Something Like That

Chapter One

Nick swore he was the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.

Okay, maybe not the planet. But definitely in professional hockey.

Instead of killing time in his hotel room until he needed to leave for his three o’clock appointment with the latest strength and conditioning coach hopeful, he had his ass planted on a bar stool in the hotel lounge, his gaze glued to some dumb Hockey Round Table show on the TV.

Watching a bunch of jerks yammer over one another and congratulate themselves—and everything else that moved—for their stupid, useless commentary, more than proved Nick’s idiocy.

He needed to focus on getting back in the lineup, not on what was going on with the rest of the league. And watching the games, but not being able to play, made him restless. Like his skin was going to peel itself off his body.

The volume on the TV was up just high enough that he could hear everything.

“You coming in with some insider information, Trent?” Mark Saunders’ annoying voice came loud and clear through the speakers. The idiot had played a grand total of a season and a half in juniors with Nick, and yet somehow still thought he was God’s gift to the game.

The host, Trent Michaelson, shook his gigantic head. Seriously, if the guy stood up, there’s no way he wouldn’t fall over. “Nothing concrete. But…” He gave his cohorts what he probably thought was a knowing smirk. He just looked constipated.

Nick ran his fingers over his mouth to stop from yelling at the TV. Most of the guys on the show had never let a two-hundred-plus-pound pro hockey player shoot a hundred-mile-an-hour puck at their face. Which made them anything but experts.

He reached into his pocket for his wallet. Even though he’d been nursing an ice water, he’d taken up a seat and needed to leave something. Maybe he could wait outside for his ride? Get some fresh air. It was better than hanging out in here and listening to their bullshit.

“Also, last night, the Providence Pirates scored three unanswered goals in the second half of the third to beat Colorado, four to two.”

His attention ricocheted back to the TV, his heart smacking against his ribs like a shot off the boards. Stills of last night’s game flashed on the screen. His teammates. Scoring. Celebrating.

The need to be in the locker room with them, to be on the ice with them, to be healthy and whole left an ache in his soul.

A stats graphic popped up on the screen. “Steve Fillion scored two and added two assists to pull ahead in the total points race.” The camera flashed back to Trent. “The Pirates look to be peaking at the perfect time. If they get on a roll, they may be hard to beat come the playoffs.”

Nick’s insides twisted, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the hard-to-beat comment, or because they’d mentioned the new league golden boy. The new Next One. The new used-to-be Nick, before the injuries and bad luck and fuck ups.

Some jerk Nick didn’t know came on the screen.

“I wouldn’t bet against them, that’s for sure.

They’ve spent the last few years building up to winning the championship.

Packing their roster full of young talent and great experience.

Pricey, but worth it if it means bringing a championship to the city. ”

The words made his gut clenched so tight, he was afraid he might puke. Worth it was the understatement of the millennia. He’d spent his whole life working toward a championship, and it was so close he could almost feel the trophy in his hands.

He’d been close before, but there was something about this season, this team, that felt different.

Like all of the pieces of a puzzle that had been lost, were finally found.

There was a spark that flared to life whenever they were on the ice together, and it killed him that he wasn’t able to share in it right now. Being sidelined seriously sucked.

“And speaking of the Pirates, I’ve heard rumblings that Nick Sadler is looking to get off the Injured Reserve List and back on the roster soon.

” Trent’s voice had a surprised edge to it, like it was some kind of secret.

Of course, he was itching to get back in the lineup.

Hockey was his life. Always had been. He couldn’t imagine what he was going to do once it was all over.

Which he refused to think about right now. Winning the championship was the most important thing.

The only thing.

Mark gave his cohorts one of those phony, shocked faces. “Wow. It’s only been a few months since his injury and the surgery. A torn ACL is bad enough, but he also did other damage. There’s a reason the injury is nicknamed the Unhappy Triad.” He waited a beat, a kind of dramatic pause or some shit.

Nick wanted to yell that it didn’t matter, he was ready, but he caught the words in his throat and swallowed them down with a sip of his water.

Trent and his too big head took up the whole screen. “And let’s face it, Sadler isn’t a rookie anymore. Is that really such a great idea? To push himself like that?”

