Boldly

by Elise Faber

  Boldly

  Breakers Hockey #2

  Elise Faber

  BOLDLY

  BY ELISE FABER

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  * * *

  BOLDLY

  Copyright © 2021 Elise Faber

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-63749-032-7

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-63749-004-4

  Cover Art by Jena Brignola

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Epilogue Part Two

  Breathless

  Newsletter

  Also by Elise Faber

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Oliver, Nine Months Before

  The score was tied.

  He was exhausted.

  It was double-overtime, game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals, and his legs were dead—and not just his legs, everyone on both teams’ legs were dead—and that meant plays were getting sloppy, turnovers were happening left and right, and collisions were getting gnarly. It also probably meant that the game-winning goal would be some garbage shot that ricocheted off a trio of players—and someone’s ass—before creeping home.

  But for whose side, he didn’t know.

  Oliver hoped it would be for them, of course, but truly, it could go either way.

  Marcel banked the puck off the boards, and Oliver could see it wasn’t going to clear the blue line, so he hauled ass to pick it up, to clear it out.

  He managed to get it over that line, to give his team a little breathing room, to get it deep enough to get fresh players on the ice.

  But he paid the price, taking a hard slash on the wrists, pain lancing up his arms.

  He nearly dropped his stick, his hands going numb for a brief moment, but he powered through it, held tight, and continued driving forward.

  Even though he took another hit, this one to the back.

  Not that the refs were going to call anything.

  Double-overtime in the final game of the playoffs? Yeah, no. Nothing outside of the most egregious of hits was going to be called.

  But, fuck, he’d appreciate it if Mark Goddamned Shelby would stop trying to pound his spine into his body. Former teammate and all-around asshole, Shelby had been unceremoniously traded to the Kings, and he had made it his personal mission to make every Breaker pay for the insult.

  So much so that Oliver knew he’d be black and blue tomorrow.

  Totally worth it, though, if he was able to hoist the Cup. Especially if him doing so meant that Shelby wasn’t.

  Still, risk of bruises or not, Oliver battled along the boards, gaining a few inches.

  But when he glanced over his shoulder, saw Mark was winding up again, Oliver let his instincts take over.

  He kicked the puck forward, dodged to the right.

  Shelby missed the crosscheck and stumbled.

  Oliver saw the empty lane ahead, the chance to advance. A sudden surge of adrenaline had him bursting forward on tired legs to retrieve the puck, to pick it up on his stick and streak toward the Kings’ net.

  He had space. He had opportunity.

  He was going to end this.

  Fifty feet from the net. Thirty. Ten.

  Just him and the goalie…and a glimpse of an opening on the short side.

  He held his breath. Fuck, maybe he even closed his eyes when he shot that puck. Maybe that was why he didn’t see it.

  But whether it was a mere blink or an unconscious close of his eyelids, they snapped open at the sound.

  Thunk.

  Not the ping of a crossbar or post being hit, the puck deflecting out without crossing the goal line, but the solid thunk of the biscuit colliding with the wrapped metal support…at the back of the net.

  The buzzer went.

  The red goal light flicked on.

  The crowd erupted.

  And in all that joy and cacophony and chaos, he didn’t see Shelby coming.

  Just felt the heavy impact.

  Saw the ice coming up fast.

  Then pain, so much pain…and the world went black.

  Chapter One

  Oliver

  He walked into the practice facility for the first time since the previous season.

  Walked might be a loose term.

  Or, at least, it was a very different type of walk than he’d done nine months before.

  This walk that took him in from the parking lot, in through the rink doors, into the cold air of the practice ice the team used still required some concentration.

  Because he was down a leg.

  A bad break, the bones in his lower leg essentially crushed between the goalpost and the boards. He’d scored the game-winning goal, won the Cup for his team, and he hadn’t even gotten to enjoy it. Instead, he’d been in an ambulance, heading to the hospital.

  Then in surgery to keep his badly broken leg. He hadn’t gotten to heft the Cup, though the guys had brought it to the hospital, so he’d seen it when he’d woken up from anesthesia, held it, thinking at that point he was going to rehab his way back onto the ice. Because the doctors had done their job. He’d been healing. Then…

  Infection.

  A persistent, antibiotic-resistant infection that had ultimately—four surgeries later—left him without his right leg.

  Bye, NHL career.

  Bye, captaincy.

  Bye, life as he knew it.

