disappointment of not making the NHL—and I had gotten over it, really—I’d figured I’d ride it as long as I could. Mostly because I didn’t know what else to do and the pay didn’t suck. Beat digging ditches, as my grandfather used to say. But every veteran knew, at some point, there was nowhere to go except down. The injuries would start coming faster. I already ached so much in the mornings that it took a hot shower and twenty minutes of stretching for me to be able to tie my skates.
As it turned out, the ride had been over last season. During a game against the Tucson Roadrunners, I’d taken a hard hit and slammed into the boards skates-first at just the wrong angle. Both my knees had gotten fucked.
The club had done everything possible to help me recuperate. Players had access to all the best medical care available. I’d had surgery and rehab and PT and acupuncture. I’d been injured before and come back from it. I hadn’t expected this one to be any different. I also hadn’t anticipated my recovery taking as long as it had. It was almost four months before I’d been cleared to practice again.
And then, after one particularly grueling physical therapy session, I’d caught the look my trainer and the coach had exchanged. It had not been a good look. I asked straight up what my chances of getting back to full strength were and gotten not very good news. News I’d already known deep inside. I was never going to play pro hockey again.
So, I did the one thing I hated above all else: stone-cold sober, I’d sat in the characterless living room of my latest rental condo and taken a good, hard look at my life. What did I have to show for eight grueling years literally fighting for a chance to prove I was good enough?
Not much.
I had some money in the bank, but not nearly enough to live on for even a couple of years, let alone the rest of my life. I had no spouse, no partner, no kids. Didn’t own any real estate. The only thing I had going for me outside of the ability to hit a rubber puck really hard, was a nine-year-old bachelor’s degree in business communications.
Not exactly where I’d pictured myself at sixteen.
Not where anyone had pictured me. I was supposed to have been in the NHL. I was supposed to be settled by now—rich, successful, happy, and fulfilled.
Now here I was back in my hometown with exactly none of those things.
My mother would have been so disappointed. Maybe it was better she had died while I was at my peak. Star of the high school hockey team. Homecoming king.
My father was disappointed. Oh, he never said it directly, but it was there in every pointed question about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
Ryan, well, I think he was disappointed but he kept hanging around. Case in point, him in my office, rummaging around my closet. Vinny made a face at Ryan’s back, gave me a wink, and left.
“What are you doing here?” I asked after the office door shut.
“Looking for jerseys for you to wear tomorrow.” His voice was muffled by the contents of the closet.
“By ‘tomorrow,’ I assume you mean the tournament?” The MacWilliams Invitational Golf Tournament was the last charity fundraiser of golfing season, and kind of a big deal around these parts. Sponsored by the local Lion’s Club, each team raised money for their own charity. My team, Team Ice Cold, was raising money to support Special Olympics.
“Why do you need a jersey?” I asked.
He turned to me, two sweaters in his hands. “I don’t. You do. For signing autographs, remember?”
Crap. I’d forgotten. I’d promised the organizers I’d do a signing as well as donate some items to the silent auction.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Ryan said matter-of-factly while he closed in on me.
“No, I remembered,” I lied. “Just didn’t think I had to dress up to do it.”
“Of course you do,” he said, holding up the jerseys and looking from one to the other. “This one I think.” He thrust the shirt at me. “Try it on.”
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” I muttered, pulling the stiff fabric over my dress shirt and shifting my shoulders to help the sweater settle.
“You’re doing it to promote the rink,” Ryan answered.
“It’s not even my most recent team.” I plucked the jersey away from my