The Goalie in Room 1 (Halo House #4)

Prologue

CASH

December

“Fuck!”

Blinding pain exploded throughout my body, radiating from…motherfucker…everywhere. Breaths—short, shallow, excruciating like hot knives—expanded my ribs, causing more pain to slice through me. Lights flashed above and around me.

Sucking in as much air as I could while my vision darkened and blurred, I rolled, shoving at the sweaty, massive piece of meat pressing me into the cold, hard slab.

Or I tried to.

Instead of moving, the wiggling mass grew heavier, then disappeared. Pain—fuck, I thought I hurt before—skyrocketed, stealing what little breath I had. The world snapped back into place with a loud roar, the edges hazy and dark.

“Money!” Nelly’s, our captain and center, face appeared, framed by the cutout of my mask. “You’re okay, dude. Just stay still. Don’t move. You’re gonna be okay. Help’s coming.”

June

“Cash, I’m sure you’re aware of what this meeting is about.”

I glanced at the Headland Cove Breakers representatives sitting around the conference room table. “Hopefully, it’s discussing next steps for my knee so I can step back into the net in October,” I said.

“Cash…” the owner started, only to trail off. “This is not that. It will never be that. Your hockey career is over, kid. I’m sorry.”

I pushed myself to my feet while silently cursing the fucking knee brace they’d kept me wrapped in and made my way to the door.

“Cash, we need to discuss…”

I spun, stumbling when my knee didn’t twist the way it should. I bit back a curse as I caught myself against the credenza next to the door and turned to face them.

“What’s to fucking discuss? Those fuckers,” I said, pointing at the team doctors and the physical therapist, before continuing, “say they can’t clear me to play.

Now you’re here telling me my hockey career is over.

All you assholes have decided that I’m washed up and you’re showing me to the door.

No contract equals no income and no insurance. So I ask again. What’s to discuss?”

Every single one of them looked at something in the room other than me. At least they had the decency to look contrite. Thank you, word of the day email. “Cat got your collective tongues? Or are you just too fucking chicken shit to look me in the eye?”

The owner lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, and said, “We will not be offering you another contract, Cash. We’re sorry it’s come to this, but the medical team says you’ll never make it back on the ice.”

I strode out the door and headed to the house I shared with my buddies and teammates. Fuck the Breakers. Cash Benjamin was too fucking good for them anyway.

July

Knee throbbing from physical therapy, I lowered myself onto the sectional.

I pressed myself into the corner, injured leg outstretched, uninjured foot on the floor.

I popped the pain meds the physical therapist had told me to take before leaving the rehab center.

I had ignored the directive, only to pay the price now that I’d made it home safely—no thanks to the rideshare driver who probably only got his license this morning.

A few minutes with my eyes closed and some deep breaths allowed the narcotics to take effect.

The pain dulled to a point where I didn’t feel like saying fuck it and using a kitchen knife to cut the fucking leg off so it would stop hurting.

Snaking my hand behind me, I took out my phone and pulled up the browser.

I needed to find another surgeon. Ideally, one who knew what the hell they were doing.

The doctor I consulted with before PT today should be on the list for quacks whose medical licenses came from a Cracker Jack box.

The browser finally loaded on my way-past-needing-a-new-model, slow-as-fuck phone, but instead of clicking the search bar, I clicked on a headline from The Next Shift—a hockey insider website that kept up with news in the world of hockey from major juniors up—that caught my attention.

I glanced at the clock on the screen.

July.

Fuck.

The Next Shift stayed super busy in July, reporting on all the trades and upward moves from the ECHL, AHL, and NHL.

Scrolling, I stopped on the headline I’d seen on my home page. A photo showed my roommates, Mason Keller and Nolan Proctor, holding up jerseys while standing next to the general manager of the Vancouver Sound.

The Vancouver Sound continued reshaping its organization this week, signing defenseman Nolan Proctor to a two-year entry-level contract and forward Mason Keller to a two-year two-way deal.

Both players spent last season with the Sound’s AHL affiliate, the Headland Cove Breakers. Their departures leave the Breakers without two key players—and without goaltender Cash Benjamin, whom the organization has confirmed it will not re-sign.

Benjamin suffered a catastrophic knee injury last December. In a statement released on the Breakers’ social media accounts, concerning the roster for the fall, multiple surgeries and extensive rehabilitation have failed to provide a path back to professional hockey for Cash Benjamin.

The phone flew from my hand and shattered against the wall, pieces raining down and clattering against the floor.

“Dude! What the fuck?” Mason Keller said as he came into the living room from his room, followed closely behind by our other roommate and Breakers teammate Nolan Proctor.

Both of them looked from the dent in the wall to where I sat on the couch with my leg elevated and wrapped in a hip-to-ankle knee brace.

I fumbled off the couch, nearly falling flat on my damn face before standing with all my weight on my good leg, since the one The Next Shift just said ended my career hurt like a motherfucker. “When the fuck were you going to tell me?”

“Cash,” Nolan said, his voice overlaying Mason’s, “Buddy.”

“You know what? Both of you are pricks. You should have fucking told me instead of letting me find out this way.” I paused, waiting for them to say something.

Anything. When they didn’t, I demanded, “How long? Hmm? How long have you known you were getting signed? It can’t have just happened. That shit takes months to sort out.”

“A few weeks,” Nolan said. Mason hitched his thumb at Nolan in agreement.

“Fuck you both.” I turned toward the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” Nolan asked.

“Out.”

“Out where?” Mason asked.

Before I could answer, Nolan yelled, “Dammit, Money, you can’t just leave. What about this hole you made in the wall?”

I ignored them as I yanked the door open before letting it slam shut behind me.