Chapter 1
CASH
September
Jolting awake, I shoved myself upright. The constant dull ache that plagued me changed into a sharp, burning knife that made me sick to my stomach.
I reached blindly through the dark for the bottles on the nightstand. Caps twisted and pills tumbled into my hands before I lifted them. A glow from across the room haloed my hand and the reprieve…salvation…destruction held within.
Two a.m.
Fuck.
Too soon.
Way too fucking soon.
Bouncing the tiny demons, I weighed the pros and cons. Some nights the cons won. Too many nights, the pros scored that particular winning goal, and I downed the little fuckers, not caring what it could lead to.
A memory surfaced.
My mother—pills scattered across the coffee table or nightstand, or worse, a needle in her arm—gorked out of her mind, barely aware her dirty, half-starved kid sat huddled, shivering, in the corner, my clothes torn and ratty, too small or too big depending on the day.
That kid always watched her.
Always sat nearby, keeping an eye on her. After the first overdose I could remember—thanks, Dad, for the black eye. All five-year-olds know to call 911 when their mom overdoses—I learned keep one eye on her and the other on the cell phone she kept nearby, “just in case.”
My hand lowered with a heavy sigh and a quick, sharp, deep inhale through my nose. Carefully, so I wouldn’t drop them, I placed the meds back in their bottles and set them on the nightstand.
Looked like the cons won tonight. Thank God.
Pressing my hands against the mattress, I dragged myself upward until I rested against the upholstered headboard.
There would be no more rest for the wicked tonight.
Not without the meds that still called to me from their bottles.
Glancing at them, I cursed, pulled open the nightstand drawer, swiped my hand over the surface, knocking the bottles into the waiting abyss, and slammed it shut.
I grabbed my phone, opened the shopping app, and pressed buy on the item I put in the cart days ago, when the call toward those amber cylinders needled me as it did now. I refused to give in to the craving.
I wanted to be pain-free.
I wanted to go back in time to when I loved my life. To when I greeted each day happy, excited, and ready to conquer the world.
Those fucking bottles weren’t going to get me there.
The evil they contained, while necessary, also held the promise of devastation the likes of which my current situation had nothing on. I knew that all too well.
I could do this. My life had been about control and discipline for as long as I could remember.
Since the night a police officer carried me half-starved out of darkness and into the light.
Since I laced up my first pair of skates.
Since I stepped into the net.
Since I stopped my first puck.
My phone dropped to the blankets, and I replaced it with a game controller. The television hanging above the dresser came to life, and I shut off my brain, losing myself in the animated worlds on the screen.
A message popped up on the screen.
NoMercyGiven
Can’t sleep?
I sighed at the gamer tag. The kid should be asleep. He had a game later. I responded, reminding him of that fact as if he didn’t know.
NoRefunds
You should be sleeping. Nashville’s star rook needs his rest.
Almost immediately, my phone vibrated in the blankets. Shaking my head, I grappled to find it, switching the call to speakerphone as soon as it connected.
The caller’s voice echoed in the room before I could manage a hello. “I have a coach, a mom, a dad, and a Daddy who all nag me about my diet and sleep schedule. I don’t need my friends to do it too, big brother.”
Big brother. Fuck, it had been ages since Aiden Mercer first called me big brother. Years, in fact. Twelve, if my shitty-ass math skills were to be believed.
“Considering you’re calling me in the middle of the night and online—”
“Shut up,” he said before falling silent. “How’s the rehab going?”
Even though I knew what he meant, I turned to look at the nightstand as the bottles in the drawer shoved themselves to the front of my mind.
“Fine.”
“I can pass for straight more convincing than that ‘Fine’ can for the truth,” he said with a laugh.
My eyes burned from rolling so hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m queer, kinky as fuck, and proudly out to all of the NHL, thanks to kissing my college coach on the ice after my first NHL win. As if you didn’t know this shit already. You’re not fucking fine.”
I swallowed. The NHL was growing more inclusive, or so they’d like the world to believe. Those of us in the room knew there was a long way to go. Nashville at least, as far as Aiden said, wasn’t homophobic. I rubbed my eyes.
“We playing or not?” I asked.
