by Hughes, Maya
“Isn’t it a little early for a drink?” The bottle I’d left empty upstairs flashed through my mind, and my hypocrisy wasn’t lost on me.
“Dude, it’s three pm.”
I whipped around and looked at the clock above the stove. They weren’t wrong. My stomach protested my thoughts of going back upstairs without eating anything. Cursing under my breath, I dumped out my bowl.
A few minutes later I stood behind the counter, diving into a carb-loaded mountain of pasta. Even cold, the food hit all the right spots.
They pretended they weren’t looking at me, but I could feel their gazes tracking my every move. I’d given them all keys when I got the place right before I was injured last season. While I was gone for rehab on my knee, I had wanted them to be able to check in if anything went sideways. Now, I regretted that decision. But I could’ve changed the locks.
Why hadn’t I? Why, when they showed up day after day, didn’t I throw the chain across the door so they couldn’t get in? Partly because I knew they’d knock down the door if I tried, but also because some part of me wanted them here.
They cared, and they were the closest thing I’d had to an extended family for as long as I could remember, but that didn’t mean I deserved to have them here. They wanted me back on the ice, but that wasn’t happening.
Waking up in cold sweats from a dream about setting foot on the ice didn’t bode well for my return to the game. The last time I’d walked onto a rink, after the fight, I made it three steps inside before bolting back out the door and puking onto the asphalt. A few weeks later, I’d driven to the stadium at night to see if maybe it had been a fluke, but my hands had been shaking so badly, I couldn’t open my car door to even try.
I’d rather they thought I was being a stubborn asshole who’d made a choice to say fuck it than a guy who couldn’t bring himself to lace up his skates. The thought was sour, and the food that had gone down so well sat uneasily in my stomach, like I’d eaten the chunky milk.
I don’t know what scared me more: that they’d give up on me eventually, or that they wouldn’t.
A sharp knock on the door split the tension in the air. No one moved. The guys stared at the TV like they hadn’t heard the knock. Was this a test? To see if I’d actually gone full hermit? The season would start soon and they’d be on the road—way too busy to park on my couch, drink my booze and bug me. And that would be when they realized they didn’t even need me. The roster was stacked this season, and they’d pull out a win for the cup. It was only a matter of time before the calls became less frequent, the visits nearly non-existent, and then one day I’d walk down here and realize no one had been here in months, and I’d be standing in this kitchen with my chunky milk, completely alone.
Stomping to the door, I flung it open, ready to send whoever it was away.
My eyes narrowed. I didn’t even let him say a word before I slammed the door straight in Ford’s bearded face. My nostrils flared and it took long silent minutes to unclench my hands at my sides.
“Don’t say a fucking word,” I bit out, trying to get my breathing under control.
Everyone not standing on my front step stared back at me, Adam’s apples bobbing and stealing glances at one another.
“Colm, you want to get in on this game?” Heath held up a controller for me.
A sharp knock on the front door saved me from my long hard stare as a response. Throwing it open, I prepared to launch into my best bellow to get the fuck off my doorstep, but couldn’t stop my wince.
“You’re alive.” Bailey stood on my front step, barely an inch over five-three, but glowering like she was a gladiator sharpening her sword in an arena.
“Rumors of my demise have been grossly exaggerated.”
“Not when I get through with you.” She shoved the door open and barged into my house.
“Please, come in.”
“Cut the shit, Frost.”
“So nice to see you too.” I closed the door and tipped my imaginary hat to her.
“Are we going to do this here?” With her arms out, she gestured to the guys.
“Fine.” My jaw ached. “Follow me.”
* * *
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
The office door had barely clicked shut when she rounded on me. That her teeth weren’t snapping for my throat was a surprise.
I leaned against the wall beside the door with my arms at my sides, ready to throw them up to protect my soft tissue at the last minute, if needed. “What do you want from me, Bailey?”
She made a sound halfway between a growl and a grunt of disbelief. “What do I want? How about an explanation for why you haven’t gotten off your ass and gotten to work for the season that starts in less than a month?”
“My leg.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You’re seeing a team doctor. Do you think confidentiality with a team doctor is the same as anywhere else? I know he gave you the all clear. I know he’s referred you to five physiotherapists.” She shoved her hand with her fingers spread wide in my face. “And that you’ve flaked on every appointment.”
The doctor had given me the all clear to start training and get my ass back on the ice, so why hadn’t I touched a weight in over a month?
“I’ve had—”
“A lot going on? Yeah, I can tell, Lebowski.” She grabbed the end of her ponytail, yanking on it like she was trying to remove it from her skull.
I shifted from foot to foot. That was the signal that she was three seconds from castrating someone with a pair of dull skates.
With her hands braced behind her head, she turned to me. “My ass is on the line, Colm. You were my first scout. You’ve got so much talent. Don’t throw this away and don’t fuck me over.” She jammed her finger into my chest.
