Puck Sweat Love (Bad Motherpuckers #7)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

TANK

T here’s an art to being trapped.

I should know—I’ve spent most of my life perfecting it.

Trapped in other people’s low expectations. Trapped in regret. Trapped in a cycle of self-sabotage that nearly destroyed everything I’d worked so hard to achieve.

And now literally trapped in an overflow equipment storage room that reeks of moldy jockstraps and broken dreams.

“This is why people invented inventory systems,” I mutter, shoving aside another box of ancient practice jerseys with more force than necessary. “And dumpsters.”

The pain that shoots through my bum shoulder is almost satisfying.

Almost.

The Badgers’ overflow storage is a disaster zone. No organization, no system, just hoarder-level chaos piled to the ceiling in a dimly-lit concrete bunker at the old end of the complex. When I agreed to track down enough child-sized pads for tomorrow’s workshop, I was feeling charitable.

Now, I’m back to cranky and annoyed—my default settings. But the sooner I get this shit into the guest locker room, the sooner I can go home and unwind with the craft beer of the night.

Thank God, I didn’t turn out to be an alcoholic, as well as a pill head. A beer on the roof of my apartment on a warm summer evening is a peak experience for me at this point.

Which is probably pathetic, but who gives a fuck?

I’m too tired to care. After back-to-back private coaching clients from seven a.m. to ten and working the youth camp the rest of the day, I’m beat. Even as a teen athlete, a day like today would have sent me to bed early. Staring down the barrel of thirty, I’ll be lucky to make it through ten minutes of my podcast of the moment before I’m out cold.

I push deeper into the room, past towers of helmets from the 80s and overflowing stick racks, searching for the elusive box of junior goalie gear. The farther I go, the darker the shadows and the narrower the path through the madness.

I’m trying not to take that as a sign that this quest is cursed, when I hear it—the distinctive clunk of the heavy equipment room door swinging shut behind me.

The door that I was careful to prop open because I know it locks automatically and can only be opened with a code punched into the keypad outside…

“No. No, no, no .” I spin around, stumbling over what feels like a bag of rocks as I lunge across the room. Just a few seconds later, my hands slam against the solid metal. But, as I feared, the ancient son of a bitch is locked up tight. “Fuck!” I curse through clenched teeth.

“Is anyone out there?” I call in a louder voice. “Hey! Can anyone hear me? I’m locked in the overflow equipment room! I’m locked the fuck in. Hello?” I pound on the door until pain vibrates up my forearm, shouting the entire time, but when I finally pause to take a breath, I’m met by silence.

The bunker is practically soundproof and all the camp kids and coaches cleared out an hour ago. I pat my pockets, hoping for a miracle. But as expected, my cell is still in my locker, where I put it when I arrived this morning in an attempt to be a good example for all the screen-addicted nine-year-olds. Cursing again, I glance down at my watch, stomach sinking as I see it’s nearly seven.

Later than I thought…

Chances are, even the maintenance staff has gone home for the night, and I’ll be stuck in here until tomorrow morning.

I drag a hand through my hair.

Fabulous. Trapped like a goddamn rat.

As a former addict, I’ve been in tougher spots—way tougher—but not since I cleaned up my act a few years ago. Since then, I’ve made a point of staying out of trouble. I’m Tank LiBassi, elite goaltending coach, dedicated athlete, youth center volunteer, and a man with his sober gaze fixed on getting back to the NHL.

Now, I’ve finally done it. Thanks to a stellar tryout at a special session last month, I start training camp with the Badgers in just a few weeks as their starting goaltender.

I should be happy, chill, relaxed for the first time in years.

But something inside me is still on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Maybe this is it. This is the shoe,” I mutter.

If so, this isn’t so bad. I had a late lunch and am reasonably hydrated. And at least it’s summer. In a Portland, Oregon winter, this concrete block of a room would get frigid overnight, but it’s August.

I’ll be fine.

Assuming I don’t need to piss.

Or something more offensive than piss…

I slump against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on a pile of molded towels, I can’t understand why anyone thought were worth keeping. The thickening darkness wraps around me, the silence broken only by my own breath.

This is fine.

I’m fine.

Being trapped in a stinky room in the dark with no food or water or a pot to piss in is fine.

“Fuck that,” I growl after less than a minute, pushing myself back to my feet. I didn’t claw my way back from hell and onto a pro-hockey team to surrender to a locked door.

I move toward where I remember seeing that overflowing stick rack, feeling my way along the wall as the light continues to fade. The only illumination in the overflow storage comes from narrow windows at the top of the concrete wall on the other side of the room, and the summer sun is setting fast.

If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll be trapped in a black void for the night.

