by Sophia Henry
“The loss of Brandon has hit all of us pretty hard. How are you doing with it, Luke?”
Mike’s question isn’t out of left field, but it hurts like a puck to the nose nonetheless.
My lip quivers involuntarily at the mention of Brandon Dellinger, former Aviators captain, who took his own life a few months ago. Soon after a concussion sidelined him from the game, he found out Jack, his only child, had lung cancer. For months, everyone in the organization watched him pour his soul into doing everything in his power to help Jack recover.
Brandon was one of my mentors on the team. He and his wife, Ally, even let me stay in one of their guest rooms when I was going back and forth between Charlotte and Detroit frequently. During that time, I watched Jack grow up, thinking of him as a mix between a little brother and a nephew. When he got sick, I sat with Brandon and Ally during chemo and radiation treatments, or sometimes I just sat with Jack when they needed a break.
Brandon, already stressed from being forced to leave the game and trying to handle Jack’s illness, snapped when the doctors told them that Jack’s tumor was not shrinking from treatment. In fact, it had gotten worse. And to make a horrible situation even worse—it was inoperable, meaning there was no way to remove it safely. No matter what treatment route they chose, Jack would never recover.
Ally found Brandon dead in their garage the next day.
Swallowing back a lump, I finally squeak out an answer. “Better. But it’s still hard to believe he’s gone.”
“I know. I spoke with Ally a few days ago. She seems to be doing okay. She’s keeping a calm head, if nothing else.”
I nod. “She’s had a lot of family in town helping.”
Mike better get to the point soon, because I can’t handle this conversation much longer. What Brandon did still pisses me off. It saddens me and depresses me. Then pisses me off again. Why didn’t he say something?
“I know it’s been hard for you since your surgery. We don’t want you to feel like you’re on an island. We feel your absence around here, Luke. There’s something missing, an attitude, an ethic, a vibe—I can’t place it exactly. You know the energy you bring to the team—especially the young guys.” He looks up at me. “What do you think about moving into the Director of Player Development role?”
“Until I can play again?” I ask. I haven’t even been cleared to skate with the team yet, but not one doctor has said my career is over. At my last appointment, Dr. Patel made a point to tell me he was impressed with how well I was healing and how strong I’d already gotten with intense physical therapy and workouts. I took that as a positive sign for the future.
“Luke, you are one of the smartest guys I’ve ever coached—ever. I know being on staff instead of in the locker room seems like a demotion. I know you still have the strength and drive and desire to play, but you don’t have the clearance. And from what Smithy is getting from your doctors, the outlook doesn’t look good.”
My jaw clenches and my shoulders tighten, but I work hard to keep my cool. Though I appreciate the obvious ego stroke regarding the attitude I bring to the team, I’m still not ready to accept that I won’t play again. Not until I get the final word from a doctor—or doctors.
“This role is about mentoring our prospects, which we all agree you’ll be great at. It’s the perfect role for your skillset. You are an asset to this organization, Luke. We don’t want you to feel like Brandon. Depressed, forgotten, like you don’t have a place.”
I don’t point out that Brandon had more problems than just the isolation that goes with the loss of his career. He had a kid with terminal cancer. Though my family life isn’t the greatest, I don’t have that stress.
“I don’t feel that way at all. I know I have a place. I’ll be back on the ice with the boys soon.”
“We have to be realistic though, Luke. You get hit or even whip your head around to see the puck, and boom!” He slams both hands on his desk. “You’re a vegetable. That’s the reality of what could happen.”
“Come on, Mike,” I plead. “That’s a worst-case scenario. You know the surgeon has to say that to cover his ass.”
The fact that he threw in the vegetable line straight from the doctor’s playbook makes me think this proposed “desk job” might be long-term.
He looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re still Luke Daniels, Aviators rising star. The injury doesn’t change that. It just puts your career with the team on a different path. The guys love you, the staff loves you, hell, even the ladies still love you.”
I roll my eyes. Not many girls will choose to screw someone on the Aviators staff over an actual player. That’s the hot puck bunny’s less-attractive-friend territory.
Fuck if I’m going there.
“I’m worried about you.” Coach’s voice holds a hint of concern. After three years of playing for him, Mike Kingston knows exactly how to read my mood swings. It’s his superpower. He gets to know every single guy on a personal level. I swear that’s what makes him so damn good. He knows exactly what buttons to push to open the door to an even bigger issue.
“I feel great, Mike. The surgery repaired the disc. It’s healing well. I’m working my ass off in the gym. If I could reinjure my neck turning my head the wrong way, shouldn’t I be padded in fucking bubble wrap? If anything takes me down, I want it to be hockey, not looking both ways before crossing a damn street.”
“Do you really want to go down either way?”
When I don’t answer, Mike continues, “Take the player-development position. Start working with the young guys and we’ll see what your doctors say. Deal?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’ll take it.”
“Good. Go home and pack. I need you in Peterborough tomorrow.”
