Chapter 2
AUSTIN
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
I lowered the weight, exhaling through gritted teeth as pain radiated from my knee like lightning through a storm cloud. The physical therapist had told me to stop at twenty, but what the hell did she know about getting back on the ice?
“You’re pushing too hard again,” Jen said, her clinical gaze fixed on my form as I reached for my water bottle. “This isn’t the playoffs, Stone. Healing takes time.”
“Time is exactly what I don’t have,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my face. “Coach needs me back before the All-Star break.”
Jen crossed her arms. “Your knee needs proper rehabilitation or you won’t be back at all.”
I glared at her, but she’d grown immune to my iciest stares months ago. That was the problem with spending three hours a day, five days a week with someone—they stopped being intimidated by your game face.
My phone buzzed on the bench beside me. I glanced down, expecting my agent’s usual mid-day check-in, but it was just a calendar reminder for tomorrow’s appointment with Coach Martinez. As I dismissed the alert, my eyes caught on a notification I’d missed last night—a message from a random number.
The text preview made me blink twice.
I swiped open my phone, reading the full message from an unknown number. Definitely not my agent. Unless he’d dramatically changed his approach to motivational speeches.
Hey stranger. Remember that time in the supply closet when you showed me your...big talents? Minneapolis is freezing, but I’ve got some ideas for generating heat that would make even these winter nights feel like midsummer...
“Good news?” Jen asked, noting my expression.
“Wrong number.” I turned the phone away from her prying eyes.
“Must be an interesting wrong number to put that look on your face.”
I schooled my features back to neutral. “Just someone who’s going to be very embarrassed soon.”
Jen smirked. “Ten-minute break, then we’re doing the electrical stimulation. And I mean ten minutes, not whenever you finish your sexting session.”
“It’s not—” I started, but she was already walking away, clipboard in hand.
I stared at the message again. Most people would ignore it, delete it, maybe have a laugh about it. But something about the boldness mixed with obvious misfired intentions made my thumbs hover over the keyboard.
I think you have the wrong number. But now I’m curious about these “big talents” that apparently make such an impression in supply closets.
I hit send before I could overthink it, then immediately regretted it. What was I doing? Starting conversations with random strangers wasn’t my style. I had enough people trying to get pieces of my time, my attention, my life.
But as I set the phone down and reached for my resistance bands, I realized I was actually smiling.
“Let’s get you hooked up,” Jen said, returning with the electrical stimulation machine I’d grown to hate. “And remember, twenty minutes on this, no shortcuts.”
I nodded, lying back on the table and staring at the ceiling as she attached the electrodes to my knee. The familiar tingling sensation started, not quite painful but definitely not comfortable.
“You’re making progress, you know,” Jen said, softening her tone. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it day to day.”
“Not fast enough.”
“No one comes back from this injury in three months, Stone. Not even you.”
I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear it. Major league hockey waits for no one. Younger, faster, hungrier players were already filling the gap I’d left. My team was struggling without their top defenseman, and every loss felt like it was carved into my damaged ligaments.
The phone buzzed again, but it was out of reach.
“Want me to hand you that?” Jen asked, noticing my glance.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m focusing on recovery. Just like you wanted.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, making notes on her tablet as the machine hummed beside me.
The memory flashed through my mind for the thousandth time—Game Six of the conference finals, third period.
That brutal collision with Thompson from Dallas as I turned to block his shot.
The sickening pop, the immediate agony, the world going silent as I crumpled to the ice. Just like that, my season was over.
Three months since the surgery to reconstruct my ACL, and I was still nowhere near ready to return. The surgeons had warned me it would be at least eight months, but I’d been determined to beat that timeline. Now, with each painful therapy session, the reality was becoming harder to deny.
Twenty minutes of wondering if a stranger would text back, and why the hell I even cared.
The drive home was a special kind of torture.
My SUV’s heated seat did little to soothe the ache in my knee, and Minneapolis traffic moved with all the grace of a rookie’s first time on skates.
By the time I pulled into my reserved spot at the luxury apartment building, my mood had plummeted to somewhere between furious and defeated.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Callahan,” the doorman said with practiced cheerfulness. “How’s the knee today?”
“Getting there, Frank,” I lied, the same response I’d been giving for weeks.
“Team’s missing you out there. That defense is looking rough without you.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I muttered, punching the elevator button harder than necessary.
My apartment was exactly as I’d left it—immaculate, organized, silent.
Well, technically it wasn’t mine. Just a temporary team unit I was using while rehabbing my knee.
Staying downtown, close to the arena and PT, made more sense than commuting from my own place outside the city.
The cleaning service came twice a week, but there was barely anything for them to clean.
Unlike most of my teammates, whose homes looked like the aftermath of a frat party, I kept my space as disciplined as my training regimen.
I was halfway through my post-therapy protein shake when my phone rang. Tom, my agent’s name flashed on the screen. I considered ignoring it, but that would just mean three more calls in the next hour.
“Hey, Tom.”
