While everyone is settling into their seats, I lean over and ask Bishop in a low voice, “Do you know what the meeting is about?”
I figured since he’s the team’s captain if anyone knows it would be him. Unfortunately, he just shrugs while he drums his fingers on the desktop. He has an open notebook turned to a blank page with a pen sitting there ready to jot down whatever pearls of wisdom are going to be handed to us.
If I had wondered who would be talking during this meeting, I need not wonder any further as Dominik Carlson walks into the team meeting room followed by Coach Perron and the rest of the coaching staff. Following up the rear is Christian Rutherford, the team’s general manager.
The minute Dominik steps into the room, though, a respectful hush falls over the players. He’s endeared himself to everyone by coming to the rookie party and being incredibly cool by paying a huge amount of money down on the tab. He’s also done some personal favors to a few of my buds—including lending Bishop his private jet to chase after Brooke when they broke up.
Dominik walks right up to the podium while the rest of the team management stands behind him. Legs planted slightly apart, hands clasped in front of them, and dour expressions on their faces. This is not looking good.
“Thank you all for coming in to this team meeting,” Dominik says as he glances around the room. “I know your time is precious, particularly on game days, so I promise not to take long.”
His gaze lands briefly on me, but there is no flicker of recognition.
Nothing on his face tells me he’s inappropriately interested in my sister. Certainly no leftover amusement I called him on the carpet about it or he threatened to trade me.
Right now, he is all business.
“As you all know, Tacker Hall has been on an indefinite suspension from the team.” He lets those words hang in the air, heavy and oppressive on us all. “I am, however, pleased to announce he will be returning to the ice as a team member next week. This will be for practices only until he can get his legs back underneath him and time for the fracture in his wrist to heal up.”
Dominik continues, “We anticipate Tacker will be able to return at game capacity within two full weeks.”
There is a low-level of chatter rippling through the room, a tone of joy within it. I don’t think there’s a single player on this team who didn’t want Tacker to return, despite the fact he is so closed off from the team.
“While I’m not going to share with you the details of the discussions we have had with Tacker, I will tell you that his return to the team is contingent on him not drinking any alcohol. This is obviously because he had an alcohol-related driving incident, and we do not tolerate that on this team. Tacker has some other conditions he has to satisfy to remain a member of our organization. If he chooses to share those details with you, that is fine. Suffice to say, we are incredibly happy he is returning and has agreed to abide by our demands for him to stay on this team. Thank you for coming in for this team meeting. Good luck tonight. I’m going to stay in Phoenix to watch you guys play, and I’m incredibly proud of every member of this team.”
Without another word, without a glance at his coaching staff, me, or any other player, Dominik turns from the podium and strides out of the meeting room. There’s a smattering of applause as he leaves.
Coach Perron steps up to the podium. He gives a slight cough, scanning his players to make sure we are all paying attention. His gruff voice automatically instills within us a need to listen carefully to what he says. “I want to talk a little bit about Tacker’s compliance to stay on this team. What Mr. Carlson did not tell you is if Tacker has so much as one drop of alcohol, he’s going to be released from the team immediately. No second chances. It is not something we take lightly. And while I cannot dictate your own behaviors, I would suggest you do your best not to let Tacker enter into any circumstances that might involve drinking. I’ve never known Tacker to be a big partier, but we can’t discount the fact he has abused alcohol.
“If I may be so bold as to suggest it, please consider moderating your behavior accordingly if you want him to be on this team. I know that is asking a lot of you. You men are young and in your prime, and there is a certain element of fun that comes along with your job. All I’m asking is for you to be considerate of Tacker’s demons. I ask this not only for his benefit, but also for this team’s. The reason Mr. Carlson, Mr. Rutherford, and I have worked so hard to get Tacker to stay with us is because we believe he will be instrumental in winning the Cup this year. So if you men can taste that victory, if you want to hoist that cup above your shoulders, I suggest you do whatever is necessary to keep this team whole, motivated, and driven. With that, I’ll see you all at the team skate in a few hours.”
Coach doesn’t stick around for questions. He and the coaching staff, along with Christian Rutherford, promptly leave the room.
The players all start exiting right behind them. Bishop and I stand from our chairs, and he looks at me pointedly. “You got any plans for the next few hours until the team skate?”
I was actually going to go home and see if I could talk Regan into a little tryst with me. Not that I would have to “talk” her into it. She is so fucking responsive to me. When I give her the barest of touches, she just melts for me. But fuck… all she has to do is look at me a certain way and I get hard. The chemistry between us is red hot, and it doesn’t need much to ignite.
But I also take heed of the serious undercurrent within Bishop’s tone, so I say, “No plans. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go to Tacker’s place and talk to him.”
It takes us about twenty-five minutes to make it to Tacker’s crappy apartment. We can’t tell if he’s home because he hasn’t responded to the text Bishop sent him inquiring as to his whereabouts before we left the arena. Of course, there is no telltale sign of his truck in one of the parking spots since he totaled it. I imagine Tacker is going to be one of Uber’s best customers for a while. While none of us have been given details, nor would I ask for such, I’m going to assume he’s going to lose his license for that little stunt he pulled.