Damn, for someone so small, she packed a lot of power behind those tiny fingers. “You’ve got a week to get your shit together or I swear, I’ve got a set of pliers with your name on them. Get your ass in gear, Frost.” Disappointment and anger blazed in her eyes. She dipped her head, shaking it. Looking up at me, all the intensity was gone and the harsh lines weren’t painted so deep. She stepped closer and squeezed my shoulder. Without the grimace, I was reminded she wasn’t that much older than me. “You can do this.”
She stomped out of the room abruptly, as though she’d freaked herself out by not threatening bodily harm. Was she going to rat me out to the guys? A low murmur came from the living room and I stood, holding my breath, waiting for the shouts of outrage at the secret I’d been keeping.
“Bye, Bailey,” Declan called out as the front door slammed.
I sagged against the desk, trying to calm myself. It was only a matter of time before they figured it out. I didn’t even go back to the living room, heading straight upstairs instead. Staring at my ceiling, my stomach knotted, imagining getting back on the ice. Maybe facing down Bailey and her pliers wouldn’t be so bad. At least it would be another excuse for me not being able to skate anymore.
She’d come back. Dodging it had gotten me this far, but showing up at my house? Bailey wasn’t going to let this lie forever. Would she tell the guys? Would I lose the only people I had left?
7
Imo
Three months of six clients a day, Monday through Friday, followed by battling shore traffic all summer to work weekends at The Surf Shack meant I could sleep at the drop of a hat. I’d fallen asleep at the gas pump last Sunday on the way back to my apartment. Thankfully, in Jersey it’s full serve, so the gas nozzle wasn’t pouring unleaded out all over the ground. Instead, I startled awake to the guy knocking on my window like he’d been doing it for way longer than a couple seconds.
My bones ached, but tips were good. Ass smacks from the customers were not, but being with Charlie and Fern and helping them made it worth the winter hibernation I wanted to fall into even though it was only September.
Summer season was ending and I could finally remember what it was like to not pass out in my
bed with my shoes on.
I was busy.
I was exhausted.
I was alone.
It was the closest I got to happy nowadays.
Fern had banished me from coming down this weekend. I sat in my apartment half-watching the TV and reading a recent journal article about a new physiotherapy technique for ligament damage after a catastrophic injury. I’d found myself more and more interested in studies and best practices for athletes and their specific types of injuries even though my recertification wouldn’t be for another eighteen months.
It wasn’t until almost three days after Colm’s injury that I heard the news. And it was actual news. I was better at burying my head in the sand than I realized. No one had mentioned it to me and he certainly hadn’t. My calls and texts to him went unanswered.
Did he feel like I’d taken advantage of him with whatever was going down? Did the injury have anything to do with that night? Why hadn’t I asked more questions instead of jumping his bones? Did he hate me? So many unanswered questions and a few I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers to. It changed the memory of that night from something fiery, spontaneous and fun to sadness that I’d let him down.
The descriptions of the injury had been euphemistic in the press. But once you were in the industry for a bit, it got easier to spot what they meant. Like when a realtor said an apartment was “cozy” that was code for you’d better break out your magnifying glass. “Retro charm” meant you’d feel like you’ve been transported back into the 70s complete with outdated plumbing, appliances and electricity.
Colm’s injury meant his next season was in limbo, especially right after his last recovery. If his career wasn’t over it would be shortly. Another marble plonked on top of the guilt pile.
If I’d stayed that morning could I have done something to prevent it? One wrong move and a life could be forever changed. People I cared about could be taken away. My parents. Preston. Did Colm get the newest spot on that list?
The gentle jingle of my phone broke me out of my staring contest with the anatomy breakdown on my computer.
Declan: Hey, Imo. Can you talk?
Tapping on his name, I only had to wait two rings for him to answer.
“Hey, Declan.”
“Mak is starting to get offended that you keep dodging our dinner invites.” He didn’t actually sound the least bit mad, and I did miss them. Summers were always hard with my schedule. I didn’t get to see them as much as I did outside of beach season when we were all sort of in the same place anyways. But there wasn’t exactly a tactful way to ask if Colm was there and then backtrack out of going if he was going to be there.
“The Shack isn’t going to run itself.”
“You’re working there and doing your physio work?”
“Fern and Charlie can use the help, especially with Becca in grad school now.”
“They’re lucky they’ve got you to depend on.”
“I do what I can.”
“You always do. Speaking of doing what you can…we wanted to ask a favor.”
“We?”
“Me and the rest of the guys. I don’t know if you saw the news or not about Colm, but he’s in a bad way right now and he’s not doing so well.”
“I saw it mentioned in the news.” It’s bad enough dealing with an injury, but having it plastered all over the national sports news had to be salt in the wound. Preston’s decision not to enter the draft had barely been a blip on the campus gossip scene, but Colm was at a different level. “How’s he doing?”
