Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Fuck that.
I had to get back on the ice. I could not go down like this. It was fucking humiliating.
I couldn’t stay here either.
Tara and Martin had been amazing, and it was great to spend time with my niece and nephews, but I didn’t want to be a burden to them…or my folks. It had taken some serious acting to convince my parents that the media had overstated my injury and there was no need for them to cut their cruise short. They assumed I’d stay with Tara, then convalesce with them in Toronto when they returned.
Not happening.
I could go to Seattle if the doctor cleared me to to fly next week. I had a great house on Lake Washington. It was peaceful and quiet and…lonely. I didn’t live near any teammates and if I couldn’t go to practice or sit with the team, I’d go nuts. It would be torture to be that close to the action yet unable to participate. It was that sliver of chocolate cake all over again.
So now what?
In the back of my bruised brain, I remembered Vinnie in my hospital room. “Come to Elmwood.”
Elmwood?
Maybe. Yes. I liked Elmwood. I’d spent a chunk of last summer helping coach the junior camp Kimbo had started with his best friend. I’d never lived in a small town and I’d been leery about signing on for a month-long stay, but I’d loved it.
The town was quaint and charming…and everyone knew each other. That could have been hell, but it seemed to work. I’d stayed in Nolan’s old house with a couple of other hockey players Vinnie had recruited. We’d fished and hiked in our spare time, and had genuinely enjoyed ourselves.
It would be quieter now, but autumn in New England was beautiful. And peaceful. But not too peaceful. Vinnie and his buddy had recently remodeled the rink, and they’d built a beautiful sports center with a killer gym. I could get in shape there, and I’d bet Vinnie would train with me once my head stopped trying to roll off my body.
Yeah. I liked that idea. Elmwood was a perfect place to heal. And I wouldn’t stay long. A week or two, tops.
“That’s awesome!” Vinnie enthused over the phone the next day. “The house is yours whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll pay you whatever rent you were going to charge a new tenant.”
“Don’t piss me off. Your money’s no good here,” he huffed.
“We can work something out. I was thinking Saturday, if that’s cool. I have to break the news to my sister, and hire a driver who’ll—”
“I’ll pick you up. Don’t argue. I’ve been in your shoes, man. I know how concussions work. I’ll fly out in the morning, rent a sweet SUV with heavily tinted windows, and escort your ass to Elmwood in style. Snacks and tunes included. Road trip! Road trip!”
I grinned, feeling better than I had in a while.
Was I guilty of running away from my problems? No way. I was proactively working on a solution. Was I guilty of crossing my fingers and hoping the world would return to normal within fourteen days? Probably…yes.
I was very aware that my injury was an opportunity to force my retirement. The Slammers could write me off, pay off my contract, and move on without me. There was a real possibility I’d be a has-been before the holidays, and that was just—depressing.
So maybe I was on board with a temporary reprieve from unpleasant truths, ’cause let’s face it…reality sucked.
2
JEAN-CLAUDE
“The hockey player, oui?” I gestured to the handsome, broody man wearing sunglasses in a booth at the rear of the diner. “What is he doing here?”
Nolan glanced up from his iPad. “Finishing his hamburger, I think.”
“Suddenly you’re a comedian, eh? I know about the hamburger. I made it for him myself, wise guy.”
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Riley’s injured and—”
“I know that too. It’s all over the news in zee sports. Shouldn’t he be in Seattle?”
I wiped my hands on a dish towel, frowning at my accent. I had a harder time reining in my zees and ouis when I was tired or agitated. It was one fifteen on a Monday and I’d slept well last night, so exhaustion wasn’t to blame. No, I was fairly certain it was the athlete staring at his burger as if I’d presented him with a cow turd on a bun with a side of fries.
“He can’t work out yet,” Nolan explained. “Bad concussion. That’s why he’s wearing sunglasses. He’s supersensitive to light and—”
“Ground beef? Why isn’t he eating?” I tossed the dish towel onto the marble counter.
“Don’t be offended, JC. He’s just chillin’ out.”
“And staring at my burger. The burger I made.”
I marched to the not-so-hungry hockey hunk, crossed my arms and glared.