Chapter 1 Colt #2
My gaze catches on the pink flash of her tongue, the curve of her lips, and suddenly my mind is spiraling to places it absolutely should not go in a stadium corridor.
Down, boy. She's a single mom with a life, not a puck bunny at a bar.
So I continue playing this banter game we always play instead.
"Wow, Zoey. First you deny me being your favorite customer, now you're questioning my mental capacity? This is a lot of emotional damage for nine-thirty in the morning."
She shrugs, pushing the cart forward with a shake of her hips.
"Your support is overwhelming," I call after her, trying my hardest not to stare at the way her ass flares out as she pushes the cart away from me.
I fail. Spectacularly.
Fuck me.
Her jeans hug the swell of her ass like they were personally tailored by the universe to torture me. The worst part is… she's not even trying to look good right now.
And she's still the sexiest thing I've seen in years.
Dammit.
I've had women in designer dresses drag their nails down my chest. Women in lingerie begging for my attention. Women who looked at me like I was the prize and they were ready to claim it.
But none of them made my heart do whatever the fuck it's doing right now.
Across the corridor, Delaney Evans, Snow Leopards sponsorship queen, catches my eye from the doorway to her office. She's on a call, phone pressed to her ear, but she raises an eyebrow and gestures vaguely in my direction—half wave, half why are you here.
I blow her a kiss and wink. She rolls her eyes and turns away as I turn and head for the medical wing, my smile already sliding back into place.
Because that’s who I am, right?
I'm Colt Lane.
Up here, on the surface, I am the show.
The wink, the grin, the harmless flirt… it’s my uniform. Women usually play along when I crank up the charm. They laugh, they blush, they give in.
But Zoey? She just… looks at me.
And I don’t know what to do with a woman who sees past the show to the man still learning how to stand in the silence.
The medical wing is tucked at the back of the building. It's a luxurious recovery space that Big Mike spared no expense on, but lucky for me, I haven't spent much time in here over the years.
Cryo chambers line one wall, hydrotherapy pools gleam along the other, while a row of massage tables are arranged like spa beds at some five-star resort. There's even an entire smoothie bar dedicated to recovery drinks, because apparently we're too elite for regular Gatorade.
Willa Jameson, the team wellness co-ordinator, is already there when I push through the door, her blonde hair twisted up in that bun she always wears.
"Well, some things don't change." She looks up at me with an expression somewhere between exasperated and unsurprised. Then she slams down the screen of her laptop and I know I'm in trouble. "You're late, Colt."
"And good morning to you too." I take another bite of Zoey's delicious muffin, speaking around it. "I'm exactly on time. Your clock is wrong."
From the corner of the room, Nico Ashford's deep voice scares the living daylights out of me.
"The clock is fine, dipshit."
I spin around, hand pressed to my chest.
Coach Ashford emerges from the shadows of the cryo chamber area like some kind of grumpy hockey Batman. His arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw is set in that permanently disappointed expression he's perfected over years of coaching.
"Jesus Christ, Coach." I exhale sharply, trying to slow my heart rate. "A man your size can't just lurk in dark corners like that. Some of us have recently sustained head trauma, you know."
"You're late," he continues, completely unmoved by my near-death experience. "So anyone with common decency would apologize."
I flash him my most charming grin. "Coach… The clock is clearly—"
"The clock," Nico cuts me off, his tone flatter than week-old soda, "is accurate. Do you need to be reminded of the standards I expect around here?"
Well, shit. Welcome back, Colt. We really missed you around here.
"No, Sir," I mutter, knowing full well I'm already losing this battle.
I drop into the exam chair with a dramatic sigh, letting my body sink into the leather.
"Well, here I am. Punctual in spirit if not in time." I gesture broadly at Willa. "So Doc, what are we doing? Tell me I can skate. Tell me you've decided three weeks is excessive and we can ease me back in tomorrow."
"Let's take this one step at a time." Willa's expression doesn't change as she pulls on some gloves. "Shirt off, Lane."
I grin and fake a blush. "Oh my. Willa, if you wanted me naked, all you had to do was ask."
Nico growls from behind me. "You want another concussion, son?"
I hold up both hands, peeling off my shirt. "Alright, alright. No need for threats. I'm not gonna touch your girlfriend."
Willa steps closer, her clinical gaze sweeping over me while Nico watches from the doorway, arms still crossed.
"How's the head?" she asks, shining a penlight into my eyes.