“He’d be doing a lot better if he weren’t being a total asshat about his recovery. I don’t know who they have him going to, but he hasn’t even mentioned getting back on the ice. He was ready by now the last time he got hurt.” Rustling and his huffs meant he was pacing and dragging his fingers though his light brown curls. Preston had always seen great things in Declan’s future, and he was following through on that one hundred percent.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“And we wanted to know if you might help. See if there’s something his current physio might have missed. You know him. He won’t be able to bullshit you the way he can a stranger.”
He wanted me to work with Colm. As in be his physiotherapist?
I could barely keep up with my current roster of patients. I was looking forward to falling into a weekend sleep coma after my last weekend at The Surf Shack. And then there was the whole us having sex and him never responding to my message aspect of things. Throwing me into the mix meant stress and possibly drama and that certainly wouldn’t help if he was having trouble getting back on his feet. But professional passion made my fingers itch to get ahold of his chart and perhaps make a few recommendations, if what they were doing wasn’t working.
I stared down at the phone, unable to form a response for a moment. “There are loads of great people he can work with. People lightyears ahead of me. I can make some recommendations. I don’t have the expertise to work with professional athletes. Their needs are a lot different than regular people.”
“But—”
“Declan, I know you want the best for him. So do I, and I don’t think I’m it for him.”
“We’ll see.” He ended the call there and I tried not to feel like there was an ominous slant to those last words. God help me if they all ganged up on me.
* * *
Emmett showed up at lunch. I was surprised his ear drums weren’t perforated from how sharp the whisper game was around the lunch room.
No preamble needed, he launched into the pitch. “Colm needs someone who knows him. Someone who won’t let him bully them. Our team trainer is about to lose it on him, if he doesn’t get his act together.”
“Emmett, I’m sure you can find someone else. I can look for referrals.”
“He’s run off everyone already. Maybe you can talk some sense into him?”
“I highly doubt that—”
“What do you need me to pay you? And don’t tell Avery I asked, she’d have my balls in a vise.”
“It’s not about the money.” I threw out my lunch, stomach roiling. The tuna must have gone bad.
“What is it then? Just come and see him. Give him a pep talk. We’re shit at that and maybe coming from a professional he’d take it more seriously.”
“Let me think about it.”
Emmett grinned. “That’s all we ask.”
Everyone in the lunch room was going to need a few sessions of physio after how quickly their heads whipped around to watch him go. At least I hadn’t been with any clients. There would be strained backs and necks all over the room.
I figured I had at least a day or two to come up with an excuse for why I couldn’t do it.
I had one hour.
* * *
“Hey, Imo.”
I jumped and yelped, bracing my arm on the doorway to the locker room. “Heath, what are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Long wavy hair fell into his eyes and he grinned at me like he was ready to steal the whole damn cookie factory. I’d thought they were going to gang up on me, not bombard me one after the other.
“Don’t you all have things to be doing?”
“It’s the off season.” Heath shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the locker beside mine. I’m sure he struck the same pose day after day in high school and they had to mop the girls up off the floor. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
I dropped my head back. Just what I needed. Three overbearing hockey players with nothing to do but pester me.
“Excuse me, could you tell me where I could find Imogen Walsh.” A deep baritone from the hallway drifted into the room. Heath’s grin widened.
Make that four overbearing hockey players. Ford stepped into the locker room, filling the doorframe. I was surprised he didn’t have to walk in sideways.
“Oh, Heath, what are you doing here?” Ford’s words were as convincing as a dollar store diamond ring.
�
��Did you all come in the same car? Have you been waiting in the parking lot for your turn to pounce?” I looked between the two of them.
Ford’s head snapped up and he looked over my shoulder. The two of them went through an eyebrow and jaw clenching conversation before Ford frowned, gave a growl and picked up his phone, tapping out a message before slipping it into his pocket.
“The locker move didn’t work?” Ford crossed his arms and leaned against the wall beside the door.
“It used to be killer.” Heath shook his head and looked at himself in the mirror, running his fingers through his long wavy hair. “I’m losing my touch. That always worked back in school.”
“You’re just not putting out those ‘jump into bed’ vibes now that you’re attached.”
“Hello.” I waved my arms standing in the space between the two of them. “You two are having a pick-up tactics conversation in an employees-only area of my job like we’re hanging out at one of your houses.”
“You’ve been ditching our invites.”
Apparently it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy avoiding us.” Declan and Emmett strolled up, pointed in our direction by my not-getting-any-B&B-treats-next-time co-workers, who crowded around in the hallway like this was the new touring performance of Hamilton.
“Just get in here.” I dragged the two of them all the way into the room and kicked away the door stopper. A distant beep and the distinctive buttery salty smell wafted down the hallway.
“Did someone make popcorn?” I caught the door and stared at my co-workers, who suddenly found the drop ceiling and pristine white walls insanely fascinating.
“Did I miss anything? I’ve got the—” Cecily darted from the break room, her cheeks glowing like a beacon when she spotted me.
“The absolute worst.” I pointed my finger at her. “I’m dealing with them first, then all of you.” I glared, slowly moving my finger across the room.