Shouting wasn’t working, but maybe I can make enough noise by banging on the door with a hockey stick to alert the security guard on the floor above me.

I fumble across the wall, but instead of a stick, my hand closes around a slightly tacky-feeling plastic cylinder on a dusty shelf. I give it an experimental squeeze, and it moans like the world’s loudest squeaky toy. I grip it again, harder this time, summoning a sound halfway between a rubber duck on steroids and a dying moose. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I see that it’s a Bucky the Badger toy from the 1970s, the mascot management decided to retire after kids routinely burst into tears when Bucky merch was tossed into the stands.

This one is currently staring at me with a maniacal gleam in his eye and bared yellow teeth, as if daring me to squeeze him again. I nearly toss the cursed little fuck across the room, but it does have a serious squeaker.

And a dying moose would certainly get my attention if I were in charge of monitoring the building for signs of trouble after hours…

I brace Bucky against the wall near an air vent and shove my hand into his chubby belly again and again, until his horrible raspy honk echoes in the confines of the storage room. It makes my ears ring, triggering memories of post-concussion symptoms I’d rather forget, but I push on. Ear ringing won’t kill me. Being trapped in this room with Bucky and his friends just might—there are more of the toys, I see now, glaring at me from the shelf nearby, plotting revenge on me for assaulting one of their brethren.

Somewhere between five minutes and a torturous infinity of honking later, I’m rewarded with a knock on the equipment room door.

“Hello? Is someone in there?” a high-pitched male voice shouts from the hall. “Hello?”

“Yeah, it’s me!” I call back, relief dumping into my bloodstream as I hurry back to the door. “Hey man, it’s Tank LiBassi. I was in here looking for gear for the kid camp tomorrow when the door swung shut and locked me in. Can you get me out?”

“Sure thing, Mr. LiBassi,” the man—kid?—replies. “Just give me a second to punch in the code.”

I wait impatiently, primed to bolt the second that door opens.

“Shoot,” the voice comes again, softer than before. “Hold on, the old code isn’t working. Let me check my email. Maybe they changed it.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” I say, my throat tightening. “Thanks. I’d help you out, but the door was already open when I walked in.”

“That’s okay. I just have to figure out how to connect to the Wifi,” he replies. “I’m new. Just started a couple week ago, and I don’t get on my phone much at work.”

Great. My knight in shining armor is the only member of his generation not to spend his entire shift doom scrolling.

I pace back and forth, doing my best not to hyperventilate. Now that freedom is so close, I can’t get out of this room fast enough. I swear, the vibes are getting creepier with every passing moment, raising the hairs on the back of my neck and making sweat break out along my forehead.

“Okay, let me try this one,” the kid says. I hear faint beeping, then a longer beep, and a not-at-all encouraging buzzing sound. “Shoot,” he says. “That one isn’t working either.”

“Maybe try both codes again?” I ask, my heart beating in my throat. My chest aches and my blood rushes too fast as I add, “Please?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I should call my boss.”

“Please,” I beg, my blood pressure inching into unhealthy territory. “Just try one more time. I’m going a little crazy in here, man. Not a fan of being trapped.”

“I get it, I’m sorry, I—” The kid breaks off before shouting in a more upbeat voice, “Hey Mr. Stone! Hey Tyler! I heard you were joining the team! That’s so great, man. You were killing it in Seattle last year.”

“Stone, get me out of here!” I shout, relieved to hear that my friend—and former Washington team mate—is outside. Stone won’t let me die in here and be eaten by whatever bacteria is growing in that stinky pile of towels.

I suck in a deeper breath, willing my pulse to stop racing. This is ridiculous. I have to calm the fuck down. I’m not in danger, and I don’t have claustrophobia…at least, I don’t think I do.

“Tank?” Stone asks, his voice closer.

“Yeah, the door slammed closed and locked behind me.” There’s sweat on my upper lip now, on the back of my neck, rolling down my spine as my heart continues to pound… “Please, tell me you know the code.”

“It’s supposed to be this one,” the fanboy security guard says. “But I can’t get it to work.”

“Gotcha. Maybe you need to press the pound sign after,” Stone mutters. A beat later, I hear beeps, a high-pitched chirp, and—praise baby Jeebus—the rasp of the lock opening.

I burst into the hall with a rush of breath. “Thanks, man. Fuck, what a relief.” Blinking in the brighter light, I squint first at the guard—who indeed looks like he’s about twelve—then at Stone, who looks like he’s been enjoying his summer off. His dark blonde hair is streaked with highlights and there’s a shit-eating grin on his deeply tanned face. “What?” I demand.

“Nothing,” he says, still grinning. “What’s that? Your emotional support goblin?” He nods toward my hand.

