Chapter 38
thirty-eight
. . .
Nick
My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and the vibration sends a wave of pain through my head. I’m only three days out from my crash on the ice, and I’m still struggling.
I squint at the screen, the light too bright even on the dimmest setting. What I see makes no sense, though.
Why is my former teammate from New Orleans reaching out? Why now?
Toby Whittaker: I hope you’re doing okay. That hit looked rough.
I blink a few times, trying to process through my pounding headache. It still doesn’t become clearer.
Whittaker and I played on the same line. He’s a lethal right winger with a killer shot and a wicked sense of humor. We weren’t super buddy-buddy off the ice, but when we played together, we were electric.
So why did it take him six months to reach out? Is it because I’m older? Is it like Henry was saying, and I kept everyone at arm’s length? Do I exude don’t talk to me vibes from my pores?
After a few moments, I tap the button for voice-to-text. “It definitely wasn’t fun,” I say into my phone, and the words float across the screen. I stab the send button, then flip my phone upside down and return it to its spot beneath my pillow.
And then the damn thing vibrates again. Annoyance floods my system as I pull it back out, squinting at the text.
Whittaker:
Hastings was suspended. I’ll deny it if asked, but he’s been even more of a dick than usual. I can’t believe we traded for that asshole and lost you.
“Not like I had a choice.”
Whittaker:
We definitely miss you here. Could use a guy like you in the dressing room.
Bitterness seeps through me once again, but the sting of his words fades quickly.
I loved New Orleans, even if they didn’t love me.
But Boston is my home now. It helps that they’re in a win-now mode, gunning for the playoffs; gunning for the Cup.
While New Orleans is clearly more focused on a rebuild.
I want to win now. I want my name etched on that trophy, the greatest in professional sports. Even though I’ve made my mark on the world of hockey, there’s an itch deep inside me that tells me this isn’t it. I’m not done yet.
A knock sounds on my door, and I heave myself out of bed with a groan. My entire body is bruised black and blue, thanks to Hastings’s hits, and everything hurts on top of my never-ending headache.
Shuffling through the apartment, I take note of the small ways Bex has already improved the place. The throw blanket over the back of the couch. The vase of flowers on the kitchen counter. The orange-blossom diffuser that never fails to remind me of her.
I open the door, surprised to find Coach McKittrick on the other side, our team physical therapist Amelia beside him holding a casserole dish.
“Hey?”
He gives me a nervous smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can we talk?”
My stomach fills with dread. “Uh, sure.”
If they wanted to trade me, or force me to retire, I’m sure that message would come from management. Or my agent. It wouldn’t come from a first-year player development coach.
Amelia rolls her eyes. “Nothing is wrong, everything is fine. Let us in. Tyler made lasagna.”
My stomach growls. “I could eat.”
Her brother does my meal prep, as well as for most of the team. Every week, glass containers of high-protein meals appear in my fridge, and I never have to think about what’s for dinner. His lasagna is one of my favorites—and definitely not on the diet plan.
Stepping back, I allow them to enter the apartment. Both McKittrick and Amelia are wearing house slippers, so they don’t bother to kick them off. Their apartment is up on the nineteenth floor.
Amelia bustles past me and into the kitchen. She helps herself to my cabinets, rifling through them until she finds a plate, a serving spoon, and silverware.
I sit gingerly at a counter stool, watching as McKittrick leans against the fridge.
“What did you want to talk about?” I come right out and say it. All I want is to crawl back into bed and wallow.
After the lasagna, of course.
“Hastings ended my career,” he blurts. “I was already considering retiring at the end of last season. My knee was fucked, and it was giving me more issues,” he continues.
“One bad hit, and that was it. I tore my Achilles, and it was game over for me. Those early days were the hardest to handle emotionally. So I wanted to stop in and check on you. See how you’re holding up and where your head’s at. ”
My throat feels thick as I swallow, my fears bubbling to the surface. “I don’t want to be done.”
“Then you won’t be,” he says, as if it’s that simple.
“How… how did you know?”
“I was in the last year of my contract, and rehab would take me through the end of it. I gave it my all, but a part of me knew I was ready.” He shrugs, though I can see the tension in his shoulders.
“Do you miss it?”
McKittrick’s shoulders heave with his heavy exhale. “Every goddamn day.”
Amelia makes a soft noise as she scoops a serving of lasagna onto a plate, pushing it in front of me.
I dig in, the scent of cheese and tomato reminding me I’ve barely eaten in the last few days.
My stomach rumbles, and it takes everything in me to wait until the steam rising off the pasta fades away so I don’t burn the roof of my mouth.
Fuck it. I can’t wait. I shovel a bite into my face-hole, and yes, ouch, it’s fucking hot, but it’s so good, I don’t care.
“Does it help to work with the team?” I ask once I’ve chewed and swallowed. “I don’t want to go into coaching, but there are other jobs in the hockey world…”
“There are. And it does,” he says. “I’m not ready to fully walk away.”
“It helps that I travel with the team,” his partner says with a teasing smirk. She pokes him in the side, and McKittrick squeaks, a fond smile on his face. “If I had another job, it might be different. At least for now, we can travel together and keep spending time together.”
Bex travels with the team, too. I can’t imagine her jetting off across the continent each week and my staying at home permanently.
Sure, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it’s healthy to have some distance and space every now and then.
If it were our permanent arrangement, I’d miss her too much.
The season is such an onslaught, and the travel never ends.
“Do you regret it?”
McKittrick shakes his head, no hesitation. “Not at all. It was time to move on. It was time to try something new.”
I hum, rolling his words around in my head. “I don’t know what I want to do.”
“The good news is, you don’t have to decide right now,” Amelia says. “All you have to do is focus on recovery. If you decide to retire next week, or at the end of the season, or at the end of your contract, or try for another one, the important thing is that it’s your decision, not anyone else’s.”
What I hate most is the unpredictability of this career. Am I ready to retire? I don’t know. I don’t want to give up the career I’ve devoted the last thirty years of my life to. I don’t want to give up the only thing I’ve ever done.
Besides, what would I do next? There’s still the idea of broadcasting—I was a journalism major in college, although I never finished my degree—and I wouldn’t mind being on camera. Or even behind the scenes, putting my hockey knowledge to good use.
The world is my oyster, and that’s fucking terrifying.
Even though I know there’s no rush to decide, even though I recognize I’ve earned the right to take some time to myself, it makes me itchy not having a plan.
Before three weeks ago, there was nothing keeping me in Boston. No reason to stay once my contract ended. I can move anywhere in the country—hell, anywhere in the world.
Now… so much will depend on Bex. Does she want to stay here? She has a job, a career. I’m not about to propose this week or even anytime soon, but I’m also not going to torpedo what might be the best thing to happen to me because I’m a little obsessed with my future.
She wants to get married. She wants kids. That’s always been my plan, too—after I retire.
Two more seasons.
I want my kids to grow up with Elsy’s. And if I have them with Bex, my and Elsy’s kids will be cousins. Family.
I want that. I want it so much my body physically aches.
McKittrick raps his knuckles on the countertop twice. “All you have to do is focus on recovery,” he repeats. “Whatever comes next, it’ll happen regardless. Just work on getting better.”
If only it were that easy.