Chapter 1 #2
Dean had once been the Golden Boy of the GH Mountaineers.
During his four-year tenure at GH, he’d helped raise the Mountaineers’ standing from a so-so NCAA Division I team, to a standout one that even went to the Frozen Four in Dean’s senior year.
They lost, but it was the first and only time in GH’s forty-nine-year history that any of its sports teams had made it to the championship games.
Dean was a legend among the Mountaineers.
Hell, Dean was one of the reasons why Mitch had chosen GH.
Not because Dean was his hockey hero—though he wasn’t ashamed to admit that Dean was his hockey crush—but because if GH’s hockey coaches could take a small-town kid like Dean and turn him into a first round draft pick by his senior year, what could they do with Mitch, who’d taken figure skating and gymnastics as well as hockey while growing up, in order to improve his skating and flexibility?
Mitch could be first round draft material too, and GH could help get him there.
Mitch had a plan for the next ten years. He may not have all the minute details figured out—like which team he’d be drafted by or what post-grad courses he’d need for his post-hockey career—but the steps were clearly laid out in his head.
Step One: Get good grades to keep his partial scholarship.
Step Two: Play good hockey.
Step Three: Help the Mountaineers make it to the Frozen Four. (As a sophomore, he still had three years to make this happen.)
Step Four: Lay the groundwork for a post-hockey career in sports science and rehabilitation.
Step Five: Get drafted.
Mitch was fully aware that the latter steps were all contingent on Step One. If he lost his scholarship, he wouldn’t be able to afford GH and he’d have to drop out, which would have a ripple effect on his dreams (AKA Steps Two through Five), knocking them over like dominoes.
Step Four, however, was why he was attending this evening’s optional lecture-slash-panel-discussion: Chris Blair.
But Chris Blair wasn’t here to discuss sports science and rehabilitation, which was a bitter letdown.
It wasn’t that Mitch didn’t like looking and listening to Dean, but he wasn’t the reason he’d come tonight.
He didn’t care about injury rehabilitation from the perspective of a patient.
He wanted to know what courses he should take, what post-grad certificates he should consider, who he should talk to, or even shadow, in order to get to the same kind of position Chris Blair currently held.
Because that was what Mitch wanted once his career in hockey was over.
Mitch had a list of questions for Chris Blair as long as his arm and he didn’t think Dean—who’d majored in creative writing, if Mitch remembered correctly—would be able to answer them.
Hockey, like most sports, was a young person’s game.
However, when Mitch graduated with a Bachelor of Science with a speciality in kinesiology, he’d be set to work with athletes, keeping him in the sport long after he’d retired from active play.
Hockey had been part of his life ever since he could skate, and it would continue to be a part of it until he died.
He fucking loved this sport, everything about it.
The skill, grace, strength, and athleticism that was part of every game.
.. The friendship and camaraderie with teammates.
.. The power of a slap shot hitting the back of the net.
.. The violence of a check that sends someone flying into the boards.
.. The exhilaration that tickled his belly before every game, right before he stepped onto the ice.
.. The scramble of players in front of a net, desperately trying to score or prevent the other team from doing so. .. Hell, he even loved playoff beards.
This was his sport. And if he didn’t get drafted, he wanted something that would give him a foot in the door and allow him to work behind the scenes.
Dean opened his speech by echoing Halley’s apology on behalf of the missing Chris Blair before launching into a short but impassioned talk about how an athlete is always connected to many people who can help them recover from an injury.
As soon as Dean sat back down and Halley opened up the evening to a question-and-answer period, Mitch’s hand shot up. Next to him, Yano groaned.
Mitch saw—he saw—Halley’s eyes land on him before he called on somebody else. Huffing, Mitch lowered his hand.
“My question is for Mr. Dean,” a girl near the front said. “Will you be staying in Vermont while you recuperate from your broken arm?”
Mitch rolled his eyes.
“Um…” said Dean.
“Let’s keep the questions pertinent to the lecture, please,” Halley said, an edge to his voice. “Is there anybody with a relevant question?”
Again, Mitch’s hand shot up. Again, Halley called on someone else. On and on it went until finally, finally, Halley pointed at him three minutes before the lecture was to end.