“Stone! How’s my favorite defenseman doing today?” His voice was too loud, too enthusiastic, like he was trying to cheer up a child.
“Same as yesterday. And the day before.”
“That good, huh?” He chuckled. “Look, I’m calling about the timeline. Coach Martinez has been breathing down my neck.”
I gripped the counter. “The timeline hasn’t changed. The doctors said—”
“I know what they said,” Tom interrupted. “But we need to start thinking about media. The fans are getting restless, and those endorsement deals we lined up are time-sensitive.”
“I can barely do a full squat without pain. You want me to worry about endorsements?”
“That’s what I’m here for, Stone. To worry about business while you focus on healing.” His tone shifted to what I called his “agent voice”—smooth, practiced, manipulative. “Speaking of which, Channel 9 wants to do a recovery piece. Human interest, comeback story angle.”
“Not interested.”
“It’s good PR, Stone. Show the fans you’re working hard, build some goodwill.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Having cameras in my face while I struggle through basic exercises isn’t exactly how I want to be remembered.”
“It’s how you’ll be remembered as a fighter, not just another injured player who disappeared.”
“Is that what people are saying?”
Tom hesitated, which told me everything. “Some sports radio chatter, nothing serious. But it would shut them up if—”
“Fine. One interview. No locker room access, no filming at PT.”
“I’ll make it happen.” He sounded too pleased with himself. “And the fantasy camp appearance next month? Kids are counting on you, even if it’s just to sign some autographs from a chair.”
I closed my eyes, imagining dozens of hopeful faces asking when I’d be back on the ice, if I’d ever be the same player. Questions I couldn’t answer honestly, even to myself.
“I’ll be there.”
“That’s my guy. Rest up, keep grinding. I’ll email you the details for both events.”
The call ended, and I resisted the urge to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I limped to the wall of windows overlooking downtown Minneapolis. The city was disappearing under fresh snow, the early winter sunset painting everything in muted blues and purples.
My phone buzzed in my hand. The wrong number again. I’d almost forgotten.
Oh my god. I’m going to die of embarrassment right here in this hotel room.
Please tell me you’re not my new boss or, worse, my great-aunt Mildred who just got her first smartphone.
I’m so sorry! That was obviously meant for someone else.
I’m blaming it on the combination of Minneapolis winter shock, displacement stress, and cheap hotel wine.
Despite everything, I found myself smiling again. There was something refreshingly authentic about the panicked rambling.
I settled onto my couch, propping my leg on the coffee table.
Not your boss or great-aunt Mildred, thankfully. Though I’m sure Aunt Mildred would be flattered. Hotel wine is always a dangerous proposition. What brings you to Minneapolis in January? Most people with functioning brain cells are heading south this time of year.
The response came quickly.
A spectacular combination of career ambition and poor weather research.
I’m from Arizona. I knew Minnesota was cold, but there’s a difference between knowing something intellectually and experiencing your eyelashes freezing together.
The taxi driver who brought me from the airport said something similar.
Must be the consensus in Minneapolis that only crazy people move here in January.
I laughed out loud.
Arizona to Minnesota in January might qualify you for an insanity defense. Whatever job brought you here better be worth it.
I reached for the remote, turning on the sports channel with the volume low. The hockey highlights would be on soon, and watching my team struggle without me had become a masochistic ritual.
Another text arrived.
It is. Or will be, once I’m not homeless.
Long story involving administrative incompetence and a hockey tournament that’s apparently commandeered every vacant room in the city.
Hence the sad hotel wine and embarrassing misdirected texts.
Silver lining: at least I’ve given a stranger a good laugh at my expense.
I turned off the TV before the highlights could start.
The hockey tournament would be the Winter Classic. And trust me, I’m laughing with you, not at you. We’ve all sent texts to the wrong person. Though yours was more entertaining than most.
I hesitated, then added:
So what’s Plan B for the housing situation? Building an igloo, Desert Survivor?
The response came quickly.
Desert Survivor? I like that. Better than “Idiot Who Moved to the Arctic Without Proper Research.” Plan B involved considerable pleading on housing forums. Miraculously, I found a sublet near campus.
Meeting the owner’s friend later today to get keys.
Fingers crossed it’s not a serial killer’s lair decorated with the bones of previous tenants.
I smiled at the nickname she’d embraced and found myself responding.
Luck is on your side, Desert Survivor. As for the serial killer possibility, always check for good lighting. Serial killers prefer dim environments for their decorative bone displays.
Thanks for the tip, Mr. Wrong Number. I’ll be sure to request a full lighting demonstration. So what’s your story? Let me guess—you’re a Minnesota native who finds our current “cold snap” refreshing?
I considered what to share. For once, I had the chance to be someone other than Austin “Stone” Callahan, hockey star sidelined by injury.
Close. I’ve been here long enough that the cold doesn’t faze me anymore. Job keeps me busy, recently had some health issues that slowed me down. Nothing too exciting.
I hit send, enjoying the anonymity of the conversation.