Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Nick
present day
Traded. Discarded. Used. They don’t want me anymore.
My agent’s words echo in my head, a never-ending cacophony of insidious thoughts. This is the third time in my career I’ve been traded, but somehow, this one’s hitting the hardest.
I really thought I had found a home in New Orleans. So much so, I finally felt comfortable enough to buy a house. And instead, they tossed me aside like yesterday’s news in favor of an unproven rookie and a handful of draft picks.
At least I was worthy of a hefty price point.
Then I had to pick up the pieces of my life and move to fucking Boston. Couldn’t this trade have happened two years ago, before Elsy left for Austin? At least then I’d have a friendly face in town. A shoulder to lean on.
The only person I care to know in this city hates my guts. I have no friends, and I wish my family weren’t here.
Instead, I’ve moved—alone—to the one place I never wanted to go back to. The one place I thought I’d never have to return to permanently.
I haven’t spoken to my father in four or five years.
The man I idolized growing up turned into someone I don’t recognize, and being back on his turf makes my shoulders tense up and dread fill my belly.
I’m just waiting for the day he waltzes back into my life and tries to take something else from me.
He already took my mother. I won’t allow him any more access.
“Hey, Mitchell,” one of my new teammates says as I walk into the dressing room on my first day of training camp. He’s wide and bulky, with a thick beard and a full head of dark hair. His crooked, too-big-for-his-face nose is his most obvious feature.
I nod at him as I head to my cubby. He’s standing between two of them, so I don’t know his name.
I’ve been skating with MacGregor in his Captain’s Practices, but they’re informal get-togethers, and not everyone on the team has been present.
That’s a relief after the ugly welcome I got in New Orleans—and the uglier goodbye.
“A few of us are headed to the pub after preseason medicals,” the guy continues. “You wanna come?”
Okay, so he’s determined to be friendly.
“Turn around,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows, confused. “What?”
“Turn, so I can see your name.”
A sharp bark of laughter bursts from his lips, but he still turns around. Gonzales.
“Al Gonzales. They call me Gonzo,” he says, offering his hand. “Right wing.”
“Nick Mitchell. Center.” I dump my gear bag into the cubby with my name on it and start to unpack.
The team outfitted me with all new equipment and half a wardrobe full of team apparel, so I can rep the Grizzlies at any time.
My favorite skates weren’t in stock, so I brought my old, comfortable pair.
“You had a tour yet?”
“Vanessa showed me around the place last week.”
She used to be roommates with Elsy, so I’ve met her a few times over the years whenever my team played in Boston and in the lead-up to the wedding, but since my focus was always on spending time with my best friend, we haven’t interacted much.
Over the years, women have been intimidated by my best friend being female.
But Elsy and I have never been romantic.
We saw each other through some of the darkest days of our lives, and a bond like that can’t be broken.
She’s like my kid sister, despite her being three months older than me. I would never touch a hair on her head.
And her best friend… The mere thought of her has goose bumps rising on my skin and my stomach twisting into knots.
Bex.
Rebecca Whitney.
She’s here, in this city. Will she come to the games?
Will I get to see her again? Fuck, just thinking about her has my heart pounding.
I can’t decide if it’s anxiety, anticipation, or both.
To distract myself, I reach for a Boston T-shirt and athletic shorts.
My hands shake and I take a deep, centering breath to calm down, the way my sports psychologist taught me.
“You okay, man?” Gonzo mutters.
The room is filling up, so I appreciate his attempt to be discreet.
“Just getting in the zone.”
He musters a crooked grin. “This is only a baseline workout. Nothing to be worried about.”
Deep down, I know that… But the fact he’s trying to reassure me helps lift some of the weight off my chest.
Maybe this won’t be a terrible turn of events. Maybe being back in Boston isn’t the worst thing to happen to me.
Once I’m dressed, Gonzo and I head for the weight room, where a few guys are already in the middle of their workouts.
A woman with a short, blunt haircut gives me a nod as I approach. Her eyes narrow on my number, printed on my left pec, and she mouths the number fifty-two before she clears her throat and nods.
