Second Chance

by Van Barrett

  They were here today to sign the adoption papers.

  And that meant Clay would have two open stalls in his stable, which was perfect. It killed him to have an open stall while other horses were out there suffering, but he had something specific in mind. He'd held one open earlier for a week, when another horse—Gustav—was adopted out. He'd banked on Holly's family taking Rebel to give him the necessary second free stall.

  Wife gave husband a look. “So …? Are we really doing this today?”

  “We brought the trailer, didn't we? And we knew this day was coming. Besides.” Husband nodded in the direction of his joyful daughter. “I can't say no to that.”

  Wife smiled, uncertain but excited, and gave a nod.

  They both turned to Clay. “Let's sign those papers.”

  Clay smiled and shook both their hands. “I'm so happy for you guys.”

  ***

  At the end of a long day, Clay had sent Rebel home with Holly and family and had his two free stalls. He was cleaned up and ready to head to the city, when Liz found him out front, hitching his trailer.

  “Now where are you off to this late in the day?” Liz asked him, her twangy voice starting on a high note and ending on a low one.

  “Oh, just heading up to Dallas to pick up those two horses I was talking about earlier. So that means you're in charge.”

  “But it's awfully late to be heading out,” she said in a thoughtful tone—and Clay knew the wheels were turning in her head. “I guess you're staying overnight again?”

  Clay cleared his throat.

  “Yup.”

  “Clay Grayson,” Liz said quietly, with a healthy dose of amusement. She had that old familiar twinkle in her eye that she always got when she was on to him.

  “… What?”

  “Do you have some pretty little girlfriend in the city that you haven't told us about?”

  Hearing that, Clay nearly choked.

  “Oh God. No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Trust me, I'm sure.”

  Liz gave him the once-over stare, but then shook her head in defeat. “Hmph. Well, alright. I know you're not lying because you're a terrible liar.”

  Clay grinned. “Gee. Thanks.”

  “It's a good trait to have, Clay,” she said as she started to walk off. “Keeps you honest.”

  “Yeah,” Clay grumbled to himself as he climbed into his truck.

  Sure.

  ***

  Clay listened to sports radio on the drive up to Dallas. Columbus was playing against Dallas again, but he wouldn't be attending the game this time around. He didn't have a reason to. Rusty hadn't returned to the ice since his concussion.

  He'd been out for two months already, and Clay was starting to get worried. You can always tell an injury is serious when the information starts to dry up. When there's a timeline for a guy's return, it at least gives you a date you can pencil into your calendar, which makes the silence easier to bear.

  But when there's no timeline—when they give that dreaded 'week-to-week' estimate—you know it's a bad one. At that point, no one's really sure when a player might come back.

  Concussions were a strange thing like that. Surely, hockey players had been having concussions since the old days of hockey. But it was a relatively new concept. In the old days, players wore less equipment, and the equipment they wore was heavier and not as safe.

  But that meant when a guy slammed into another guy, both guys felt the brunt of the impact. So maybe they didn't hit as hard. These days? Pads were lighter and stronger.

  Plus, the athletes were way faster and stronger today than they were in the old days—everyone knew that. Their all-around strength and conditioning was so much better than it used to be, when hockey players worked full-time gigs in the off-season, like construction or plumbing.

  Faster and stronger players meant harder-hitting players.

  Throw it all together, and what did you have? Heat-seeking missiles on ice. Guys blowing each other up and suffering from severe head trauma, of which little was presently known.

  But here's what Clay had gathered about Rusty:

  First, the news reports were vague and less frequent by the day. Clay was a hockey news junkie, and not hearing about Rusty for days, if not weeks at a time, was seriously worrying him.

  Second, a reporter on the Columbus hockey beat apparently relayed some 'insider speculation' that Rusty might be considering retirement altogether.

  Clay was shocked hearing that. He didn't know Rusty was doing that bad.

  Third—and what Clay had just read on the internet the other day—Rusty was apparently in bad enough shape that he still hadn't rejoined the team. In fact, Rusty was still living in a Dallas hotel, close to the Parkland Hospital.

  He'd never left Dallas.

  Apparently, he was too sick to fly. His migraines were bad, light bothered him, and all he could do was sit around and wait to get better.

  Ever since Clay heard that news, he had quietly reached out to some ex-teammates of his that were current NHL players. The guys he spoke to where shocked when he got in touch with them—they'd had no idea what he'd been up to. He made some small talk, told them a little about his farm, before he moved on to what he really wanted to know:

  I heard Rusty's concussion is pretty serious. You heard anything about how he's doing?

  And,

  I heard he was staying at a hotel in Dallas … any idea which one?

  He had to make a few such calls before he got as close to the answer as he figured he could get. Bergman, the old teammate who went down in Washington way back when, couldn't tell Clay as a matter of fact where Rusty was staying. But he did tell Clay which hotel his team normally stayed at when they had road trips to Dallas.

  It was the Hyatt Regency, located in the Reunion District of downtown Dallas. And that, Bergman said, was his best bet where Rusty was probably staying.

  Reunion District, Clay thought to himself. Is that some kind of sign? It's gotta be. I hope it is, anyway.

