2. Calvin
CALVIN
My groan of frustration bounces off the walls of my home gym as I drop the dumbbells to the floor. I can still lift as heavily as I could before, but it’s not the same. Having a fucked-up leg is ruining everything.
Sure, not being able to play hockey fucking sucks. This isn’t my first injury, although it is my worst to date, and something tells me that it won’t be my last. I have every confidence that I’ll get back on the ice after I’ve recovered from this. But…but will I still be in the Vipers barn?
My contract is coming to an end soon, and so far, the team seems to be doing great without me. What if they don’t want to re-sign me? What if this is the end of my time in LA?
There are some incredible teams out there. But it doesn’t matter how good they are, how big my chances are of playing in another Stanley Cup Final, or securing a spot on the Olympic team. I don’t want to be anywhere but here.
My friends are here. Hell, they’re not just my friends. They’re my goddamn family.
My chest heaves, sweat running down my skin and soaking into the waistband of my shorts.
I was at the arena all day, working on my rehab and attending team meetings with the guys as if everything is normal.
But it’s not normal, and I fear it never will be again.
While the guys are all working on drills, I’m stuck in the gym, attempting to ride a fucking bike.
Pain tears through my chest as I think about how hard it is to move that fucking pedal.
I hate feeling weak and incapable. It brings back memories that have no place in my life now.
I did it. I achieved my dream. I fought against all the doubt and beat all the odds.
The skinny little runt of a boy from a small town no one has ever heard of in Texas made it all the way to the NHL.
And it wasn’t just everyone around me who doubted my skills and ability to make my dream a reality. A lot of the time, I didn’t think I’d make it either.
But here I am living in a penthouse in LA and playing for an incredible team that made it all the way to the finals last year.
I’m also surrounded by the most amazing people.
My teammates are some of the best friends I’ve ever had. And the girls they seem to keep collecting are pretty cool, too.
Not so long ago, we were all a bunch of single guys living our best lives as professional hockey players and reaping all the benefits that come with it.
Fuck, they were good times.
But one by one, each of my boys has met his girl, and their lives have changed beyond belief.
Linc would rather spend an evening being tortured by Parker.
Although I can’t deny it, having our athletic trainer at his disposal twenty-four-seven means that he’s in the best condition he has ever been in.
He’s also happier, which is saying quite a lot, because he’s always been pretty happy.
I can’t really say the same for Handsy, our tendy.
He was always a grumpy motherfucker. But then, he is a goalie.
They’re a different fucking breed. But since meeting Freya, he never stops fucking smiling.
It’s weird. Even my old defensive partner, fuckboy Everett Donnelly, is happily coupled up with a baby on the way.
Fuck, life sure has changed. I can’t even attempt to take Marilyn out with me now to find bunnies. Christ knows how he managed to snag a woman like Hailee, but the little fucker managed it.
Since moving to LA, I’ve never felt lonely. My teammates have always been there to distract me from the parts of my life I’d rather not think about.
I need to find a bunny.
I really need to get laid.
Lying back on the weight bench, I close my eyes as I think back to the last woman I hooked up with.
A blur of faces and hair colors fills my head. A range of hotel rooms meld into one, stopping me from pinpointing the exact event.
Stopping cold turkey has fucked me up. But while I’m in this situation, while I can’t perform in the way the bunnies expect of Calvin “Killer” Keller, I refuse to even try.
The last thing I need right now, while my world crumbles around me, are shitty articles on the bunny sites claiming that I’ve lost my touch.
I don’t know how long I lie there, wallowing in self-pity, but eventually, I force myself to my feet—or foot—and hobble over to where I abandoned my cell.
The guys are getting back from a road game today. They killed it again last night against Dallas. That’s one of the few games I’m willing to miss.
The arena might be a long-ass way from my hometown, but just being in Texas is bad enough. The less time I spend there, the better.
When I wake up my cell, the past that I’m desperately trying to ignore rears its ugly head again in the form of a missed call from my mom.
There’s also a whole stream of messages in the boys' group chat, which I ignore as I make my way to my bathroom for a shower.
I drop my shorts and boxers to the floor, but unlike previously, I don’t kick them into—or at least at—the laundry basket.
A frustrated cry spills from my lips. I can’t even fucking do that.