His sigh was loud even through the phone. “You know my parents…”
“Don’t. If I won’t take you up on the offer, I’m not going to impose on the Rustavs.” He needed to get it through his head: I wouldn’t be pitied. Or a charity case. “I’m dropping into a game, so if you wanna play, then let’s play. Otherwise, little brother, good night.”
“Alright. Have it your way. Let’s play.”
I strolled into the specialist’s office the next week, ignoring how little my gait looked like it once had. Or felt like it once had. Months of rehab had gotten me mobile. Barely.
“Morning,” I said, greeting the receptionist with a smile as I checked in.
“Good morning, if you want to…” He glanced toward the window in the hallway behind the lobby door. “Are you ready for him?”
The doctor nodded, and I sighed. This would be just like all the others. You could always tell.
“Why don’t you come on back?” he said, opening the door separating us.
I trailed after him with only our footsteps breaking the silence. In the exam room, he patted the table as he passed by it to sit at the computer on a desk against the wall. A nurse came in as I hopped onto the table. She did her thing, documenting my vitals.
All of it was done without a word spoken between or by the three of us.
When the door latched behind the nurse, who’d smiled before leaving, I knew.
“Cash…”
Sighing at the tone he used, I said, “Don’t beat around the bush. I don’t have the time to be bullshitted.”
He nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll cut to the chase. Your knee isn’t where anyone would like it to be. Not me, not the Breakers, and especially not you. You and the team want you on the ice. I want that for you too, but there isn’t anything I can do that will make that happen for you.”
“What about…?”
“Whatever treatment you’re going to suggest, I assure you, I’ve considered it. As has the Breakers’ medical team and every other specialist, surgeon, and physical therapist you’ve seen. It’s in the records you provided during the consultation.”
“You’re sure?” I asked, unable to meet his gaze.
“Cash, I’m positive. I’m a hockey fan. More than that, I’m a Breakers fan.
A lifelong fan since Headland Cove is my hometown.
I hold season tickets and travel to as many away games as I can.
If I could put the best goalie the Cove has placed in the net in a decade back on the ice, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t.”
I nodded, my nostrils flaring as tears burned my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Cash. I really am.”
Another nod, this one coming as I dropped carefully to the floor. I reached my hand out. I couldn’t even remember his name. I’d seen so many since the Breakers’ medical exit evaluation told me I’d never play professional hockey again.
“I do suggest continued physical therapy to help with gait and mobility,” he said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “The team’s insurance is required to cover it.”
I looked him square in the eye. Something told me that sentence meant more than the words he spoke. His wavering eyes confirmed my goalie intuition. He was trying to say something he didn’t want to say. I kept hold of his hand as I worked to uncover the hidden meaning in his words.
“What’re you getting at?” I asked, my voice turning hard.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and then he cleared his throat. “The team is refusing to pay for this visit, and they are contesting the claim submitted for the previous one.”
“What the fuck do you mean they’re refusing to pay? They are required to pay all of my medical bills for my injury.”
“Your original hockey-related injury is still eligible for authorized treatment, but the Breakers are not obligated to fund an endless search for a surgeon willing to attempt a procedure solely to return you to professional hockey. The team has determined a comeback is unlikely—”
“Unlikely,” I said, butting in. “But not impossible.”
He sighed. “To them it is not possible.”
“How do you know that? Did they say something?”
“It was clear when they refused to pay for the consultation and then said they wouldn’t pay for this visit. Before you ask, yes, I spoke with them. I called personally.”
“And what did they say?”
“Their exact words were, ‘The Breakers are saddened by the loss of a talent like Cash Benjamin. He has left a gaping hole in our defense that we are still trying to fill. Unfortunately, given his circumstances, his insurance will end after September thirtieth. We will no longer pay for visits to specialists for anything other than what is medically necessary to maintain the knee Cash has post-accident.’”
“The knee I have. They’ll pay for the knee I have, but not the one I need.”
“That is correct. They’ll continue paying for maintenance physical therapy, rehabbing that knee until it will get no better, and then they’ll continue providing coverage for all the maintenance, but as of September thirtieth, you will no longer have general health insurance, so everything else will be out-of-pocket. ”
I swallowed. The doctor’s repeated information finally sank in. Specialists were fucking expensive. And I was a washed-up—according to the world of hockey—goalie, without a contract, which meant no income, no health insurance, and no way to pay for…