  It was all he had to go on.

  The minute that second stall opened up in his stable, Clay ran inside, picked up a phone and booked a room at the Hyatt Regency.

  ***

  A few hours later, Clay arrived at the hotel. He parked his truck, checked in, and went to his room.

  He wasn't sure what, if anything, his actual plan was. He hadn't talked to Rusty in years, and there was no telling if Rusty even had the desire to talk to him or not. He'd sent him those flowers the night Rusty got concussed, but that was close as Clay could get. Rusty wasn't seeing visitors when he was in the hospital. And even if he was, Clay doubted that he would've barged in on him. It wouldn't have seemed right. Plus, it would've hurt to see him in that condition.

  And here, at the hotel? It's not like Clay could just go up to front desk and say, Hey, there's an NHL player staying here, could you give me his room number? I'd just like to say hi. Not a stalker, I swear—actually, I'm a former teammate.

  Which was kind of funny when he thought about it like that, because he knew no one would believe that story. And then it dawned on him that he was something of a stalker, too.

  “Damn,” Clay mumbled at himself. He felt dumb, desperate and idiotic sitting around in his empty hotel room. It bummed him out even worse to know that Rusty was somewhere in the same building as he was, but he wouldn't be able to find him unless he went knocking door-to-door or something crazy like that.

  The hell had he been thinking?

  Clay took his sorry ass down to the hotel bar and ordered a drink. At least here, he had a chance of spotting Rusty. But even that was an infinitesimally small chance. Because if the guy was hurting as bad as they said he was, there was no way he'd be lounging around a hotel bar.

  That just wasn't Rusty.

  Clay was still at the bar, a couple beers deeper, when it dawned on him that he had one last desperate option left.

  He still remembered Rusty's old cell phone n
umber by heart. He hadn't thought of that number in years, but he'd seen it and dialed it so many times in the past, the series of numbers was practically etched into his mind.

  Clay picked up his cell phone and stared at the dial pad.

  Should I? Would he really have the same number?

  The kid had probably changed it by now. It wasn't just ten years later, it was ten years of fame and millions of dollars later. Keeping the same phone number invited unneeded drama into your life.

  That's why guys always changed their numbers when they broke into the league. Clay had heard the stories: the day that someone started earning that pro paycheck, the calls started coming in non-stop. That's when you found out that everyone you'd ever chatted with in life had somehow managed to grab your phone number, whether you remembered giving it to them or not. And now they were just calling to congratulate you on that very specific amount of money you'd just earned—before they launched into a sob story and ended up begging you for, oh, fifty grand, if you could only find the goodness in your heart to give it, since you clearly have so much to give.

  Yeah, that side of fame was pretty ugly.

  Hell, Clay changed his number, too—it was one of the first things he did when he disappeared.

  So he knew it was hopeless. Of course Rusty had changed his number at some point during the past decade—but Clay was out of ideas and this was his only option.

  He fished his phone out of his pocket in a hurry and tapped out a text message:

  “Rusty?”

  When an hour passed and he still hadn't received a reply, Clay had given up hope.

  It had been worth a shot, but it was one hell of a desperate shot.

  With no other ideas, he paid his tab and went back to his hotel room.

  16

  Revenge

  – Rust –

  Rust was laid out on his hotel suite's sofa and on the verge of sleep, when his phone began to clack and clatter on the glass coffee table.

  His eyes opened in a fright and his hands shot over his ears. Even though the phone's rattling buzz was short, the jarring vibrations of plastic-on-glass were absolutely awful. His swollen, sensitive brain cracked against the hard confines of his skull.

  He stared at the phone, seething, waiting for the pain to pass. He normally kept his phone ringer on silent. Somehow, he must have accidentally turned it to vibrate.

  Once the shock and pain had dulled, Rust picked the phone up to see who had texted him. The phone's back-lighting, even on its lowest setting, were like daggers stuck right into his eyeballs. He sucked air through gritted teeth as he tried to make out the text.

  And then he saw it.

  “Rusty?”

  He didn't recognize the number, but he didn't have to. The nickname told him all he needed to know.

  He turned off the phone's screen and set it back on the table.

  Clay. It has to be him. What the hell does he want?

  Rust picked his phone back up. This time, he powered the battery off before setting it back down.

  Then he tossed and turned on the sofa for hours before he finally fell back to sleep.

  ***

  Rust 'woke' in the morning. It was hard for him to say he woke up, if he never truly felt like he got any sleep in the first place.

  The sofa was somehow more comfortable than the bed, but that didn't change the fact that his sleep was poor. He spent hours every night thinking about sleep, wishing he could fall asleep, praying that he might have a good night's rest for once and wake up with all his symptoms magically gone.

  It was a bright day in Dallas, Texas—an annoyingly bright day, although you wouldn't know it if you stepped foot in Rust's almost pitch-black hotel suite. Rust could tell by the way the sunlight filtered in through the minuscule seeps and cracks of where he'd taped the heavy curtains to the wall.

  The curtains stayed drawn all day, every day. They had to. The light was too much to bear. All day and all night spent in darkness.

  What a way to live.