Since I have been here before, I lead the way up to Tacker’s apartment, not hesitating to pound on the door once I get there. I glance over my shoulder at Bishop, who is rocking on the balls of his feet. No clue if this is going to be confrontational or not, so there might be a little anxiety involved.
We hear the snick of the door unlocking from the other side, then Tacker has the door open, staring out at us. He keeps one hand on the doorknob and the other up on the door casing, with no invitation to invite us in.
That’s really not going to work for what Bishop and I intend to talk to him about, so I say point blank, “We’d like to come in and talk.”
Tacker sighs long and heavy, appearing incredibly put out as he turns to the side to grant us entrance. I enter his living room, completely stunned by what I see.
He’s such a recluse and doesn’t give a shit about anything, I expected his home to be an utter mess. I glance into his pristine kitchen. I thought there would be a mountain of dirty dishes with flies buzzing around them. His garbage can is empty, and I expected it to be filled with empty liquor bottles. I sniff hesitantly at the air, but only find it clean and lemony.
What actually doesn’t surprise me is how minimalist everything is. It’s a low-budget apartment with worn and threadbare carpet. It’s clear to see this because he has no furniture except for a single reclining chair in the corner with a floor lamp beside it. There’s no TV, no couch, no coffee table. In the kitchen, there’s not even a table to sit at to eat, nor are there any appliances out on the counter. In fact, as far as I can see, his apartment consists of only the chair and the lamp I had first laid eyes on. I’m going to go out on a limb and say his bedroom probably consists of a single air mattress on the floor.
Tacker moves past us, deeper into the living room, then turns to face us, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look angry to s
ee us, but he doesn’t look friendly either. “So what’s up?”
“Dominik Carlson called a team meeting. He told us you’re going to be coming back to the team,” Bishop says.
Tacker doesn’t respond, but that is hardly surprising. He isn’t the most engaging person I’ve ever met in my life. The only exception to that is when he is out on the ice. Then he is like a different person who has no problem communicating with his teammates or providing critique or encouragement. If there was ever any reason why this man needed to come back to the team, it’s because of that. It’s the only place he truly seems to have any life left in him.
“We want to know how we can best support you,” I say, taking over the efforts to get a conversation going. “While they didn’t tell us any details, the only thing they did make sure to reiterate is you are not allowed to have any alcohol. What can we do to help you with that?”
There’s no anger or offense from him. But there is a slight annoyance in his tone. “I’m not a goddamn alcoholic, and I don’t need an intervention. I got drunk one lousy time and made a stupid decision to drive.”
“Technically,” Bishop drawls. “That’s still an abuse of alcohol.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Tacker mutters before taking in a breath. “But I don’t need any supportive help if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t crave alcohol. I’ve never been a big drinker to begin with. I certainly don’t need the rest of the team to forgo alcohol in some form of stupid-ass solidarity with me. I just want everyone to be normal around me when I come back.”
“But everything isn’t normal,” I point out quietly. “Going to be a lot of people walking around on eggshells with you, brother. People aren’t going to know how to act around you.”
Tacker shrugs and turns away from us, walking into his small efficiency kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water, closing it without offering us anything. He untwists the cap, takes a sip, and then says, “Everyone just needs to go on like we did before. I will be a professional out on the ice. Won’t be anybody’s fucking friend off the ice.”
Bishop shakes his head and snaps, “You see, that right there probably isn’t going to work, Tacker.”
I blink in surprise at my friend for the anger in his tone. Everyone always treats Tacker with kid gloves, but I’m thinking they’ve just been pulled off.
Bishop continues, “You see, I want to win the fucking Cup. In order to do that, everybody on this team has to be playing at their maximum. You have to give forth every effort. And you have to rely on your teammates to do the same. That involves a certain amount of trust. And if you can’t open yourself up to the men on this team who would probably lay down their lives for you if asked, it’s not going to fucking work. So I suggest you get your head out of your ass and figure out how to not only be a professional hockey player, but also how to be a comrade to the rest of your teammates. It’s time to move the fuck on, Tacker. Figure it out.”
And with that, Bishop pivots on his foot and storms out the door.
I stare after him a moment before turning to Tacker warily. The expression on his face is stunned, and there’s a tiny bit of red in his cheeks. His attention comes to me slowly, and he sort of shrugs. “I guess I just got fucking put in my place, didn’t I?”
“Appears so,” I reply.
I turn to leave, but Tacker’s hand on my shoulder stops me. Turning around, I look at him questioningly.
“I have an appointment with a counselor tomorrow. Tell Regan, okay?”
It’s a chore to keep my lips from crawling into a smile, because Tacker just gave me a gift. He opened himself up without prodding or pushing. He volunteered personal information that could have invited a lot of feedback from me. He put himself out there.
It’s a start.
I smile at him. “You got it, buddy.”
CHAPTER 26
Dax
Jesus Christ.