  Now, he was up and walking. Getting around on the prosthesis. His pain was under control. He was moving on, and he was doing that by coming back to the rink.

  His eyes drifted to the ice, watching the guys skating around aimlessly, shooting pucks without really aiming, just warming up before practice began. Something he’d taken for granted.

  Something he missed.

  He couldn’t lie.

  The cool air on his face, the feel of his stick in his hands, the crunch of the ice beneath his skates.

  He missed a lot of things.

  But…there was no going back. He couldn’t be what he was, not the least of which was because he was missing a fucking leg.

  “Hey,” Luc said.

  Oliver stiffened, and it was harder than he wanted it to be to tear his gaze from the ice, from where his teammates were practicing, getting ready to defend the Cup, their record at nearly three-quarters of the way through the season making the prospects of going for two in a row possible.

  There was no doubt that was the plan.

  They certainly had the t
alent and experience to do it.

  Oliver started to face Luc, who had asked him to come to the rink. The man had pretty much become a fixture at Oliver’s house after his injury, and strangely (because Oliver would have never thought it possible), the GM of the Breakers had become less boss and more good friend. Strange, considering Oliver had always kept himself removed from those in positions of authority, but ultimately a good thing. He couldn’t have made it through the last nine months without Luc and his wife, Lexi.

  “Hey,” he said, but before he managed to say anything else, the guys noticed Oliver was there and came over to the boards, acknowledging him through the glass with nods and the occasional wave. Smithy actually opened the door, started to stride down the steps when Coach—Tommy Franklin—came onto the ice and blew his whistle.

  Smithy paused, made a face, then mouthed, “Fuck. Talk later?”

  Oliver nodded. Smithy had become another regular fixture at his place. Mostly because his friend was stubborn and wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Smithy jerked his chin up before heading back onto the ice, closing the door behind him.

  Tommy said a few words, and the guys started moving.

  Oliver let out a breath, stifled his longing.

  He’d seen his teammates a lot since his injury, but paired with being in the rink, seeing a practice he would have been participating in if not for the dirty hit from Mark Shelby, and he felt raw inside. He wanted to be out there.

  He knew there was no point in dwelling on it.

  He wouldn’t be back on the ice in any capacity that he wanted, not ever again.

  “Come on,” Luc said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. He nodded to the hall that led to the offices in the back of the practice facility. As they walked, he got the glances. First, just out of the corner of Luc’s eye, directed low, probably assessing his stride (smooth, because he’d PTd the fuck out of getting his movements to look as normal as possible). Next, it was pointed at Oliver’s face, probably attempting to judge how raw he was feeling (which, of course, the answer was really fucking raw, but eyes forward, thoughts forward). Last, it was another long stare that was punctuated by, “How’re you feeling?”

  And fuck, that was a question he was tired of hearing.

  Also, so tired of hearing it in that tone.

  The worried, pitying tone.

  Yes, he’d lost his career, his leg. Yes, his entire life had changed.

  But…that was the past, and he didn’t live in the past.

  Never had.

  He hadn’t been able to afford to. Not ever.

  “Fine,” he said, following Luc.

  The GM glanced at Oliver, and Oliver deliberately kept his gaze pointed forward, not staring at the ice, not like he wanted to, studying the drills the guys were doing, being part of the plan to win that second Cup.

  Missed that so fucking much.

  Wanted that so fucking much.

  But wasn’t going to get it, so…moving on.

  “Right,” Luc said after a moment, and they strode into his office. Luc nodded to the chair in front of his desk, and Oliver sat down, thinking that the last time he’d been in this position, shit had been so fucking different.

  He’d been worried about the team back then, worried he wasn’t the right captain for the team, worried he couldn’t do the job.

  Now, everything had changed.

  There was still a job to be done.

  Just not by him.

  Luc sank down into his chair on the opposite side of the desk and picked up a folder sitting on top, flipping through some papers and then passing them over to Oliver. “Here,” he said, rather unceremoniously.

  Oliver scrambled to take the sheaf, and it was lucky that it was stapled together because he caught it by the top paper—nearly ripping it off—before he pulled it into his lap. Then he noticed what was at the top. What the—? He started reading, his eyes flying across the words on the first page and then the next.

  And then the next.

  His gaze flew up.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to head the Player Development department.”

  “But”—he continued reading, somehow unable to stop now that he’d started—“why?”