  It'd been two months since the hit. Doctors still had no idea what was wrong with him, other than the fact that he'd suffered a concussion. Rust met with his specialist Dr. Davis daily, which meant sporting a pair of huge sunglasses anytime he left his hotel room. Those were the worst parts of his days.

  With as bad as things were, he was starting to lose hope that things would ever return to normal.

  Sure, there were some 'good' days. Meaning, his symptoms were not quite so severe. A family could pass through the hotel hallway while carrying a crying baby, for example, and the stabbing pain would end when the baby was finally of ear-shot.

  On a bad day, that same crying baby would trigger another crippling migraine that persisted for the rest of the day, if not longer.

  But as promising as those good days were, they were almost always followed up by a day from hell. It was as if his symptoms were pissed off they'd been ignored for a day, and came back twice as hard for revenge.

  To Rust, the idea that he'd be able to return to action in time for the playoffs might as well have been a joke. It wasn't even in the realm of possibility. The better question was: would he ever be able to play hockey again?

  And at age 33 and seriously concussed for the first time, Rust was starting to believe that his career was over.

  At least he went out with a bang.

  But still, Rust wasn't at the point where he cared much about his hockey future.

  The real question was: will he ever feel normal again?

  He just wanted to feel like himself again. To live without constant, chronic pain. To not need the daily, aggravating 'meetings' with 'specialists' who couldn't tell him a damned thing about what was going on with his brain or when he could possibly hope to feel better.

  Rust looked at his cell phone, still lying on the coffee table, the power still off.

  He couldn't handle looking at that thing much these days; the electronic screen truly did hurt his eyes. But someone from Columbus or the hospital was always calling for an 'update,' even though nothing had changed.

  Rust thought back to that text he'd received late last night. Someone else was apparently trying to get in touch with him now, too.

  Was that really Clay?

  Rust really wasn't in the mood to even begin thinking about what to do with Clay, if that text really was from him.

  Clay had once meant so much to him. He'd played such an important role in Rust's life, in making him the player he was today—at least, before the concussion.

  But the fact of the matter was, as soon as Rust laid bare his feelings for Clay? Clay said nope and walked away from it all. Not just from Rustin, but from hockey, his friends, everything—his entire life.

  Just poof, gone. Vanished.

  The ultimate rejection.

  And maybe that was Rust's fault. Maybe he should've known that would happen. But that didn't make it any easier to deal with. And so it was hard to navigate the resulting ten years' worth of conflicting feelings.

  Anger at Clay, betrayal, heart-ache, loss. On the other hand, there was plenty of guilt, self-loathing, shame, and embarrassment to go around. Rust felt it all.

  He wasn't sure what he would've said to Clay, if ever given the chance, before the hit.

  But this was life after the hit, and things were even harder now. Simple decisions that you wouldn't think required much brainpower—like what to eat for breakfast—left Rust reeling with an excruciating brain cramp.

  There was simply no way he could talk with Clay now. Not in person, not over the phone, and especially not over text.

  Then again, Rust thought with a self-deprecating chuckle, isn't this exactly why I've kept the same cell phone number all these years?

  It was true, even if Rust hated to admit it to himself. Apparently, Rust was far more loving and forgiving than he realized, because some part of himself had wanted to make sure that Clay would still have a way of getting back in touch—even if Rust seriously doubted th
at day would ever come.

  It was sort of like getting into a bad fight with your partner, and then they rushed out in a huff late at night. But you still left the door unlocked for them and hoped they'd come back … ten years later.

  God, Rust thought with loathing, that's pathetic.

  Rust stared at his phone. He used to sometimes wonder what he'd do if he happened to cross paths with Clay randomly.

  Would he be happy to see him, and say hi?

  Would his heart anxiously pound in his chest like a drum? Would he avert his eyes, slink by, and hope Clay never noticed him?

  Would they make small talk? Would they run off and grab a coffee and catch up and leave on friendly terms?

  Would he walk up and punch Clay right on the nose?

  Depending on his mood for the day, Rust could've gone for any of those options.

  Well. Maybe this is the day I find out. At this point, what have I got to lose?

  Rust turned on his phone and replied with a simple: “?”

  The phone, now on silent mode, lit up with a reply a few minutes later.

  Rust read it, his heart nervously pumping:

  “Buddy, that really you? I'm in Dallas. Staying at the Hyatt Regency. How are you?”

  Rust scoffed.

  It had to be Clay—but why wouldn't he identify himself? Was he too ashamed by the way he'd run out of his life the last time around?

  But calling him 'buddy'—that was rich. Clay had lost the right to call him buddy.

  And, was it a coincidence that they were staying at the same hotel? Or was Clay now making up for lost time by stalking him?

  And finally, asking 'how are you?' Was he serious?

  “How do you think I am, jackass?” Rust mumbled aloud. “I'm fucking miserable.”

  Rust set his phone down without replying. He'd lost the will. He felt like shit and looked like shit—and his darkened hotel room looked like a Howard Hughes-ian horror-show.

  But then his phone lit up again. Another text from Clay:

  “This is Clay BTW. You probably hate my guts. I don't blame you. But if you're here, please answer. I want to talk. I want to see you.”