They were talking like he was fucking ancient or something. He was thirty-four years old, for Christ-sake. Sure, his body had been through a lot in his fifteen years in the league, but so what? He was a professional athlete. They overcame this shit all the time.

He flagged down the bartender and pointed at the television. “Can you change the channel?”

The bartender glanced up and then back at Nick. It took a second, but when recognition hit, he thought the guy might pull out the fan card and forget all about the channel request. But after a beat, he just nodded and grabbed the remote.

“Thanks,” Nick said, and took another sip.

“No problem.” The kid, who couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one, flicked to a channel with football and then picked up a cloth and wiped down the bar.

Nick could tell the kid wanted to say something by the way he loitered, wiping the same spot over and over again. He met the kid’s gaze and lifted his chin.

The kid tossed the towel underneath the bar. “Sorry about your knee.”

You and me both, kid. You and me both. But Nick just nodded.

“I hope you get back in the lineup soon.”

“Thanks.” He stood and fished a twenty out of his wallet. That was why he was here in Seattle. If everything went to plan, he’d be back on the ice before the playoffs started. And then there was nothing stopping him from finally winning it all. No matter what Trent and Mark thought.

Half an hour later, Nick’s Uber pulled up to the curb next to a small, nondescript building. He opened the car door and slid out. The icy rain pelted him. Jesus, did it ever not rain here? He’d been in the city for almost a week and had practically forgotten what the sun looked like.

He made a dash for the front of the building and the blue and white striped awning that should provide some cover.

If Alex Dumont—no, not if, when—when Alex Dumont took him on as a client, he would need to invest in a raincoat or something. Wandering around damp all the time was annoying as hell.

He shook the rain off his coat and took a deep breath. His insides were jumping around like a kid on a trampoline. Why the hell was he so nervous?

Maybe because this is your last chance?

Nope. He pushed that snarky thought aside. Not going there. Not right now.

But, if Alex refused to take him on, he wasn’t sure what his next step would be. He’d already been turned down by a bunch of the top strength and conditioning coaches in the country. And if he didn’t get back in the lineup soon…

The thought of retiring, without having won a championship, freaked him out. He tried to push the panic away, but it slipped through.

His chest tightened, and a weird tingling started in his fingers. The sensation of spiders skittering across his skin crept up his arms. His throat tightened and his breath came in pinched gasps.

He slapped his hand on the wall next to the door and leaned his face against it. The plaster scraped against his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted his heartbeats, trying to smooth the out-of-control rhythm through sheer force of will.

Shit. Not now. Not now. Not now.

He concentrated on pulling air into his burning lungs.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

It took too long, but his freak out finally ebbed, at least enough for him to function. He pushed off the wall and glanced around. Thankfully, there were no witnesses.

He tipped his head from side to side to loosen his neck muscles, and straightened his shoulders. His pulse still drummed a touch too fast, and sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, despite the cold.

His lungs ached like he’d just tried to blow up a stubborn balloon, but he forced himself to breathe. So, Alex it was. It was stupid to put all his eggs in one carton, or whatever the hell the saying was, but he didn’t have many shots left. He pushed open the clinic door.

A little bell chimed. While the outside of the building was nothing to look at, the inside was the exact opposite. Clean, clinical, and yet, still homey. Very professional.

He walked over to the reception desk. The receptionist looked up and smiled. No recognition lit her eyes. Obviously not a die-hard hockey fan.

“Hi, I’m Nick Sadler. I have a three o’clock appointment.”

She pressed a few keys on her computer and nodded. “Yes, Alex should be out in a minute or so. Please have a seat.” She turned back to whatever she’d been doing, virtually dismissing him. Okay then.

He headed over to the cluster of beige chairs. Because he’d been sitting a lot the last couple of days, his knee ached, so he lowered himself a little more cautiously than usual. Fuck, he just needed it to stop.

What would it be like to wake up and not be in any pain? Not have his muscles twinge if he moved the wrong way? Not have a sudden cramp that wouldn’t walk off? Not have it feel like every cell in his body just wanted to sleep?