Fighting against Gravity: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 3)

by Isabella Cassazza

  I don’t freakin’ know what I want to do with the rest of my life, even if she asks me every fucking time we meet. I told her to go back to Toronto, and I sure as hell didn’t invite her to stay with me again. I need to be alone. I need to…. The last thing I want to do is talk.

  I close my eyes. Hurting her is the last thing I want to do but I can’t deal with the sad look in her eyes today. I just can’t.

  While I make my way to the door at a snail’s pace, I try to come up with an excuse for why she has to leave right away again.

  I know she means well. I know that she loves me. I love her too. But she’s… overwhelming. Too well-meaning. And I’d rather not yell at her. She doesn’t deserve it. I appreciate what she’s done for me, but now I need her to leave me alone. I need for everyone to leave me alone.

  I could do with a good fuck, but for now my hands are a satisfactory replacement—not that she needs to know… I shudder. I’ll never talk with my mom about my sex life. Some boundaries should never be crossed.

  I’ll probably get an earful for changing the security code on the gate. It’s not my fault I nearly had a heart attack when I found her sitting on my couch one morning as I walked around my house buck naked. What if I had a girl over?

  Not that the ladies want to see me anymore, but what if I got lucky again? My mom doesn’t need to know everything about me. I not only don’t want to talk to her about with whom I share my bed, I don’t want her to see the girls either. Why would I want my mom to meet my fuck buddies?

  I buzz the intercom and wait for her to walk through the gate, still contemplating how to deal with the situation at hand.

  To my surprise, the person heading in my direction isn’t my mom. It’s Rob Hayden.

  Shit. I’d rather have my mom storm in here than talk to the Ice Tigers’ GM. What does he want? Hasn’t he read the article? The two short paragraphs that told the world my hockey career is over for good. Two mini-paragraphs. Thank you for nothing, hockey reporters. Forgotten in a split-second. One would think I never had much of a career.

  Even if he’s missed the barely existent news about my career-ending injury, hasn’t he spoken to the team doctors? Doesn’t he know that I’m a hopeless case?

  Not treatable. Or incurable. These words will be forever seared into my brain.

  All because I didn’t pay attention for a split-second. I’m a living, breathing failure.

  “Michael, so good to see you.” The overweight man walks the small path to my door with more ease than I ever will. One more reason to dislike him. Not that I had a high opinion of Rob in the first place. He goes with the flow, never has an opinion of his own. I have no idea why Emilia Ravelli keeps him around. Thank fuck it’s none of my business anymore. The Ice Tigers can rot in hell, and I couldn’t care less.

  “Rob.” I block his way inside with my broad shoulders and stare him down.

  “Uh… so… how are you?” The corners of his mouth drop to the floor.

  I want to smash my fist into his face so badly right now. God, how much I loathe this question. Don’t people realize what it does to a person who’s lost it all? Do they think I’m dancing around in the sunshine with my cane?

  “Never better.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

  He steps from one foot to the other. “Uh… good. That’s good to hear.” I stare him down some more. What the fuck does he want from me anyway?

  Rob takes a step backward. “Uh… I wanted… um… you know, I wanted to ask about your day with the Cup?”

  I shiver—not because I’m cold, but because I’m about to explode.

  To even mention the Stanley Cup to me when I’m no longer part of the team….

  Is he making fun of me by bringing up the best day of every hockey player’s life? The day everyone has planned out in their minds in detail because it means you’ve reached the ultimate goal of winning the championship. The day you receive the privilege to have the Cup in your possession and can celebrate with the most beautiful trophy in the world? The day that would have meant the world to my dad and me.

  “Are you making fun of me?” I flex my fingers and glare at him.

  He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes some sweat off his forehead, no longer looking at me. “Uh… no. I… we thought—”

  “You need to leave,” I say with clenched teeth. One more mention of the Cup, and I… “Now,” I roar the word.

  He stumbles back. It’s a pity he catches himself before he falls. Then he turns around and runs through the gate. What is wrong with the world if even overweight Rob Hayden could outrun me?