I glance down to see the Bucky toy I didn’t realize I was still holding clutched in my white-knuckle grip and shudder. It looks even more rabid under the fluorescents. I toss it back into the shadows over my shoulder before firmly shutting the door behind me.

“No, that’s the shit nightmares are made of.” I press a hand to my chest, where my heart is still pounding. “I think it was trying to give me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” The guard smiles, revealing a mouthful of braces. Just how old is this guy? And when did management start hiring teenagers to guard the practice wing after hours? “I didn’t realize you had to press pound after the code.”

I dig the heel of my hand into my chest again. “It’s fine.”

Stone’s smile fades. “You okay, brother?”

I wince. “I think it’s just heartburn. Or…fuck, I don’t know. Guess I was a little more stressed about being locked in there than I thought.”

The kid blinks behind his glasses. “You should go get checked out. My dad had his first heart attack when he was only forty-three.”

“I’m not forty-three,” I grit out, tension coiling in my jaw. “I’m not even thirty.”

“He’s twenty-nine,” Stone offers as he puts a hand on my shoulder and starts down the hall, dragging me along with him. “A hard twenty-nine, but still…”

“Fuck off,” I groan past the burn in my chest.

“Nope,” Stone says cheerfully, “but you can feel free to explore peace and quiet while I take you to see Doc Peterson. Lucky for you, he stayed late to do my physical, so I’ll be clear to play in that charity tournament next week. If we hustle, we can catch him before he leaves.”

“I don’t need to see the doctor, I?—”

“Save it for someone who doesn’t know you refuse to acknowledge weakness, even when you’re playing with a dislocated finger.” Stone pushes open the door to the stairwell, thanking the guard before we step inside. “Walk,” he adds to me at the foot of the stairs. “Or let me know if you’re still feeling yucky, and I can carry you, pumpkin. I can do that for you. No problem.”

“Fuck off,” I repeat as I start up the stairs.

I’m smart enough to know when I’ve been beaten.

Most of the time, anyway…

“Blood pressure is…168 over 98,” Doc Peterson announces ten minutes later, removing the cuff from my arm with a disapproving frown. “That’s hypertension territory, Theodore.”

I grimace at the use of my full name. No one calls me Theodore. I was Theo in school, Yo-Yo to my friends as a teen, LiBassi during my first stint in the NHL, and “Tank” ever since, a nickname I gave myself so I’ll never forget how I tanked my fucking life.

So that I’ll never be tempted to do it again…

“It’s just been a non-stop kind of day, doc,” I say, forcing a smile. “I probably didn’t get enough water, and I think I might have a touch of claustrophobia or something. I wasn’t a fan of being trapped in that equipment room.”

“Can’t blame you,” Stone says. “It smells like toxic socks in there.”

“Yes, but toxic socks don’t give you blood pressure like this,” the doctor counters, typing notes into his tablet. “And how’s that shoulder? Still giving you trouble?”

I resist the urge to roll the shoulder in question, refusing to show weakness in front of a man who could decide I’m not fit to play. “It’s fine. Hardly acts up at all anymore. I’m going to be in rock solid shape for training camp.”

“Good, but this blood pressure needs to come down,” Doc Peterson continues, setting his tablet on a small rolling cart and facing me directly. “You need to stop pushing so hard. Make time to relax and take better care of yourself. No one can grind twenty-four seven.”

“I don’t grind twenty-four seven,” I say, earning a dubious grunt from Stone. I glare his way. “I don’t. I’ve cut down on my client load.”

“And you added coaching at the youth camps,” Stone counters. “Which is even more work. I love kids as much as the next guy, but that’s a lot of chaos. Why don’t you let me help you out? I can fill in for you tomorrow at camp, finish Friday out strong for the rugrats. That way you’ll have three days to chill out.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to feel grateful instead of threatened. Stone is just trying to be a friend. It isn’t his fault that I take every sign that my body might be deteriorating as an existential threat. “But I don’t need rest.”

“I agree,” the doc says, surprising me. “Rest alone isn’t going to cut it. You need coping skills, a way to process stress effectively. You can only muscle through on will power alone for so long, Theodore.”

I stare at the floor, at the scuffed toes of my motorcycle boots, not wanting to admit he could be right. Three years ago, I was circling the drain—a washed-up goalie with a pill habit and nowhere to go but six feet under. Now, through pure will power and grit, I’ve rebuilt my life, my career. But my body, the only thing I’ve ever been able to rely on, is betraying me. And I know enough about health and fitness to realize stress is at least partly to blame.

I’m just not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do about it.

“What are my options?” I finally ask, the words like ash in my mouth. “I really don’t want to be on blood pressure meds. I don’t like taking pills.” The irony of that statement isn’t lost on me, but what can I say? Now that I’m clean, I want to stay clean. I don’t touch even over-the-counter drugs aside from the occasional ibuprofen and arnica gel I rub on my shoulder before bed.

