Chapter 42
Beckett
I’m lying on my back, windshield wipering my knees back and forth slowly as I wait for my ten-thirty appointment, to be evaluated by the medical team, when my phone buzzes.
Larsen
You’re coming to our place to watch the Bears play the Archers tonight, yeah?
Me
No.
Larsen
I already told the chef you’ll be there. It’s going to be all the carbs you can eat.
Me
Not this time.
I set the phone back next to me and stand, dropping into a series of slow, easy side lunges and hip flexor stretches. The first few weeks after the season ends—especially if you don’t make it deep into the playoffs—are all about rest and recovery.
So I’m resting. And recovering. And following the individualized programs the physical therapist, strength coaches, and doctors gave me. And it’s been the longest three days of my life. Because it turns out, when you’re prioritizing injury rehab, you spend a lot of time resting. And I hate resting.
My phone vibrates again, and I groan in anticipation of Larsen’s comeback. This isn’t what I need. Instead, though, it’s someone much harder for me to ignore.
Li
Come to the watch party tonight. I promise you can have the seat furthest from Larsen.
Me
Can’t tonight.
My fingers tap the screen, a guilty energy flowing through me at the white lie.
Li
What could you possibly have going on? Lefevre said he saw you at the arena five minutes ago, so I know you’re still in town.
You know what? Don’t answer that. I know it’s nothing, and I don’t want you to lie to me. Again.
I’ll see you at seven, or we’re moving the party to your place.
I don’t bother responding. Not that I need to. At least if I go to their place, I’ll be able to leave when I want. If they show up at my place, they’ll barge in and stay. And stay. And keep on staying, way past the time I want to go to bed.
Finally, Doctor Lowell calls me back for my end-of-season evaluation.
“Ready, Kane?”
No. Never ready for a physical evaluation.
“Of course!” I say instead, walking into the medical room, where Doctor Lowell and two trainers are waiting for me.
They have me run through a timeline of my hip symptoms, from onset to aggravating factors to when it improved.
They map the various pain areas across my body, which extend beyond my injury to include my lower back and left shoulder.
After talking for what feels like an hour, the doctor just typing away, documenting everything, we start the hands-on physical exam.
I try not to cringe as they test my hip, though I can’t help it when my groin strength is considerably worse than it should be.
It’s another hour of tilting and turning, stretching, and engaging. They’re trying to find out whether anything else hurts or if I’ve injured myself while trying to compensate for my hip, something that we’ll need to take care of in the off-season.
Doctor Lowell doesn’t say much, just tells me what to do before muttering, “Hmmm,” and making a note. We move on to functional testing, a concussion and neurological screening, and bloodwork to inform my nutrition and supplement plan.
Just when I think we’re done, Doctor Lowell announces, “We need to set up some imaging before you head out.”
It’s not what I want to hear, but I knew it was coming after my recent injury. So before I leave, I set up an appointment at their office in the city for X-rays, ultrasounds, and an MRI on my hip.
A few hours later, I’m freshly showered and riding the elevator to the party.
Larsen throws the door open after I knock, throwing his arms around me.
“Kane!” he practically yells in my face, and I catch the unmistakable odor of cheap beer.
I walk inside, a sinking feeling in my stomach as I take in the large group of people milling around the living space. There are at least five women squeezed into the kitchen, and the living and dining rooms are overflowing with people.
“Hey, Kane,” Li hollers, waving aggressively as I attempt to navigate the crowded area to get to where he’s seated on the couch.
“Li. What the fuck is this? I thought this was a casual hang.”
“You’ve met Larsen; this is casual for him.”
I groan, seriously considering covering my ears.
This room is unbearably loud. “Why didn’t he just do this at a bar?
” I glance at the women in the kitchen before quickly looking away when I make eye contact with one of them.
“Does he know how bad an idea it is to let random puck bunnies know where he lives?” I whisper.
Li laughs. “God, Maya would die if she knew you called her that.”
“Maya?” I ask.
“My twin sister.” He points his chin toward the petite woman with long, dark hair sitting on the countertop. “And Gloria might’ve been a puck bunny before she married J.D., but I’ve never worked up the nerve to ask either of them.”
I know Gloria is J.D.’s wife, but as I’ve intentionally avoided spaces where I’d interact with family members, I can’t be certain which of the other four women she is.
“The blonde is Gloria?” I guess as I take in the room through a whole new lens. It’s not some random crowd. It’s only players here. And apparently a few WAGs or family members.
“The brunette. Hair in the fishtail braid.”