  I slam the door closed and drop against it. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? I wasn’t part of the winning team. I’ll never fulfill that particular dream.

  Did I watch the game? No.

  Was I tempted to? Absolutely not.

  Did it pop up in my Instagram feed? Unfortunately, yes.

  After that I unfollowed the Ice Tigers’ account and all my teammates. Just to be safe from more unwanted pictures, I blocked every account I could find with hockey news and themes.

  My former teammates are the very reason I’m leaning on a fucking cane right now. If they’d done their job…. It’s pointless. There’s no going back anymore. But the last thing I want to see are their happy faces.

  Good thing my physical therapist is due today. I need to work off some steam.

  An hour later, I’m ready to fire my trainer on the spot. “Two more, Michael… good job.”

  Yeah, fucking good job when I could do a hundred sit-ups in a row before….

  I close my eyes. “I don’t need your stupid comments.” I stare the pumped-up guy right in the eyes. Who does he think he is? He is my fucking physical therapist, nothing more, nothing less. The last thing I need is his amateur attempts at being a shrink.

  He averts his gaze, clearing his throat. And looks… hurt.

  Oh, come on. If he can’t take a little chirping, he can go home right now. What am I supposed to say? Tell him he’s the best ever? Stroke his ego? It’s time for the guy to go to hell. I should have fired him a week ago. I know how to train on my own. Why waste money on an amateur?

  Before I can say more, someone else clears their throat. Someone female.

  I turn to my side and wish I hadn’t.

  “We need to talk.” Emilia stands in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Great. Fucking great, why does my boss… or ex-boss have to see me like this? Why can’t people leave me alone?

  “Are you redecorating?” She walks into the room as if she owns the place.

  “The vase fell on the floor.” Why am I even answering? I owe no one an explanation. Not anymore. Isn’t the cleaning lady in today? Why hasn’t she taken care of the mess?

  She looks at the vase, or what’s left of it, then turns to me again. “How are you?”

  If I’d just get a penny every single time someone asked that question. Not that I need the money, but still.

  Fucking fantastic, thank you. My career is fucking over. My life is fucking over. I can’t walk like a normal person anymore, have to deal with idiots every day, and my relationship with my mom is about to go up in flames since the only thing I do is yell at her these days. But apart from that, I’ve never been better.

  Instead of saying what I really want to say, I give a noncommittal snort. I won’t hit a woman. She isn’t the one responsible. Her husband’s face is the one I’d like to plant my fist in. I’m not sure what I’d do if he was standing in front of me.

  If it hadn’t been for him and his stupid fight….

  “To what do I owe the honor?” I mock bow. That’s what her good-for-nothing husband does all the time, doesn’t he? At least he can still play hockey. And she, she’s here to complain about my treatment of Rob. Let her. It’s not as if she could fire me.

  She walks over and sits down on the couch across from me, still eyeing the broken pieces of glass. “Like I said, we need to talk. If you need more time with… yo
ur workout, I can wait half an hour.”

  I snort again. What I’m doing right now does not qualify as a “workout.” Before my accident, even my warm-ups took more effort. But after weeks spent in bed, most of my muscles in my lower body are somewhere in nirvana. I used water bottles to maintain the muscles in my arms and to not go stir crazy in the hospital bed until a nurse caught me and took them away.

  After that, I couldn’t wait to move to the rehabilitation center. Some hopeless part of my brain thought with enough willpower and hard work I could get my leg to work again. Instead, the staff presented me with a cane upon my arrival and made me feel like I was eighty-plus-year-old. Thank you for nothing.

  “Who let you in?” I snap. I don’t have to be polite anymore. I owe this woman nothing.

  Emilia blinks twice, then continues, ignoring my rude behavior. “Your cleaning lady let me in. How much longer will you need?” Her voice is calm and smooth like freshly resurfaced ice, which infuriates me even more.

