CHAPTER FIVE
GRIFFIN
"Again."
It doesn't matter that I've done this exercise forty-seven times already this morning. Dex says again, and I go again.
I push into the step-up, controlled and deliberate, watching my form in the mirror the way he's trained me to. The knee tracks and holds. There's only the faintest complaint—a whisper of instability that I doubt anyone else would even clock—but I feel it.
It's there like a word you can't quite remember, hovering just at the edge of your awareness. Not quite pain. Just a reminder.
The injury is still here.
"Good," Dex says, making a note on his tablet. He's a compact guy, built like a middleweight, and he's been fixing professional athletes for fifteen years. He doesn't hand out compliments often. "You're compensating less on the lateral push. Range is almost back to baseline."
"Almost," I repeat.
"Yes." He levels me with a look. "You know what almost means, Griffin."
"It means I'm not there yet."
"It means you're close." He shuts the cover over his tablet. "Close is where we want to be at this point in the off-season.”
“With an expiring contract?” I challenge him. Every day closer to August first is another shred of my sanity gone. My seven-year contract, the one they offered me after my rookie contract, is expiring July thirty-first. If they choose not to renew me, I’ll be a free agent in August.
And potentially unemployed.
“You've still got the summer ahead of you. Keep doing what you're doing."
I grab my water bottle and drain half of it, scrubbing my forearm across my face. "I've been recovering since the middle of last season." I keep my voice easy, like I'm just making an observation. Like it doesn't gnaw at me constantly. "You’d think I’d get credit for all the resting I’ve done.”
Dex's mouth curves, because he knows better than anyone how impatient I am. "No."
"Brutal." I drop back onto the bench. "Fuckin’ brutal, Dex."
"That's what you pay me for." He pulls up something on the tablet mounted to the wall.
"I'm going to send you a revised program for the next six weeks.
I want you in the gym every day, but listen to the knee.
If it's talking, you back off and let me know immediately.
Don't try to outrun it. You listen to me, you’ll be back on the ice by training camp. "
His words are supposed to be encouraging, but all I can hear in my head are the doubts. I need to make up for lost time. I need to show Marchetti, the general manager, that I’m worth keeping.
Dex doesn’t know if I’ll get traded for an up-and-coming rookie. He has no say in whether my professional athlete career will ultimately become a thing of the past when the team decides to bet on fresh talent instead of this washed-up thirty-something with a season-ending injury on his record.
I'd felt the knee complaining before it blew.
Thought I could push through it, get to the other side, because that's what you do when you've been playing professional hockey for as long as I have.
Instead I'd blown out my ACL so badly during a mid-season game against Pittsburgh that I'd spent ten minutes on the ice wondering if I'd ever walk again.
Ten minutes is an eternity when your whole identity is built on the ice. I realized then I’m not ready to give this career up—not for an injury, not for anything. I love the black and white rules of the career. Put work in, get success out. It plays well with my need for control.
But I want to be the one to decide when I hang up my skates.
Not my knee.
"Back on the ice by training camp,” I say, wanting it to be true.
“You’re focused,” Dex says in a tone that’s his version of a fatherly pat on the back. “Don’t let that change.”
His words ring in my ears as I pack up after PT and head out.
The drive to my Cleveland condo—my hockey season outpost—takes fifteen minutes from the clinic, cutting through the busy congestion of downtown.
It's familiar enough that I do it on autopilot, one hand on the wheel, focusing on attracting good news from Marchetti. It’s still early to know whether they’ll renew my contract, but I can’t bring myself to consider the alternative: that I’ll be a floating free agent, potentially downgraded to the minor league, come August.
But thoughts of Casey creep in, like they have been lately. Whenever I let my mind wander, there she is.
That knuckle-bitingly beautiful golden brunette with the most perfect sundress collection. The “old friend” who now has a toothbrush at my house. Chaotic Casey with the perfect thighs and a smile that makes my chest warm.
Dex’s words return to me. You’re focused. Don’t let that waver.
If I see it in my head, it will come. That’s my motto. It’s never failed me before. And I won’t let it fail me now, especially while I’m on pins and needles waiting to learn the fate of my career.