"Still attached. Mostly functional."
"Mmhmm." She doesn't smile. "Follow my finger."
I track her movement obediently as she slowly assess my entire body. The bruise across my ribs is still there. It's at least faded from angry purple to a sickly yellow-green that makes me look like I lost a fight with an aggressive banana.
My jaw's better, at least.
The swelling went down after the first week, and the cut above my temple has healed into a thin pink line that'll probably impress Morgan when she sees the scar.
So much for my pretty-boy image.
The media's going to have a field day.
Willa steps closer, her fingers cool on my skin as she presses along my ribcage. "Any pain here?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
"That's not what I asked."
I wince as she hits a tender spot. "Okay, some pain. Minor. Barely worth mentioning."
She makes a note on her laptop, then moves to check my range of motion… arms up, arms out, twist left, twist right. I comply like a good little patient, even though every second I spend in this chair is another second I'm not on the ice.
"Concussion symptoms?"
"Gone."
"Headaches?"
"Occasionally. Usually when someone's being annoying."
"So, considering you live in your own company, constantly, then."
"Willa, that's hurtful."
Her lips work a tiny smile and she makes another note. Then the door swings open behind me and the energy in the room shifts immediately.
"Well, well." Samuel Voss steps into the medical wing, fresh from the ice in a Snow Leopards hoodie. He takes one look at me, shirtless and sprawled in the exam chair, and lets out a low whistle. "If it isn't the most pathetic little body I've ever seen on a professional athlete."
"Looking good, Cap," I fire back, flexing one arm from the chair. "Jealous?"
Samuel doesn't even dignify that with a response. He just leans against the doorframe, those dark blue eyes sweeping over the bruising on my ribs with an expression that's harder to read than Coach's playbook.
"How's he looking?" Samuel asks Willa, not me. Like I'm a used car he's considering returning.
Willa pulls up something on her laptop, angling the screen away from me. "Reflexes are good. Cognitive responses are within range. But..."
That but stings like a bad penalty call.
"But?" I sit up straighter. "But what? I feel great. Seriously. Better than great. I feel like I could—"
"Your post-concussion markers are still elevated." Willa closes the laptop with a quiet click that somehow sounds like a death sentence. "Colt, I can't clear you."
"What do you mean you can't clear me?" I laugh, looking around the room. "Willa, come on. I've been resting for three weeks. Three weeks. I've done everything you asked. I ate the smoothies. I did the eye exercises. I slept nine hours a night like some kind of geriatric labrador—"
"I understand, Colt. But two more weeks won't hurt." Her voice is absolute. "We're doing the full protocol. Head injuries, especially one like this… it's serious. We need to be careful."
I look to Samuel. He's got his arms crossed, and those captain's eyes are locked on mine with something worse than disappointment.
Agreement.
"She's right," Samuel says quietly. "We're not rushing this. We're back to playing well, and the team is settled. You should take your time, man."
I turn to Nico, my last lifeline. He pushes off the wall, and for one stupid second I think he's going to override them.
"Please, Coach—"
"You heard her. Two more weeks, Lane. Non-negotiable." He claps me on the back. "Don't worry. We'll find something for you to do around here. Keep you involved. Part of the team."
Part of the team.
Not on the team. Not where I belong. Not where I've literally spent every damn second of my life, since I was four fucking years old and my parents wouldn't look at me unless I was hitting a puck better than anyone they'd ever seen.
I pull my shirt back on with a huff, and nobody says a word as I storm out.
The corridor stretches ahead of me as my sneakers squeak against the floor, and the sound is so lonely it makes my teeth ache.
I pass the community events board near the players' exit without slowing down. Some girl from admin is pinning a poster with purple and gold trim that catches the edge of my vision:
Snow Leopards Local Partnership Program: Connecting Our Team to Our Town
But I don't stop. I don't read it or ask questions like I normally would.
Because right now… I don't care.
The parking lot is bright and cold and completely empty, and I sit in my SUV for a long time, the engine off as I stare up at The Leopard Den through the windshield.
Without hockey... who am I?
The question settles into the silence like it's been waiting there all along.
And for the first time in my life, I don't have an answer. Because I've never done this. I've never not been the show. The star player. The man.
So I start the engine.
I'm not ready to go home yet. But I know exactly where I am ready to go.
Butter Batch Bakery opens at ten.
And I need another blueberry muffin served to me by the goddamn prettiest distraction in town.