  I’ll have to talk to my cleaning lady. She’s way too trusting with people. And a hockey fan. She probably thought she was doing me a favor, letting Emilia in. Once you’re a cripple, people think they know what’s best and make decisions for you—decisions they have no right to make. I don’t want to talk to or see people. I don’t want them to see me. This me. The cleaning lady needs to go as well.

  “We’ll need—” pumped-up guy starts, but it’s time to end this shame of a pupil-trainer relationship. I don’t want him around me anymore.

  “We’re done.” I stare him in the eyes for a second, hoping he’ll catch the unspoken “for good.”

  I guess I’ll find out tomorrow if he needs me to spell it out. Without saying another word, he picks up his bag and leaves the room. That looks good to me.

  I follow him with my eyes as he fucking walks through the room, making it look effortless and… normal. But it isn’t. Not for me. Not anymore.

  “Now, how are you, Michael?”

  Is she asking for me to throw her out like Rob? Are they searching for reasons not to pay me for the duration of my contract? She can fucking forget that. I want my money. I mumble something resembling “good” under my breath and applaud myself for my patience.

  “Shouldn’t you be with your babies?” Thinking of when she gave birth to her children makes my stomach churn.

  The image of my teammate’s happy faces will be forever seared into my brain. They celebrated like there was no tomorrow. Without me.

  I haven’t checked my social media channels or turned on the TV since that godawful day. If my TV wasn’t integrated into the wall, I’d smashed the big screen into the gray stones around it.

  I have nothing while she fucking has everything—the Cup, the team, the babies—not that I want those. I don’t know what so great about your water breaking on live TV for everyone to see the disgusting business and pushing out two screaming little humans in the locker room. They even stopped the celebration on the ice because everyone was waiting for her and her babies to leave the arena.

  My mom made me sign a congratulation card for that oh-so-happy event. I didn’t even know that things like greeting cards made of paper existed anymore. Doesn’t everyone send messages via social media or texts these days?

  “They’re with Matt. You’re right though. I can’t stay too long.”

  Thank fuck. “What’s holding you up? You’ve been here and seen the freak show—”

  Emilia sighs. “You’re not a freak show, Michael. You’re still an Ice Tiger, and we…” She looks at me with that pitiful look everybody gives me these days.

  If I could, I’d jump up, I’d do it and tower over her. Since that’s impossible, I bite my lip and grind my teeth.

  “You’ll have to be patient.” She crosses her legs and folds her hands on her knee.

  Patience. Well, here’s the thing about patience. I’m the most fucking impatient person on this planet.

  My gaze finds the broken vase on the floor. Why did I never buy a second one for the table? It felt fucking great to smash the thing against the wall.

  I laugh. Loud. Bitter. And with all the sarcasm I find inside myself. “I’ll never play hockey again. Haven’t you talked to Dr. Miller? There is no therapy in the world that can bring me back on the ice. You can write me off, Emilia. Now, I’m busy redecorating, as you can see.” I point to the glass pieces.

  Silence. Utter silence follows my statement.

  “Are you serious about redecorating?” She glances around my living area.

  Has she fucking heard a word I just said? Why is no one listening to me anymore?

  She raises both eyebrows until they’re halfway up her forehead when I don’t answer.

  I pinch my nose. “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Her forehead wrinkles even more.

  “Lift your forehead like you just did. You’ll get wrinkles.”

  She laughs. Loud and clear. An honest laugh. Not fake like mine. How can she laugh about such a serious matter? Who wants wrinkles? “I couldn’t care less.”

  I shrug. Not my problem when she ages earlier than she has to. To think I thought her hot once. She can’t be right in her mind anyway since she’s married to Matt Walker.

  “Now, about redecorating your apartment. I happen to have the address of a superb interior designer.” She rummages in her purse. “Here’s the card. I expect you to call her this week.” She pulls out a light blue card with clouds on it. What would I do with clouds? I’m not a month-old baby anymore.

  If this person had a black business card, I’d call her right away and let her paint the whole house black. Pitch black. Like my soul. Wouldn’t that be something?