“Really?” I ask. Not that I’m upset about jumping right into my new job. I just don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
“Yeah. I’ll have Eddie call you with the details.” Mike gets up and follows me to the door. He claps a hand on my shoulder, in a way that feels paternal. Maybe I’m just a sucker for any fatherly connection since my dad died. “I know it’s hard when you’re disconnected, but you need to remember that you are a very valuable member of this organization, Luke. And if you need anything, or anyone to talk to, let me know.”
“Thanks, Mike.” I glance at my watch, a silver TAG Heuer that my agent bought me when I scored my first hat trick in the NHL. It was a natural hat trick—three consecutive goals in one period by the same player. “You plan on being here late?”
“Not if I can help it, but I’ve got a call with Peter. I don’t even know what time it is for him in Finland.” Mike glances back at his desk, then at me, as if I have the answer.
“Fuck if I know. I failed International Time Zones 101,” I quip. “All right, I’m headed out. You want me to bring you back some poutine fries?”
Teasing Mike about poutine, French fries covered in light brown gravy and cheese curds, never gets old. Last time we were in Toronto he ate three huge helpings and got sick. The next day, he still wouldn’t stop bitching about his stomachache, questioning the cleanliness of the roadside chip wagon near the arena we ate rather than how much of it he took back.
“Asshole,” he grunts, then places his hands on the waist of his running pants. “Sarah says I need to stop eating shit.”
“You’re only saying ‘no’ because it isn’t as good reheated.” I wink at him before heading down the hallway to the exit.
Despite being slightly disappointed about what my new role might mean, I focus on how lucky I am to be part of the Aviators organization. Brandon’s suicide rocked all of us. I appreciate that Mike took my mental state into consideration and how being isolated while injured makes me feel. It’s a classy move to actively look for a way to get me involved with the team even if I’m not in the locker room or joining them on road trips.
I’m not saying I’m letting go of my playing career just yet, but I know enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. A posi
tion with the organization gives me a purpose. It allows me to be back in the community. I’ll kick ass at this Director of Player Development shit for a few months and bust my balls to get back on the ice, where I belong.
Chapter 2
Bree
My first assignment as a traveling nurse brought me to Charlotte, North Carolina, a place I’d never been before. I’ve been so consumed by learning the intricacies of the hospital I haven’t had much time to explore the city. Which sucks, because I’m used to spending my free time outdoors. Ocean, beach, mountains—California has it all.
When Mindy, one of the CNAs I work with at Charlotte Children’s Hospital, asked me if I wanted to go to the world’s largest pub crawl, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. But she also mentioned that we would be meeting up with some of her friends, and since I’d only been in North Carolina for a week, meeting people was on the top of my list of things to do.
“Hey, Bree!” Mindy greets me when I open the door for her.
“Hey!”
She thrusts a kelly-green T-shirt at me as she slides by.
“This is interesting,” I say as I hold it up for inspection.
She’s wearing an identical shirt, though she’s made some modifications to hers. The crew neck has been cut into a low, jagged vee and the sides are laced together with shoestring, allowing skin to show from under her armpits to the top of her low-slung jeans. I don’t even want to think about the time and effort she put into making it that slutty.
Evidently, everyone at the event wears the same T-shirt. Though the artwork—a pair of Chuck Taylor–style high-tops hanging on a power line by the laces, with the details for the pub crawl on the sole—is cool, the shirt itself is tiny. If I had known how small they ran, I would have opted for a medium. How am I supposed to drink if I have to worry about sucking in my gut all day? I can’t complain, though, because I really do appreciate Mindy inviting me out with her friends.
“Yeah, the design is kinda cute this year,” Mindy agrees. “And, I mean, even if you hate it, you only have to wear it once, right?”
“True.” I head toward my bedroom. “I’m gonna throw this on. Be right back.”
“No worries,” she says. “Can I grab a beer?”
I stop and turn around, watching as she opens my fridge and peers in. “I thought we were going to a pub crawl?” I ask.
Pregaming for a day of drinking that starts at noon seems pretty aggressive. Maybe I should’ve thought twice before agreeing to hang out with Mindy and her friends. I didn’t know anything about her outside of work. She may be way wilder than I have patience for anymore. I grew up around a ton of spoiled trust-fund kids who’d been drinking and doing drugs since middle school. The lifestyle got old quickly for me.
“It’s cheaper here,” she answers.
And just like that, I feel like a judgey jackass. An entire day of drinking is bound to be expensive. Might as well get started here and save a few bucks.
“On the bottom shelf,” I say as I leave her in the kitchen, then add, “Grab me one, too, please.”
I rush into my bedroom and replace my previous green T-shirt with the official pub-crawl top. Before I leave, I stop to fluff my hair and glance in the full-length mirror hanging behind my door. It takes a few double palm-pushes against the inside of the shirt near the middle, but I finally stretch it enough to give me a little extra room in the tummy area. I slide my palms over the wrinkles and I’m ready to go.
When I come back into my living room, Mindy is at the sliding glass door checking out the amazing view from my balcony. From there, you can see into BB&T Ballpark, where the Knights, Charlotte’s minor league baseball team, play their home games.
“You’ve got a view of the entire field,” she says, craning her neck to the left.
“I know. It would be awesome if I liked baseball.”
