Chapter Two #2
I could answer her question with a simple yes, but since she talked shit about my attitude to management, I indulge the urge to make her sweat a little. “Remember you? Hmm.”
A faint flush colors her cheeks as she lifts her chin slightly. “Never mind. I guess not.”
After a long pause, I snap my fingers. “Wait a second. There was this brunette who skated right up to me and my friends and insulted my stick handling once, at EdgeCraft Camp in North Cali. Ironically it was mere months before I was contacted by my first NHL scout. Might that have been you, Rivers?”
She laughs, the sound a quick, bright spark that makes my pulse jump. “You know it was me. And you know I was right.”
Irritation prickles low in my gut. “No, you weren’t. Is that why you brought this up? To give me notes before our first practice even happens?”
“Nah, no notes.” The smile that lifts her lips is completely unbothered. “Yet.”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” I say flatly.
“Yeah?” She steals a look at me, her gaze flicking up and down before returning to the road. “You have.”
I have no idea what to do with that, and it only makes me tenser.
She turns into the practice facility’s back lot. A security gate lifts, activated by a barcode on the window of the golf cart, and she flies through.
“This is where you’ll park—players and Fury staff only. Visitors use the front entrance.” We cruise past a row of expensive vehicles. “I recognize these cars. A few of the guys are here, probably in the weight room. The grind never sleeps.”
“It’s the night before training camp,” I say. “Unless they’re content to turn in another shittastic season, that’s exactly where they should be.”
“I prefer shittacular,” she retorts, glancing at me askance. Her eyes are even bluer in the sunlight. “But point taken.”
Fifty-nine losses. It wasn’t a season so much as a national spectacle—a horror show on ice, starring at least some of the buffoons “grinding” in the weight room right now.
She jerks the wheel right and pulls into the spot reserved for the head coach—or so says the silver sign—before slamming on her brakes. I brace my core to keep from lurching forward. If she drives cars like she drives carts, Portland is in trouble. “We’re here!”
How unfortunate, given why we’re here.
I pause for longer than I intend to, so much that Sadie has already hopped out of the cart and taken a few steps by the time she realizes I’m not following.
Her expression shifts to something almost sympathetic as the wind ruffles her ponytail. “C’mon. You’re going to love Dr. Bonifacio. Everyone does.”
I cannot have her thinking I’m scared of a damn doctor. She already thinks I can’t handle my stick.
With a dismissive grunt, I launch out of my seat after her. The girl is fast. “Is warp your usual speed?”
She lifts her badge to the reader. “Yes, actually.”
We enter the facility through a scuffed black door that feeds to an atrium. The practice rink, flanked by a few small bleachers, takes up a majority of the space before us.
On our right, the curving hallway leads to a gym visible through huge floor-to-ceiling windows. On our left are various doors leading to locker rooms, recovery rooms, medical offices, and a break lounge.
Unlike California, there’s no banner, branding, or discernible evidence that an NHL team practices here.
Happiness gleams in Sadie’s eyes as she looks around. “What do you think? Perfect, right?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s fine.”
She checks her watch. “Doc first. I’ll give you a tour after, if we have time before we hit the press room.”
My skin already feels too tight, and these mentions of the press room aren’t helping.
In no world do I need to draw attention to my unfortunate situation in the form of a Q and A with strangers.
My father will cover the news of my move to the Fury on his network show, Hockey Talk with Hugo McLaren, and that will be humiliating enough.
“Why are we bothering with that last part? Signing my name on a piece of paper doesn’t require an audience. ”
Sadie stares at the rink as she answers. “You’re our biggest sound bite this week, and Andy never misses a publicity moment. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s him making sure his buddies from The Portland Register and NHL Nightly report on his players—”
“Hey coach!” A man with wavy brown hair who I immediately recognize as the Fury’s power forward, Nic Lindberg, emerges from the gym and bounds toward us, letting the door slam into the guy exiting behind him. “Did you know jellyfish don’t have brains?”
A tan guy with light hair swaggers out behind Nic, mopping his sweat with a towel. “Why do you ruin every offensive thing I say by not being offended? It kills my fun.”
The accent is strong on him. Callum Von Calder, a fellow D-man from New Zealand. Fresh-faced and probably too opinionated for his own good, as all twenty-four-year-olds tend to be.
He might still be twenty-three, come to think of it. When did everyone get so fucking young?