“Go ahead, Mr. Greyson, since you’ve been so patient,” Halley said. Mitch was sure that by patient, Halley actually meant annoyingly persistent, but whatever.
“Don’t get yourself thrown out this time,” Yano muttered to him under his breath.
Mitch ignored him. “I have a question for Alex Dean. Mr. Dean, given that you’ve been with the NHL for the past two-plus years, and knowing what you know now about the organization, is it what you expected? And if you had to do it over again, would you make the same decisions?”
“Mr. Greyson, if you can’t keep your question relevant to the lecture, I—”
“But it is relevant,” Mitch argued.
“How so?”
“Well, in another life, had Mr. Dean decided not to join the NHL after graduating from GH, he likely wouldn’t have a broken arm right now.
But he did, and he does, which is how he ended up here today, talking to us about injury recovery from the perspective of an injured athlete.
” Mitch shrugged. “So it’s relevant in a non-linear way. ”
Halley didn’t seem to understand. His mouth kept opening and closing, probably searching for words.
From his seat at the table, Dean smiled at Mitch. Mitch enjoyed the flare of attraction that rose when Dean’s eyes met his. The chances of Dean being gay were needle-in-a-haystack small. Hell, the media had linked him to a woman a few months ago. But that didn’t mean Mitch couldn’t try.
“The answer to your first question,” Dean said into his mic, “is yes, but also no. The answer to your second question is a definite yes.”
Before Mitch could ask him to elaborate, Halley said, “That’s all the time we have this evening, folks. Thank you for coming and please join me in thanking tonight’s guest speakers.”
Mitch was already halfway down the auditorium stairs, making a beeline for Dean, by the time the applause died down.
* * *
Pushing himself off the chair to stretch his legs, and ignoring the phone that had started buzzing in his pocket ten minutes ago, Alex Dean wasn’t surprised to find a tenacious Greyson standing on the other side of the table.
What did surprise him was the tangle of nerves that knotted his belly when he got a better look at how attractive the other man was.
Greyson was lean and wiry and several inches shorter than Alex’s own six-feet-four, putting the top of his head level with Alex’s chin.
His eyes were the color of chocolate, which matched his evening scruff and his messy, curly hair.
Curls fell over his ears and his forehead.
Alex wasn’t sure if he wanted to run his fingers through them or pull on a lock to see if it would spring back into its curly place.
A backpack slumped off one shoulder, he had a notebook tucked under one arm, a smoothie in his hand, and an impish spark in his eyes.
The man was hot. He knew it too, if the way his smirk widened while Alex took his time checking him out was any indication. Attraction, however, meant nothing to Alex without emotions, so a person’s physical appearance didn’t usually elicit a response reminiscent of a teenage girl with a crush.
Nonetheless, he shook Greyson’s proffered hand. Greyson was twenty years old at most, and his flannel shirt didn’t suit him at all. He looked like a kid playing farmer in his older brother’s clothes.
“Mitch Greyson,” Greyson said, setting his notebook and smoothie on the table. His backpack thunked onto the floor at his feet. “Nice to meet you. Can I ask a follow-up question? Or five?”
Five?
Without waiting for Alex to answer, Mitch continued.
“Can you elaborate on how the NHL is and isn’t what you expected?
” He opened his notebook to a page with a list of questions that was way more than five.
“I also had some questions for Chris Blair that you might be able to answer? What kind of hands-on experience do I need for a career in sport rehabilitation? Also, should I be getting involved in any kind of formal or informal research? Are there any courses that you know of that would help me get better prepared for a career in sport rehabilitation? If you were looking for an athletic therapist, what qualifications would you—?”
“Whoa, whoa,” Alex said, chuckling, holding his hands up to ward off more questions. “Hold it, hotshot. You’re asking the wrong person. Isn’t there anyone here you could interview, like Halley?”
“I’ve already talked to them all,” Mitch replied. “But they’re all academics now, or they work in fields I’m not interested in. I wanted to talk to someone specifically about sports science and rehabilitation.”
“You must’ve been disappointed when I showed up instead of Chris.”
“Do you think he’d talk to me?” Mitch asked, eager as a puppy. “We could set up a phone call. Or I could email him my questions. Do you have his card?”