Which means Casey might be a problem. She’s making my focus waver, however hard that is to admit. If she’d breezed back into town four years ago, I might have been more disposed to a dalliance. But now? While I’m waiting for my contract to be renewed with a knot the size of my fist in my gut?
I can’t do shit with her, even if my cock heartily disagrees.
The condo is quiet when I push through the door.
It’s my Cleveland home, but it feels more like an extended-stay hotel.
I grabbed it seven years ago when I signed the long-term contract with the Crushers—good building, doorman, five minutes from the arena.
It's nice enough that Piper gives me shit about my “billionaire penthouse,” but it’s just jokes because this thing barely cracked a million.
I like to swing by when I can to make sure everything’s okay during the off-season.
I poke my head into the main bedroom as well as the two guest rooms, then walk along the windows overlooking the lake and the grid of downtown.
Even though it’s my home base during the season, I never end up spending much time here.
From September through April, my life is only practice, games, and travel.
When I'm not on the ice, I'm sleeping. When I'm not sleeping, I'm here eating something out of a takeout container and watching film.
It’s been my routine for the past eight years. It’s served me well.
I just don’t know if this is going to be my last summer considering myself a Cleveland Crusher.
The anxiety returns, gnawing and fierce. I don’t want to think about it, so I head for the fridge, which I've been dreading. The last time I was here was three weeks ago, a quick stopover before a PT session, and I'd left in a hurry and hadn't bothered to deal with what was inside.
The answer, as it turns out, is a block of cheese that has spawned a whole civilization of multicolored mold, half a bag of spinach that is now more liquid than leaf, and six eggs that I'm not willing to test. It could be worse.
I carefully deposit everything into a trash bag, being sure to breathe through my mouth.
When my phone lights up with Casey’s name, I abandon the trash bag and scramble to answer.
I haven’t seen her since the farmer’s market last weekend, though I’ve battled the urge to make plans with her every day since.
As soon as I swipe the phone to answer, there’s static and a weird scratching sound.
“Hello?”
She doesn’t answer. More of the muffled sound happens, and then I faintly hear her voice in the background, far away, like she’s speaking through layers of cotton.
“Oh my gosh, seriously?”
“Casey?” I say, though I get the sense her phone is somewhere else, like maybe her pocket or purse. Still, I listen for a response. Because she called me.
“This is so exciting,” Casey says in response to someone I didn’t hear. I catch the undertones of a male voice, and then she says, “Griffin is going to be really happy when he finds out. He had such wonderful things to say about you.”
I’m wracking my brain, beyond curious about what I’m overhearing or who she’s talking to. I tie up the trash bag as she wraps up her conversation, and when I hear her say “Bye,” I try again.
“Casey, can you hear me?” I say into the phone. “Casey.”
There’s more rustling noise, and then suddenly Casey’s voice is crystal clear in my ear.
“Griffin?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say with a laugh. That warmth is blooming in my chest again, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. “What the heck just happened?”
“How are you…why….” She pauses, and I can just imagine her confused face. “Did you call me?”
“Actually you called me,” I clarify. “When I picked up you were at the tail end of another conversation.”
“This is wild,” she whispers. “I was thinking of calling you to share the good news, and apparently my phone took the lead.”
I enjoy this tidbit more than I can express. “So what’s the good news? Let’s hear it.”
“I got the job!” She lets out a little squeal. “At Brews on the Bay! Thanks to you!”
“You serious? That’s awesome!” I wish I could be there in person to hug her, properly this time. Maybe for a full five minutes…and with a kiss at the end. “When do you start?”
“This weekend,” she gushes. “Which is good, because I need a few days to brush up on all the drink recipes. I might not remember how to make a martini, it’s been so long since I’ve bartended.”
“You’ll pick it up in no time.” I take the trash bag out of my apartment and down to the trash closet on my floor. “I’ll come out and order a random drink from you this weekend just to see how you do.”
She snort-laughs. “I definitely need to start brushing up then. We’re playing cocktail roulette now.”
“What will I order? An old fashioned? A margarita? Maybe an Arnold Palmer,” I tease. “It could be anything.”
“Hopefully it’s just the IPA you drank last weekend,” she cracks.
I’m oddly touched that she remembers what I was drinking. “I’m surprised you remember that, considering how drunk you were.”