  I shake my head but take the card and the message that comes with it. Emilia’s still my boss. Sort of. My contract is valid, and I won’t say no to the millions the Ice Tigers are paying me. If she wants me to book that person, I’ll do it. I might end up with more vases to smash against the wall. With the money she still owes me, I sure as hell can afford it.

  “Thanks. And… congrats again.” I still haven’t figured out why having two shitting and spitting humans can be considered worth congratulating, but I don’t want to strain my relationship with this powerful woman more than necessary. She is and will always be the heiress to a freaking fashion empire. Not that I was ever asked to model for them….

  “We would love to have you at the wedding.”

  If pigs start flying, maybe. They might have a better chance getting on a plane than me for a while—not that I want to attend that stupid wedding. What’s to celebrate, the foreboding of the divorce in what? Ten years? I hope for her sake she has a bulletproof prenup.

  “I can’t fly.” And won’t be able to for a while. The thrombosis risk is too high after my surgeries. Like I’m a ninety-year-old granny. Fucking fantastic.

  She drops her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  Only then do I realize I’m still sitting on the floor in my drenched workout gear. Fitting, isn’t it? The cripple on the floor and the princess on the throne—or couch.

  Just like in the good old days, when cripples like me were outcasts.

  “Go home to your family.” I turn to face my window front and wait until her footsteps fade away. Then I slump to the floor and hide my face in my hands.

  Chapter 3

  Ellie

  Two weeks later

  “Come on, Johnny. Eat your cereal. We need to hurry now.”

  My son looks at me with all the nonexistent care of a nearly three-year-old. Then he smashes his spoon into his bowl. Milk splatters everywhere—on the floor, on the brick wall, and, of course, on my blouse. Yay. Not.

  I close my eyes. I love him with all my heart, but sometimes being a single mom isn’t a joke.

  “Johnny.” I give him a stern look. He doesn’t understand what’s on the line today. I need this job. We’ve been doing okay financially, but there’s still more than enough debt to pay off.

  This
job would give me room to breathe. I have to nail the presentation and convince the client to let me do the redecoration of his house. An entire house. Can you believe it? And he’s loaded. Emilia warned me he’s not an easy person, but if he pays well, I can deal with that.

  “Mommy?” Johnny jumps down from the bench and pulls on my sleeve. If the blouse wasn’t already ruined, it certainly would be now after he put his sticky fingers on the white material. The yellow-brownish smears look like… let’s not go there.

  “Yes, pumpkin.”

  He giggles and throws his little arms around my legs.

  Why am I making all these rookie mistakes today of all days? I should have learned by now only to put on clean clothes after Johnny had his breakfast. Especially now that we aren’t using the high chair anymore. It can’t be helped, that’s it then for the pants as well. I sigh. They were the ones that scream “savvy businesswoman at work.” And they make my legs look longer than they are and hide my belly.

  “Lov’ you, Mommy.” Johnny snuggles his milk-bearded head against my leg—not that it matters anymore.

  “I love you too, pumpkin.” I ruffle his hair. It’s impossible to resist him. He’ll be a real heartbreaker one day. “Let’s go to the bathroom. We need to wash your hands.”

  “Nooo. ’Ands tlean. Loot!” He lifts his cereal-and-milk-covered hands in the air.

  I shake my head. “It’s ‘hands,’ and they are not clean. I can see it. Come on. Rachel is waiting for you at daycare.”

  “Daytare. Daytare.” He runs around me like a tornado on steroids.

  What would I give to have his level of energy. I shake my head again as he sprints to the bathroom. There are days when a two-bedroom apartment has its advantages. He can’t get too far away from me, even if he wanted.

  “It’s ‘daycare.’” I sigh and follow him.

  Half an hour later, I’m wearing my second-best outfit and have a kid with clean hands hanging on to me as we leave the house. At this point, I want to crawl back into bed and get some much-needed sleep, but that’ll have to wait until tonight. I should have gone to bed earlier yesterday.