Doc Peterson sighs. “Medication might become necessary down the line, but I would suggest lifestyle modifications first. Better nutrition, lower salt intake, a potassium supplement, consistent sleep… And yoga could be great for you. I bet you would really benefit from some time on the mat.”

Stone makes a choking sound that I’m pretty sure is suppressed laughter.

It makes me wish I’d held on to Bucky, so I’d have something to throw at him.

“Stretching? You think I need more stretching?” I ask, my tone making it clear what I think of that.

“Yoga is a lot more than stretching,” Peterson says. “It’s a form of moving meditation, of body-mind awareness. You practice dealing with physical stress on the mat, so you’re more prepared for all kinds of stress in your daily life.” He smiles, his brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “And it’s fun. I feel great after yoga.”

“Me, too,” Stone pipes up, the traitor. “There’s actually a woman who teaches a team class on Saturday mornings when the Badgers are in town. I met her when I was visiting a friend here last year. She’s super cute. I think her name is Stacey or Stephanie or something?”

I frown harder. “It’s Stephanie.”

Stone’s brows lift. “Oh yeah? You know her?”

I do know Stephanie, a perky little hippie who’s close with my friend Shane’s girlfriend, Bree. She’s beautiful, ridiculously innocent-looking for a woman in her twenties, and so sweet that the one time I chatted with her for more than a few minutes, I nearly developed a cavity.

“No offense, but I’d rather be punched in the stomach,” I say. “Repeatedly. I can’t handle that much positivity at once. Especially first thing in the morning.”

Stone smirks. “Well, lucky for you, she has her own studio and teaches evening classes, too.”

“Stephanie Love, right?” Peterson asks, continuing at Stone’s nod. “Yeah, she’s great. She specializes in the needs of athletes, especially hockey players. I think she’d be a good fit for you, Theodore. And I’m pretty sure she’ll be teaching classes during training camp, too, so you’d benefit from getting to know her style.”

Perfect. They’re ganging up on me now.

I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of my stubble against my palm, counting silently to ten to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think. Just do it. Sign up for a couple classes a week until camp starts,” the doctor says. “Consider it a prescription, and we’ll check in again at your intake physical. Here, I actually think I have one of her cards in my wallet.”

Once he’s fetched it, I take the card quickly, stuffing it into my pocket without bothering to read the front. After all, I know who she is. And where she teaches. Shane pointed her studio out on our way to lunch after a coaching session before he left to play for Kansas City. “Anything else, doc? I’ll add a kale smoothie into my routine, too. I hear kale heals all things.”

“Kale is great,” Peterson says with a wry smile. “But not a replacement for stress management. Just go take a class or two. You’ll thank us later.”

As we head toward the parking lot, Stone triples down, “Seriously, just go to yoga, okay? Yoga’s great and…well, I ran into Garcia today. He’s gunning for you, man. He thinks he can get promoted to starting goalie if he shows you up in training camp.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, my stupid heart pounding faster again. “What a little fuck he is. We practiced together a few weeks ago. He was blowing smoke up my ass about how much he was going to ‘learn from me’ the entire time.”

“Yeah, he’s a weasel,” Stone says. “But he’s young and fresh, with no bum body parts. Unlike geezers like us.”

Stone is even older than I am—he just celebrated his thirty-third birthday last weekend—but he doesn’t have anything close to my checkered past. He made the transition to the Badgers after a solid career with our old team in Washington. He’s getting paid good money to be here, not pulling the lowest salary in the NHL as a last-minute goalie replacement management clearly isn’t certain won’t disappoint them in the end.

“The more you can get your house in order, the better,” Stone continues. “Get that blood pressure down, take care of your shoulder, make it as easy as possible for management to welcome you to the team with open arms.”

I nod. “You’re right. I’ll find a yoga class and back off any shoulder-taxing shit in my coaching sessions. I didn’t come this far to hand the starting position to Garcia because I was pushing too hard.”

“Good.” Stone lifts a hand for me to clasp as we stop by where I parked my Harley. “And sleep in tomorrow, okay? I’ll cover you at camp.”

I nod, waving as he starts toward his truck. “Thanks, brother. Appreciate it.”

I settle my helmet into place before pulling out Stephanie’s card, staring at it in the glow of the parking lot lights. The thought of subjecting myself to toxic hippie positivity for a couple hours a week isn’t ideal, but I want a successful return to the NHL more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

If there’s even a snowball’s chance in hell that Stephanie Love can help with that…

I tuck the card back into my pocket.

One session. I’ll try one session, see how many cavities I get, and go from there.

After all, how bad could it possibly be?