recognizes me and asks me to sign an old paper coffee cup with a mostly dried-out glitter pen, since that’s all he has to work with. The request hits differently now, knowing I’ll probably never do the thing that made me famous again. Not at the level I was, and not in the NHL.
Secretly I used to dread autograph requests and meet and greets.
It wasn’t because I didn’t appreciate fan attention—it’s always great knowing people support what we do.
It was because I was afraid they’d realize I’m far more disappointing in real life once you strip away the famous athlete aspect of my persona.
That I don’t always say the right thing, or anything at all, often defaulting to quiet nodding or repeated thank-yous as people share stories about what hockey means to them, or give me their opinions about my play style.
My chest tightens as Sadie’s face flashes in my mind. To know she’s gone through this—that she was also in bed for days on end, humbled by what her body suddenly couldn’t do—makes me feel closer and further from her all at once.
She didn’t have to contemplate whether famous athlete was the only worthwhile part of her, because every single thing about her is special and important.
Her intelligence, her patience, the way she teaches without condescension, how she handles players and their egos.
Hell, how she handles coaches, bosses, owners, and the press, too.
But the kicker? The parts of her that have nothing to do with hockey are just as great. Brave, bold, and so damn composed. And she still manages to be kind, even when the world gives her every reason not to be.
There is nothing, not one single thing about her, that isn’t exceptional.
And that is exactly why I pushed her away. Because I don’t know how she could look at me right now and see anything other than a lost man. All I had was hockey, and now, I have nothing.
I let my head fall back against the headrest as a storm picks up steam. It’s a nice day to sit in a bar. Hopefully my family found their way inside one of downtown’s better restaurants or shops to ride it out.
The rain follows me inside Cleo’s.
That’s not an exaggeration. It’s still dripping on my head from a thinning part of the ceiling, even after I’m three feet deep into the building. This place needs some serious TLC.
The tables and bar are mostly empty. I assume that’s because it’s one p.m., there’s no game on, and no one comes here for the food alone. Apologies to Cleo’s terrible cook.
I approach the bar. “You got a bucket? There’s a leak near the front door.”
Cleo’s gaze lifts from her copy of A Gentleman in Moscow. “Shit. Another one?”
“Another? Where’s the first one?”
“Hallway by the bathrooms.” She looks me up and down, her gaze lingering on my sling. “Sit down, Leo. I’ll take care of it.”
I clench my jaw, sliding onto a stool. “I can move a bucket from one spot to another. I’m perfectly capable.”
“So am I. And my name’s on the place, so let me have this one.” She shuffles off, and I try not to feel useless as she sets up the red bucket to catch water.
“What are you doing out of bed, anyway?” she asks as she returns to her post. She’s added a fresh tattoo on her forearm since I last saw her, a wilting rose with petals that fade from red to black the farther they fall from the source. “I assume you aren’t here to drink.”
“You’d be correct. I’m off the strong meds but I don’t want to be even a little compromised as I’m trying to heal. I’m here because I needed a break from my family. They’re at my house. I love them, but—”
“Understood. This is your breather.”
She shuffles around back there for a beat, pours me a water, pokes at her phone, and wipes down a few liquor bottles.
After a few minutes of it—and several looks my way—her mouth does a twisty thing that I’ve seen on Sadie several times. One that means she has an opinion she’s chewing on, but doesn’t know if she should share it.
I lean my good arm on the bar. “What? You’ve got a look.”
“Sucks to see you like this, that’s all. It brings back a lot of memories from Billy’s surgery.”
Her late husband was one of the great defenders of his time, according to my dad, and I know he died in a motorcycle accident long after he retired. But apart from that, I don’t know much about him. “Billy was hurt playing hockey?”
Her smile is wry. “Who doesn’t get hurt playing, is the real question.”
“Good point.”
“Nothing too dramatic. Just your run-of-the-mill ACL and MCL tear.”
I level her with a look. “That sounds pretty dramatic, Cleo. Especially when it happens to the person you love.”
“The injury itself happened fast, but the recovery was slow.” She pours a shot’s worth of Jim Beam, tosses it back, and washes the glass.