I’m hot under the collar. And I mean that literally.
I tug at the knot on my tie as I walk up the porch steps to my condo, thinking it feels just a little too tight. I’m wearing one of my best suits, and I have never remembered it feeling so uncomfortable. I’m thinking it has something to do with the fact I’m walking up to my own home getting ready to pick my wife up and take her out on a Valentine’s Day date.
I hit the top of the porch, stopping to appraise myself. A dozen red roses clutched in one hand and a black jewelry box in the other. Fancy restaurant reservations have been made, and I even preordered a bottle of the most expensive champagne to be waiting at the table for us. I’d told Regan I wanted to come pick her up like a real date even though we live together. So I had everything prearranged and planned except for the roses I’d needed to pick up for her. While she was in the shower, I put on my best suit and jetted out of the house, calling out I’d be back in about half an hour.
Earlier today, I spent a torturous two hours with Bishop, Erik, and Legend as we all went out shopping for gifts for our honeys on Valentine’s Day. I imagine we’d looked lost and out of our elements.
Over the past six months, we have methodically fallen for a woman. All four of us were previously irrepressible, confirmed bachelors and never once considered buying a Valentine’s Day gift for the female persuasion. We finally ended up at a jewelry store where a kind, matronly woman who had been in the jewelry business for thirty-five years—or so she said—helped us each pick out what she deemed to be the perfect gift.
This came after we each tried to outdo one another, which meant we kept finding ridiculously more expensive pieces of jewelry to buy. I just about had my mind made up on a twenty-thousand-dollar bracelet when the clerk showed me a stunningly simple yet elegant necklace with a diamond pendant hanging from it. It was significantly cheaper than the bracelet, but that had nothing to do with my decision.
I’d just known Regan would love it. She’s not into flashy, ostentatious bracelets, but this necklace was understated elegance. It’s exactly how I would describe Regan.
As for right now, I should just walk in my own house and call out Regan’s name to see if she’s ready. Instead, I ring the doorbell as if I were picking her up for a first date and about to meet her father. It takes her a few minutes to open the door, but the wait is so worth it.
She’s got on a cream-colored dress that hugs her body like a second skin, but it isn’t in any way trashy-looking. The material is actually kind of thick and cut sharply across her collarbone. The skirt is long and comes down to about mid-calf, her narrow waist encircled with a gold belt. Her hair is loose in choppy flowing waves, and she is absolutely breathtaking.
She takes in my appearance, and I expect a little smirk in return over how over-the-top and ridiculous I must look standing on my own front porch. Instead, she stares in wondrous awe. I have to wonder if she has ever been picked up for a date before in her life. Her gaze flicks to the roses, then over to the necklace box in my hand, before wandering over my suit. I force myself not to reach up and tug at the tie again.
“Wow,” is all she says.
When my eyes roam over her, she blushes. I bring my gaze up to her face, repeating the sentiment. “Wow.”
We just stare at each other, both of us now grinning like fools. Finally, I shove the roses forward. “These are for you.”
Regan takes them gently in her hands, then brings them up to her nose to sniff. “Mmm.”
And yet, I still stand on the porch and she still lingers in the foyer as we stare at each other over the red petals.
Finally, she snickers and steps backward. “You might as well come in. I’ll need to put these in some water.”
I enter my own home, now clutching the necklace box with my eyes pinned on Regan’s shapely ass as she sashays into the kitchen in search of a vase. I’m fairly sure I don’t have one, and I realize that was a fail on my part. Should have gotten flowers already in a damn vase.
I commit that to memory for next year.
Exce
pt it will be two dozen.
I follow Regan into the kitchen, watching in amazement as she immediately pulls out a plastic pitcher from the cabinet beside the sink. Regan has been here long enough to know I don’t have a vase, but she immediately fills the substitute with water and arranges the flowers within it.
She fluffs and primps the arrangement. Plucks a worn petal here, a wilting leaf there. She raises some of the flowers up higher than the others, then continues to fret over them. I think they look perfect, but she keeps working at it.
Until I finally realize she’s avoiding me.
She’s overwhelmed by this, and she doesn’t know what to say.
I step up behind her, one hand going to her waist while I rest my chin on one of her shoulders. “Did I make this weird?”
Regan twists to look at me with the softest expression. “Not weird at all. In fact, it’s incredibly wonderful. I just don’t want this moment to end.”
I’ve never been an overly romantic guy. Truth is, I wouldn’t have thought about roses until the clerk suggested them to me. But I swear to fuck Regan’s words to me right now produce an almost-swooning sensation within my head. I have to place my other hand on the edge of the sink for balance.
To cap things off perfectly, Regan goes to her tiptoes and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you, Dax.”
My skin actually tingles when her lips pull away.
“Want to see what else I got you?” I ask with a grin.
She nods her head fervently.
I turn her body so she’s facing me, and I place the black velvet jewelry box in her hands. The clerk had also suggested I stop and get a gift bag as well as a card to go with this, but I ran out of time.
Dax Page 18