“Hey. Mitchell, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her tinkling, melodic laugh echoes through the room. “Amelia is fine. I’m one of the physical therapists on staff. Go ahead and stretch, get warm, and we’ll run you through some mobility and weights tests. Gonzo, you too.”
My teammate gives her a fist bump, which she returns, and then jerks his head toward the mats.
We drop and begin our stretches, getting our bodies ready for the rigorous testing.
Today they’ll be checking our conditioning levels and body-fat percentage, and then we meet with the team doctors for bloodwork and standards testing.
It’s my least favorite part of the job, but it’s a requirement if we want to be on the ice, so I deal with it.
Tomorrow, we start on-ice training. That’s the part that matters most.
After I’m warm, Amelia directs me to the treadmill, where I work up to a jog.
A different trainer clocks my mile time, then leads me over to the weights section and has me perform my max output.
Once Elsy’s wedding was over and dealt with, I did basically nothing this summer except work out and play golf.
Oh, and drown in self-loathing. Can’t forget that.
According to the paper a trainer handed me, I have to check in at the lab before I see the medical doctor and report to the neurological team. That’s new. It makes sense, though, considering all the recent research about head trauma and CTE.
Immediately, my thoughts drift to that sticky Ohio summer day, when a pretty girl in a bar told me all about her research into concussions. I was deep in my feelings, and for a moment, she was my respite.
But then a flip switched, and Bex went cold, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone. No matter how many times I rack my brain, I can’t figure out what I did wrong, and it’s been driving me nuts.
Did I compliment her too much? Show her how much I loved her body too much? Was I too overeager? She got off—twice. I made sure of it.
Yet here we are.
Call me codependent or a people pleaser, but I don’t like when people dislike me. It’s like an itch under my skin that I can’t quite scratch.
Sweat drips from my temple, and I wipe it away, along with my thoughts, and follow instructions: go to the lab for a blood draw and full-body X-ray, then check in with the team doctor and go over my medical history.
He’s got my records from New Orleans, and my agent sent over my injury packet, so it’s a matter of testing my range of motion and getting everything in writing, so when I inevitably get injured later on, they know what they’re dealing with for recovery expectations.
Let’s face it: at thirty-four, I’m past my prime and heading into decrepit range. Sooner or later, my joints will start failing even more than they already have, and I’ll be left unable to do my job and play hockey. The one thing that brings me joy. The one thing I have going for me.
Dr. Hudson—call me Doc, he says—is a kindly older gentleman, with white hair and a walrus mustache. He’s wearing a white coat over a team T-shirt and athletic pants, and as soon as we’re done, he wheels a little stool over and takes a seat.
“For your age, you’re not doing so bad,” he says, like that’s supposed to be a compliment. “We’ll get you on a performance plan and work on protecting your knees and back. Our PT team will make sure you stay healthy.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
He holds his hand out, and I stare at him for a second.
“I need to sign you off,” he says with a laugh.
Oh.
I hand him the paper, and he initials next to the “medical exam” box. I hadn’t even noticed the trainer and phlebotomist doing the same.
“Let’s get you off to see Dr. Whitney, and then you’ll be free and clear,” Doc says.
My stomach sinks. Please don’t tell me…
“Dr. Whitney?”
“She’s the head of the neurological team. You’ll be safe with her.” He pats my good knee. “Off you trot. Better get it over with.”
Heaving myself off the table, I force myself to take a few deep breaths. There’s no reason to suspect it’s her. There are plenty of female doctors who study brains and live in Boston and have the last name Whitney. It’s definitely not her.
There’s another office down the hallway, and even though every step feels like I’m running straight into a raging, out-of-control inferno, my feet keep me moving. My hand shakes as I reach for the handle, and I force my shoulders back and lift my chin.
I can do this.
But as I open the door and come face-to-face with the one I let slip away, I know I can’t.
Because sitting behind her desk is Dr. Rebecca Whitney, and I can’t breathe.
Bex.
She looks up at the sound of my footsteps, and her easy smile fades, her face a stone-cold mask.
“No. Get out.”
“I—I can’t.” My voice cracks. “I’m reporting for my neurological exam.”
Her glare makes my insides turn to ice. “Go back to New Orleans.”
“You know I can’t do that.”