The powerful stream of hot water goes some way toward making me feel better. But right now, only a fucking miracle will fix all my problems.
When I finally get out, I haphazardly dry off, scrub my towel over my head, and call it a day with my hair before pulling on a clean pair of sweats and hobbling toward the kitchen.
I pull one of my preprepared meals from the fridge and throw it into the microwave to heat up. I reach back into the fridge on autopilot, but I stop myself the second my fingers connect with the cold bottle of water.
During the season, the only time I really allow myself to drink anything other than water, or my one coffee in the morning, is after a game.
But considering I don’t have any in the foreseeable future, or anything other than endless rehab to try and get my knee functioning as it should again, I reconsider my options.
Abandoning the water, I reach for one of the two beers that are in my fridge. Before my injury, I can’t remember the last time I even had beer in my fridge, let alone spent an evening drinking alone.
I had better things to do. Hang out with the guys or head out in search of a bunny or two. Or three.
The first goes down too easily, and before my meal is ready, I’m reaching for the second.
Thirty minutes later, I place an order to have some more delivered to my apartment, and I fall onto my couch with my game controller in hand.
Pulling my cell from my pocket, I open up the guys’ group chat.
Killer: Anyone down for a game?
It takes longer than usual for anyone to respond, and I know why.
Donny: Can’t. Rubbing Bea’s sore feet.
Storm: Her feet…You’re such a fucking liar.
Marilyn: Already in bed, dude
Storm: Woot woot. Marilyn is getting some!!!
The banter between them continues for a few minutes, and I just sit and watch. At no point do Handsy or Kodie appear. I guess they’re already too distracted to even bother messaging back.
A weird feeling pulls at my stomach.
If I were a smarter man, I might acknowledge it as jealousy. But I’m not fucking smart, and I’m more than happy lying to myself.
I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that.
But right now, while I’m sitting here alone, and all my boys are entertained by their ladies, I can’t deny that having one of my own here to distract me would be kinda nice.
Eventually, the chat goes silent, and I throw my cell to the couch cushion beside me and pick my controller back up. Fuck my friends; there are plenty of people online who are willing to lose to me.
Not fitting into my old life fucking sucks.
Spending my days having PT sessions with Cromwell, and the rest of my time in the gym.
Darcy, our athletic trainer, seems to have drawn the short straw and is helping me through my rehab, instead of being out there on the ice with the guys. But it’s even worse on a game day.
The guys have already been in for morning skate, and we’ve had our team meeting. They’ve all now disappeared to continue with their pregame rituals to get ready for tonight—another home match-up where I’m going to be forced to stand in the tunnel and watch.
I fucking hate this.
“That’s already looking so much better,” Darcy tells me. His voice is light and positive, but considering I learned to ride a bike at the age of about five, hearing that I’m doing better at it, now at almost thirty, falls a little fucking flat.
The glare I give him in response must say everything I’m thinking, because he follows it up with, “I know it’s hard. But we’re going to get you back on that ice before you know it.”
I scoff. That’s bullshit and we both know it.
He knows my recovery schedule just as much as I do. Unless I get that miracle I’m hoping for, I’m not going to be lacing up my skates and stepping onto the ice for at least another six months.
It might sound dramatic, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to wait that long.
Skating has always been my personal form of therapy.
It helped me as a kid who never felt like I’d be able to achieve my dream.
A kid who was constantly trying to break free of the mold that everyone was trying to force me into.
It was the same when I finally escaped and landed myself a full ride to the college of my dreams. But while it was everything I wanted, it wasn’t easy.
Hell, it was hard fucking work. And then getting my big shot in the NHL.
Being a first-round pick after all the doubts cemented everything I knew about my skills.
But the pressure that came hand in hand with that…
Fuck me. Some days it was utterly debilitating.
Things have gotten easier. Shifting out of my rookie status sure helped.
But with every year that’s passed, my confidence has grown, and until a few weeks ago, I knew that I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Life was fucking fantastic. And then it all came crashing down thanks to an asshole named Cooper Nash who couldn’t keep his fucking anger in check.
And now, everything I’ve worked so hard for, all the sacrifices I’ve made, might have been for nothing.
I’m not ready for this to be the end for me. Nowhere near fucking ready.