“The what?” I ask, unable to keep a hint of humor from my question.
“You know, the type of braid that looks like—Oh, fuck you,” he says as I burst out laughing. “I have a twin sister. I didn’t make it past middle school without learning all that stuff.”
“This explains a lot about you,” I tease, snagging the spot on the couch next to him when Herrera gets up.
Li runs a hand through his wavy black hair.
“Probably more than I want it to.” He pauses for a beat, his gaze locked on where his sister sits, all the women laughing at something Larsen says.
“But I wouldn’t give it up for the world.
I learned how to be part of a team from the womb, and I’m not sure I’d be where I am today if I hadn’t. ”
“Is she just in town visiting?” I ask, turning my attention to the television screen where the game is about to start.
Larsen interrupts Li, waving his hands in a shooing motion, “Make room for me, boys. This is my couch, after all.”
I shove him as he starts to sit on my right thigh. “Don’t some of the guys live in houses?” I ask. “Ones that could actually hold all of us comfortably?”
Larsen shakes his head. “No way. I begged J.D. to let me host this.”
“Are you talking about me, Larsen?” J.D. calls from his spot near the food.
“Only to explain to Kane that, while your house could fit all of us, it wouldn’t have had the special sauce that only a Matt Larsen party can.”
“None of us want your special sauce, Larsen,” Li’s sister calls, and the room bursts into laughter as Larsen’s cheeks turn a bright pink.
When the room quiets, we turn our attention to the Bears game, and I hear Larsen quietly ask Li, “It’s a good party though, right?”
“Yeah, bud. It’s a good party.”
And it is. For as much as Larsen was talking up the carbs that would be available—and they definitely are in both solid and liquid form—there are a lot of other options too, which means I’ll be able to eat and not feel like complete shit tomorrow.
After the first period, I make my way to the kitchen to grab the single beer I’ll allow myself tonight. The women are all sitting on the counters now, every chair and stool in the place occupied by a Yeti.
“Beckett Kane, you’re a hard man to pin down,” Gloria says when I’m forced into the middle of their conversation to dig through the cooler.
I find the silver can I’m searching for before meeting her eyes. “I didn’t realize you were looking for me.”
She shrugs. “J.D. was excited when you joined the team. Just wanted to meet the man who had my husband’s panties all in a twist.”
“She’s exaggerating!” J.D. yells, leaning away from the conversation he’s having with Pike to focus on his wife. “No pantie-twisting was involved. Gloria just likes to know everything about everyone, so my vague answers about your life weren’t up to her expectations.”
“He told me you spent your free time sharpening your skates because you didn’t trust the equipment managers enough to do it.”
My eyebrows pull together in confusion. “What?”
J.D. throws up his hands. “I had to tell her something. She was trying to figure out, and I quote, ‘the type of man you are,’ so she can decide whether you need fed, fixed up, or friended.”
“Gloria takes her role as team mom very seriously,” Larsen adds, grabbing two beers out of the cooler without bothering to look at what kind they are.
Larsen sways slightly. “You ladies know I hid the desserts in the fridge, right?” I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be a whisper, but it did not land.
“Yes, Rookie,” Maya replies. “You’ve told us five times now. You also got a ridiculous number of options. Who do you think is going to eat all those?”
“I didn’t know what you’d want,” Larsen explains as Maya completely ignores his puppy-dog eyes. “And you said you love dessert when we were all out at dinner the other night.”
A lump forms in my throat when I realize I was invited to that dinner. And I chose not to go so I could watch game film at home instead. In April. When I don’t have another game for six months.
“Of course I love dessert,” Maya replies, as she and Larsen continue bickering about how ridiculous he is for filling his refrigerator with desserts instead of the drinks he has spread across the apartment in various coolers.
I make my way back to the living room, content to watch the game, occasionally commenting on plays, as the rest of the guys swirl around me, talking and laughing.
“You could do that once you’re done, you know,” Li suggests when I comment on the Bears switching their lines differently than they did against us.
“What? Coach?” I ask, my pulse picking up its pace at the mention of the word.
“I mean, sure,” Li agrees. “But I meant the analysis. And the commentary. I bet one of the sports networks would pay you good money to look pretty and talk hockey all day.”
I picture it. Spending my days watching film, talking to people who are just as obsessed with the sport as I am. It’d almost be like I was back—nope. Not going there. But it would be great.
“Maybe,” I say, not willing to commit to anything other than hockey right now. But it is nice that, for the first time, I have something more than a black hole to look forward to once I’m done.