  “Marco’s leaving, and you already know that Allie and Chad have moved on to new posts. The department needs someone capable to take it on, to rework it into something that’ll bring us to the next level.”

  They’d won the Cup.

  What was the next level beyond that?

  A dynasty? Just a repeat? A solid team for years to come?

  All of that, Oliver supposed.

  “Why?” he still found himself asking, and though he left off the me, Oliver knew that Luc heard it anyway.

  Namely because Luc was silent long enough that Oliver looked up from where he’d been conducting a study of his hands (big, scarred, maybe a bit too hairy on the knuckles) and realized that was what Luc had been waiting for: Oliver to look at him. “Because you’re one of the best fundamental players I’ve ever seen. Because you’re good at teaching the guys—I saw you plenty of times pointing out some small way they could change their play, and it made a big difference. Tommy”—Coach—“agrees. We both saw the way the guys respected you, and that’s saying something, considering the egos that come along with professional athletes.”

  “I—we all brainstormed. It’s not like…”

  “You said anything special?”

  Oliver shrugged.

  “Well,” Luc said. “I saw something special. Tommy saw something special. We both agree we want that special helping our guys win the Cup again. Especially since we won’t have you on the ice leading them.”

  Oliver winced.

  He knew he did, couldn’t help it, couldn’t hold it back.

  And, of course, Luc noticed.

  “Fuck,” his friend said, features drawn tight, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Oliver sucked in a breath, released it slowly. “I know.”

  And he did. Luc was a good guy.

  “Look, I know you lost everything, and I know—” He cut himself off. “I can’t say I know how you feel. When I hurt my knee, I lost my career, but I didn’t lose my…” Luc trailed off, scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just…I know that shit gets real when the rug gets yanked out from beneath you, but this isn’t about that. This isn’t about me just trying to throw you a bone. I know you’re the right man for this job. You’d be an asset to the team whether you’re on or off the ice.” He straightened in his chair. “And because I can’t have you on it, I want you off it. If you’re ready for that. If you want that, too.”

  Oliver sucked in a breath, released it slowly. “Luc, man, I don’t have any real experience coaching. Not even kids. I—I wouldn’t know what I was doing.”

  “You have good instincts.”

  Oliver sighed.

  He couldn’t lie and say this job wouldn’t be a fucking godsend. He missed the team, missed the ice, missed doing something normal, even if that was just coming to the rink every day.

  This was the type of opportunity former players would kill for, leg or no leg.

  But… “Do you really think I’d be a good fit for this?”

  Luc stood and rounded the desk, sitting on the edge and crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, you know me. You know I don’t blow sunshine up people’s asses. If I think you’ll be an asset, I know you’ll be an asset. I’m not about to give a cut of my budget to someone I think can’t hack it. You were the captain of this team. You led them to a Cup win, despite the disastrous start to the season. We were the last place seed. We fought for every game. And the guys did that because you were the leader, you bolstered them when they didn’t think they could do it, you were the one who put that game-winning goal in the net.”

  Oliver’s breath slid out of him, shaky as fuck.

  “I want you in the position. You. Because you’re the best person for the job.
Now,” he said, when Oliver just continued to breathe, “tell me first, is this something you might even want?”

  “What?” Oliver’s eyes shot up. “Of course, I want it. I miss being part of the team, of something that’s bigger than me. I just—”

  Doubts.

  He’d had doubts his entire life, and this wasn’t any different.

  “Okay,” Luc said, no nonsense as ever, “so now that part is out of the way, I have two conditions for this offer.”

  Bracing now, he held Luc’s gaze.

  “First, you’ll take a coaching course I recommend.”

  Well, that wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Okay,” he said

  “Second, you have mandatory sessions with Hazel.”

  Um.

  “Hazel?”

  The team psychologist.

  She was beautiful, kind, and had a body that screamed sex.

  And last time he’d seen her had been in the hospital, horror written into the lines of her face.

  Chapter Two

  Hazel

  She didn’t have a traditional job.

  She wasn’t the type of psychologist who had a fancy couch and a large office, expensive artwork on the walls.

  She was the type of psychologist who had a slightly beat-up couch shoved into one corner, a very beat-up desk in another, a half-wilted potted plant shoved in one of the others, and a stand-up punching bag in the final one, thus clearing as much of the floor space as possible.

  Because her guys didn’t like to sit still while they dealt with the shit that was troubling them.