“You don’t need to like baseball to think the players are hot,” she says, handing me a beer. She swallows hard after taking a sip, which tells me she may not be a fan of the particular craft brew I picked up from the grocery store a few blocks from my house.
I laugh. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Do you like any sports?”
“I like hockey. And sometimes soccer. Who doesn’t love David Beckham?”
I’m not the world’s biggest soccer fan. I can’t tell you the names of many guys or what clubs they play for. But David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo are definitely on my radar. And all over my Instagram feed.
“You like hockey?” Mindy asks, leaning her backside against the balcony. “Have you been to an Aviators game?”
“I haven’t had a chance to get there yet. Do you go to them?” It’s midway through March, which means hockey season is drawing to a close. Since I don’t follow the local team, I don’t know if they’re in the playoffs or not. Maybe I should catch a game before the regular season ends.
“I’ve been to a few. A girl I work with at the radio station is dating one of the players, so I’ve gone with her a few times. That’s who we’re meeting up with at the crawl today.”
My heart speeds up. While I won’t go as far as to say hockey players are my weakness, I will admit to being extremely attracted to them. In fact, with the exception of one person, I’ve only ever dated guys who play hockey. It’s not like I seek them out. It’s just who I’ve always been around.
As a former collegiate hockey player himself, most of my dad’s friends are now retired players. And Mason, my brother, who’s only two years younger than I am, played up until a few years ago. I’ve literally been around hockey players from the time I was born. Being around so many good-looking, athletic guys made my dating life pretty easy—despite how pissed Mason would get every time I went out with one of his friends or teammates.
“Ready?” I ask. Before we leave, I grab my new Kate Spade purse from the kitchen table and maneuver the strap over my head and across my chest so the bag sits at my hip.
Once we’re on the street outside my apartment complex, I dig for more information on today’s festivities. “Tell me more about this crawl.”
“It’s a day of eating, drinking, and walking around the city with twenty thousand of your best friends.”
“Twenty thousand?” I repeat, unsure if Mindy’s exaggerating or not. That’s a shit-ton of people.
“Yes. Well, that’s the organizers’ count. But they go by number of T-shirts sold, so who knows if that many people are actually out on the street.”
“Is it run by a promotion company or radio station or something?” I look both ways before crossing the street to walk through Romare Bearden park. If cutting through the park is an option, I always do it. I love a patch of nature in the middle of city.
Out of the options offered by the temporary agency, I chose an apartment in Charlotte’s city center. For all I knew about Charlotte, it could have been a few buildings surrounded by horse and cow farms, so I thought being right in the heart of the city, within walking distance to restaurants and grocery shopping, would be my best bet. CCH is only a five-minute drive, which is much better than the hour-long commute to get from my parents’ house in Corona del Mar to the children’s hospital I worked at just outside of Anaheim. Based on mileage, it should only take about twenty minutes to get from house to hospital, but the traffic is absolutely brutal.
“No,” Mindy says. “It’s just two random dudes who moved to Charlotte after college. I talked to one of the guys last year for a while. It started with eighty of their friends and it’s grown from there.”
“Holy shit.”
“Right?”
“It’d be interesting to figure out how it runs, don’t you think? Get to see what goes on behind the scenes. With those numbers, it must be crazy.”
Though I chose a career in human services, I’ve always had an appreciation for people who built their businesses from the ground up, since that’s how my parents created their wealth. Growing up around the hard work and excessive hour
s they put into their businesses instilled a work ethic in me that I didn’t see in my peers.
Not all of them, of course, but I went to school with a ton of kids who were living off the fortune their great-grandparents made. I’m not knocking it, but while many of those kids were getting kicked out of school and being sent to rehab or schools for emotionally troubled youth, I was watching my parents create their empire, which made me appreciate hard work at an early age.
When I chose nursing as a profession, I didn’t want to be “just a nurse.” I wanted to be a pediatric oncology nurse—the best pediatric oncology nurse in the country. Not that there’s a solid measurement for that. It was more about working my ass off to get to the top—instead of living off Mom and Dad.
“Maybe we can get on the employee list for next year,” Mindy winks.
Reality mutes my initial pang of excitement. My assignment in Charlotte ends long before next year’s pub crawl. I may be enjoying a St. Patty’s Day celebration in a whole new city—or back home in California. But I don’t say that out loud, choosing to stay in the present, even though I secretly enjoy the idea of not knowing where I’ll be next. It gives me a sense of freedom I haven’t felt in years.
Being the daughter of driven entrepreneurs has its perks, but it also comes with the pressure and expectations of people who “want the best for me” even if our definitions of what’s best are completely different. Marrying one of the party-boy, trust-fund kids in my parents’ social circle is not my idea of an ideal match. I’d seen more things snorted before I started high school than I’d seen my entire time in college.
That was never my life. I always wanted to be outside hiking and surfing, rather than on the beach drinking and sunbathing.
“At the risk of sounding super lame, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hang very long if I’m drinking all day,” I say, jumping onto the bricks of a raised flower bed. Years of gymnastics as a kid kicks in and I begin stepping heel to toe across the bricks as if I’m walking a beam.