“Because I don’t give a shit that you think I’m brainless. You sent me down a rabbit hole about jellyfish and they’re fucking cool.” Nic does a double take when he spots me. Pointing, he announces, “Holy shit. You’re Leo McLaren.”
I never know what to say to that, but luckily he doesn’t give me a chance to speak.
“I saw a rumor online this morning that I’d written off,” he continues, “but you’re actually—shit, welcome aboard. Crazy to meet a legend in the flesh. I would never have admitted that when we were on opposite sides, but here we are, same house.” He sticks out his hand for me to shake.
Energy drinks must fear this guy.
Sadie steps forward and lowers his hand.
“Easy, killer. Leo hasn’t officially signed anything yet.
He could still walk away in the next few hours.
” The look she gives me is laced with sass as she subtly throws my words back in my face.
“Nic has been with the team for three seasons, but we snagged Kiwi Cal at the end of last year. These two are rising stars.”
Callum gives me a cursory look of disgust, ignoring her compliment completely. His voice holds none of Nic’s enthusiasm. “Didn’t you retire?”
“No. I didn’t.”
What possible reason would I have to be in this practice arena if I had?
“So you’re back to play for the Fury, of all teams?” he presses.
“I never left. Never once said I was going to retire.” If I didn’t already know we played the same position, his defensive attitude would surely give it away. “Hence why I’m here.”
A decision I question more with each passing second.
He narrows his eyes. “Right. Guess you don’t really get much of a say whether or not someone picks you up. Take what you can get and all.”
I grit my teeth to keep from telling him to fuck immediately off, mostly because Sadie’s gaze is boring into the side of my face and I doubt she’d appreciate me rising to his bait.
Not that it matters what she thinks.
Callum turns his attention to Sadie. “Where’s Vivi?”
“Coach Vivi is off today,” Sadie says evenly. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“It’s my skates.”
“Christ, not the haunted skates again,” Nic groans. “Just get a new pair.”
Callum levels him with a death stare. “They’re lucky. I’m not ready to replace them. And if Vivi is the skate whisperer or whatever it is they called her on Bleacher Report, then she should be able to help me get them back into shape.”
“They don’t call her that because she can fix skates, dumbass. They call her that because every figure skater she’s ever coached wins like crazy.”
“Well, that luck better extend to us, dumbass,” Callum retorts.
“It’s not luck, it’s her expertise,” Sadie declares. “Tomorrow we’ll make sure we get those skates taken care of. And if Vivi can’t fix them, we’ll find someone who can. I’ll make sure of it.”
Nic shakes his head as if disappointed. “Don’t indulge him. That’s why Bleacher Report calls you the bleeding heart.”
Callum shoots him a shit-eating grin. “Jealous that she’s being nice to me?”
Is this how I acted in my early twenties? If so, I pity my former teammates.
I’ve never played against Callum—he came to the states after my injury took me out at the end of last season—but Nic I’ve gone to war with on the ice a few times. I’d prefer that to even another minute of this conversation.
“Anyway, so jellyfish—box jellyfish, specifically—don’t have a brain,” Nic continues. “I searched it up after Callum failed to hurt my feelings by comparing me to one—”
“—which I regret, since it ruined our fucking workout—”
“—and they’ve got a nerve net that controls their body. And twenty-four eyes—”
“Nic,” Sadie interjects, “can we rain check? I’ve got to get Leo here to Dr. Bonifacio.”
“I can get myself there,” I say plainly.
“Things you never tell a woman,” Callum says under his breath.
Sadie either pretends not to hear this stupid joke—I hope it’s a joke, otherwise he’s an even bigger tool bag than I thought—or she’s choosing to ignore it completely. “Bonifacio’s is the third door on the left, that direction. I’ll be in my office when you’re done. Come find me.”
I glance toward the hall of doors. “Where’s your office?”
“Inside the men’s locker room.” She pauses briefly before adding, “They frosted my windows and gave me a thick shade, in case you were concerned.”
With that, she turns on her heel and takes off with the fast, confident walk of someone who knows she’s being watched and would rather get it over with.
I’m not watching her. Nor is Nic, who is already on his phone, presumably returning to his damn jellyfish search.
But Callum doesn’t bother to hide it. “Mmph. A lifetime of skating does incredible things for a woman’s ass.”
I ball my fists. What an idiot.
And a bold one at that. If this guy who barely looks old enough to buy liquor and brazenly checks out his coach is one of the Fury’s “rising stars,” I’m not looking forward to meeting the rest of the roster.