“He was a big motherfucker. Six foot six and a workhorse to his core. Not like your dad, who’s so polished.
Billy was an asshole when he didn’t get what he wanted, and when he was off the ice, the only thing he wanted was to be in motion.
He liked building things in his shop or riding his motorcycle and not much else.
” A dark laugh slips from her mouth. “None of those things were options after he got hurt. He was fully laid out for a few weeks and hated every second of it. The crutches were too small and feeble for him; swear to God he broke three pairs.”
My chest twinges in sympathy. At least I can walk around. “That must’ve been hard on you both.”
“He turned me into a broken record. Which area of the house would you like to sit still in today, Billy? No, you can’t go outside, Billy. Stay away from those stairs or I’ll slit your throat, Billy. It wasn’t fun for either of us.”
“Wow, he didn’t like that?” I deadpan.
“Hey. Be nice to this old lady or you’re next.” She draws a finger across her throat, but a smile plays at the edges of her mouth.
I chuckle. “I guess that’s when he retired?”
“Yep. He knew that even if he got back to top form, he didn’t want to go through that again. And it freed up space for him to spend time with his true love—that damn motorcycle.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, but I don’t have to wonder for long.
“Wipe that horrified look off your face, kid.” She laughs, a raspy, weathered sound. “We were very happy. That’s probably why we were, truth be told. We had our own lives.”
“What was your thing, if not motorcycles?”
Her lips spread into a lazy smile. “Unfortunately, it was this hellhole. I wanted to name it Baxter’s Bar and Grill, but he wanted me to have something of my own, so we called it Cleo’s Bar.
Mind you it was still his affiliation with it that made the place popular in its heyday, but he let me run the show. ”
“Easy now.” I point a finger at her. “It’s still in its heyday.”
“Tell that to the roof. Or the deep fryer.”
“The hell is wrong with the deep fryer?” I blow out a breath. “Never mind. The less I know about the food I consume here, the better. So, Billy would draw in the crowd while you worked. Sounds like a good deal.”
“Yes. He’d sit where you are night after night, content to hang out with friends or strangers while I worked the bar.
He loved watching me in my element and was always bragging about his hot bartender, so everyone knew I was spoken for.
He’d already had his time in the sun, and then he gave me mine. ”
I understand the impulse. If Sadie and I were together, I’d want to tell everyone, all the time.
“Maybe that’s why I’m so eager to get rid of this place before I see it get any worse.” She lets her gaze wander past me, like she’s drifting into a memory. “I like remembering it the way it was.”
“Ah, hell. I can help you clean it up as soon as this arm is back in working order.” In fact, I think I’d enjoy it.
“Like you don’t have enough to worry about.” She gestures at my sling. “How does it feel?”
I peer down at the black fabric. “Hurts worse at night.”
“What’s your plan? I know you’re out for the season, but will you be able to rehab in time for the next one?”
“Yeah, no. There won’t be a next season.” Saying it out loud makes it feel even more final. “End of the road for me. I’ll never play how I did, and no one would take me anyway. The decision made itself.”
She lets out a quiet hum of assent. “Seems so. Am I going to have to drive by your house to make sure you aren’t pulling a Billy and trying to do too much?”
“Nah. I’ll rest, rehab, and take it as slow as I can without going out of my mind.
” I spin my glass, condensation gathering on my fingertips.
“You know, it’s weird. I dreaded the end for so long, but now that it’s here, I’m not as angry as I thought I’d be.
Sad, for sure, but the anger is just…gone.
It fucking sucks, but I’ve been stuck in anger since my initial injury last year.
I’m sure you saw clips of it on television, since they’ve been replaying it on a loop since the news of my surgery dropped.
Anyway, I’ve had a year to get it out of my system. ”
All of that just spills out of me. My family has been begging me to open up and talk to them about my feelings, but for some reason, this feels like the time and place. Cleo is more impartial and has experience with this stuff by way of Billy.
“On some level, it’s got to be a relief,” she says. “You’ve been hurting for a year.”