If that even happens. I’ve still got this damn physical to get through.
My nerves refresh themselves like a stuck browser, and the discomfort pisses me off even more. I don’t bother with goodbyes as I head toward the doctor’s office to get it over with.
The door leads me to an open area with three medical beds parked far enough apart that they can somewhat claim privacy. An old oscillating fan whirs in the corner of the room. It looks like it creates more noise than airflow, which is maybe the point.
The room is unoccupied apart from the guy seated behind a small desk. It’s eerily quiet, and the second desk—much more decorated, with a sign that reads Fallon Fairmont ATC, CSCS—is empty. The med wing will see a lot more action after training camp starts tomorrow.
For now, though, it’s so quiet I can hear the ridiculous drum of my pulse.
Dr. Bonifacio steps out from behind his desk to greet me, taking a tablet with him. He’s a short older man with medium-brown skin, glasses as thick as a puck, and the build of someone who works hard to stay fit for their age. The only hint of personality is a gold chain around his neck. “Leo?”
“McLaren, yeah.”
“I’m Vincent Bonifacio. Have a seat on the bed.” He regards his tablet. “Thought you might’ve changed your mind since you’re running so late. I already sent the trainer to lunch.”
Still waiting for the part where I “love Dr. Bonifacio,” as Sadie assured me I would. My mind flashes to her pedal-to-the-metal antics to get us here faster. “Sorry, sir. Do we need to reschedule? I could come back later—”
“No need.” He looks down at his tablet’s screen, giving me a view of the top of his head. “You were injured last season, correct?”
My stomach roils. It’s normal to start a sports physical with discussions of prior injuries. This is standard protocol, nothing more.
This fact does little to soothe me. “I was cleared by my last doctor. He sent the paperwork this morning.”
Dr. Bonifacio scrolls quietly, concentration etched into his forehead. “Yes, I’ve reviewed the documents from your last team. Your shoulder issue didn’t progress to surgery?”
“No. Time off and a little PT fixed me right up.”
His gaze slides to my shoulder. “No lingering pain?”
A crack echoes through my brain, a memory unleashed from its tether: a body colliding with mine, colors swirling together as I smashed into the boards.
The other player’s momentum took us both down, and then I was trapped beneath him, my arm bent at a horrific angle.
My muscles and tendons screamed at me to move, but I couldn’t.
This guy wanted a fight, and he did it the sneakiest way possible, by “struggling” to get up.
Seconds felt like hours as he held me hostage there.
It was a dirty hit from Ivan Czernecki.
The captain of the Fury.
I blink and clear my thoughts. “No pain.”
His gaze is probing as he affixes a blood pressure cuff to my arm. “Numbness, stiffness, tingling, headaches?”
“None.”
He hums thoughtfully.
Fuck, was none too far of a stretch? I should’ve told him it’s sore on rainy days, or that it hurts when I stretch too hard, something believable.
Panic stirs in my blood. The cuff squeezes and hisses as it tightens on my arm.
I’m afraid to drop his gaze and give him a reason to question me. He’ll sense that lapse in my confidence like a bloodhound. Sports doctors are trained to do just that. The good ones care about athletes, but all of them care about not getting sued.
The reality of sitting here with my future in this guy’s hands is even more miserable than I’d imagined it’d be when I boarded the red eye and anticipatory dread kept me awake all night.
The monitor beeps.
Beeps again, louder.
I never wanted to play for anyone other than the Grizzlies, but I’d made peace with being traded or released. It’s all part of the job. After how last year went, I was open to any decent team who would have me.
But in those weeks of silence, staring down the barrel of the unknown, my fears took new and worsening forms. Shadows on the wall morphed into monsters.
I thought I’d never play again. Not in the NHL, at least.
Everything about this situation sucks, but even this—even playing for the worst team the league has ever seen—is better than not playing at all. It has to be.
I cannot fail this physical.
My blood pressure appears on the screen, a number that seems to give him no pause. That shocks me, given how high the pressure feels.
He places the bell of a stethoscope over my raging heart to finish taking my vitals.
“Okay, Leo.” He gestures for me to stand. “Now comes the fun part. Let’s see if this machine of yours is ready for prime time.”
Come hell or high water, I’ll be ready.
All I’ve got to do is hide the pain long enough to get through the rest of this poking and prodding, as though my life depends on it.
Because it does.