by Lynda Aicher
Not that a couple more pills would make him incapable of driving. Still, he could wait another twenty minutes until he made it home. The need scampered down his arm to clamp his hand around the metal tin. The pills rattled again, another sweet call of temptation.
He jerked his hand away and dug a tip out of his money clip instead. The valet gave an appreciative nod and smile at Scott’s generosity, but it was only money to him.
It provided flexibility. Opened opportunities. Afforded luxuries that were often unnecessary. It didn’t snuggle into his side at night or rub out the knots in his shoulder or share dinner with him.
It also couldn’t make his body brand new or turn back time. But then there was nothing that could do that. And that was the pissing reality that gnawed at his brain in a constant castigation of doubt, accusations and never-ending questions.
Chapter Four
The wind buzzed through the holes on Scott’s bike helmet in a lame attempt to cool his heated scalp. He kept his head tucked low, body forward over the handlebars, thighs and calves straining as he powered down the bike lane. His wraparound shades blocked the glare of the sun but nothing diminished the distinctly muddy fragrance that came from the river.
In his zone, he ignored everything except what was directly in front of him. Nights of too little sleep and days of stewing on his future had wrung him out. More than he’d already been. Questions about his career had intertwined with thoughts of Rachel until he’d wanted to scream yesterday. Had in fact.
And that was not how he wanted Segar to see him. The twenty-mile bike ride from his house to the park had been the perfect diversion.
He sat back, coasting as he closed in on the meeting location. Sweat soaked his skin and plastered his shirt to his back, despite the moisture wicking material. His leg muscles quivered from the exertion, a familiar sensation that brought some needed normalcy.
Physical training was something he understood. Work his body, stall his mind. It never failed. Today was no different. Thoughts of Rachel, the way she’d felt in his arms, her delicious taste and elusive scent. Her smile that pulled one from him and set him at ease. Yeah, none of that had plagued him on his ride like they had since she’d walked away from him two nights back.
He cursed to himself and jerked his wandering brain back to the meeting ahead. The one he’d agreed to yet still doubted. The intent of this little powwow was just one more thing he hadn’t thought about on the ride over. His instincts still went with his contract, but what he couldn’t figure out was why Segar was talking to him instead of his agent.
The man was standing by the river rail, staring across the muddy water at the St. Paul skyline when Scott reached the parking lot. He unclipped his shoes from the pedals and eased off his bike. He tested the strength of his knee before he put his full weight on it. Did a slow bend and shook out his legs one at a time. The knee brace contained the swelling but could only do so much for support.
The pills he’d taken before leaving home were still working with the adrenaline from the ride, boosting them along. Could he push off taking the two stashed in his bike bag until he was home?
He walked the rest of the way to the bike rack, gulping down the lukewarm water from his bottle. He’d taken up distance riding for endurance the more his knee deteriorated. The injured joint couldn’t hack the prolonged beating jogging put on it, where biking provided strengthening without as much strain.
With his bike locked up, he wiped the sweat from his face and neck, tucked his helmet under his arm and headed down to his boss. Just one of many he’d learned to deal with during his seven years with the team. Segar was the big boss though. The one who ultimately held Scott’s professional future in his hands.
Casually dressed in khakis and a pale yellow polo shirt, the man appeared ready for a round of golf. Based on his current appearance, few would guess he was the owner of a billion-dollar professional-sports franchise.
“Vincent,” Scott said, hand extended as he approached. “Good to see you.” Being sweaty didn’t mean he wasn’t prepared for the meeting or had lost his professionalism. Despite the location, this was a business meeting, of that he had no doubt.
“Scott.” Segar shook his hand. “Thanks for meeting me here.” He took in Scott’s appearance, gaze lingering on the black brace that hugged his knee. “How was the ride?”
“Good.” Scott plastered on a smile as he tugged off his bike gloves. “A nice warm-up for the day.”
Segar nodded down the path and started to walk, his pace leisurely. Scott followed at his side, focusing on slowing his breathing, which was still a little accelerated from the workout. The clamps on his riding shoes clicked on the pavement, a rhythmic accent to the relative quiet. There were moms with strollers, along with a few joggers and others meandering along the path, but no one was walking close to them. Not a reporter in sight either.
“How’s your knee?” Segar’s question wasn’t unexpected, but it still landed in Scott’s stomach with the ball of dread that’d been lodged there for months.
“I’m managing.” Saying it was fine would be a lie, and Segar knew that.
“Not what I asked.”
So that was the kind of meeting it was going be. No soft talk or hinting around. It was jugular time. Again, not a surprise. “It’s sore,” he said, voice flat. “But it always is, and I deal with it.”
“That’s what has me concerned.” Scott kept his gaze focused down the path, even though he could feel Segar studying him. “The medical reports clear you for play,” Segar went on when Scott didn’t respond. “But you’re good at hiding things. Showing people what they want to see.” That had Scott jerking around to glare at the man. Thankfully, his sunglasses hid it.
“Like now,” Segar went on. “You arrive on bike after a long ride to get here. What I see is a man who’s obviously fit, still working hard in the off-season, which shows dedication and commitment. You’re poised, despite your sweaty appearance, with a laid-back yet attentive demeanor that says you’re listening but not worried.” He waited a beat, eyes shielded behind his own sunglasses. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d believe everything you’re dishing out.”
Scott tucked his gloves inside his helmet and somehow resisted the urge to shove the damn things through the padding and hard plastic. “I suppose you have a theory on what I’m not showing then?”
Segar came to stop, shifting around to lean his forearms on the railing that separated the walkway from the river. His gaze remained outward when Scott came up beside him. Waves lapped at the bank below, shoved against the rocks by the current and the wake of a passing boat. The soothing atmosphere did little for his jumbled nerves. He had a keen sense that he wasn’t going to like what came next. The exact feeling he’d had all day yesterday.
“What you’re not showing is the amount of pain you’re really in. Or the effects the drug regimen has had on you. You’re also really good at hiding the doubt that sometimes plagues you and...” He glanced at Scott, his mouth thinning before he looked away. “The drug habit you’ve formed so you can still play on that bum knee of yours.”
Scott stiffened, every muscle tensing as the last statement hit him. There was nothing casual about the words, despite the delivery. Drug habit? What the hell?
His voice was low and hard when he responded. “I wouldn’t call prescribed pain pills and anti-inflammatories a drug habit.” It took all of his focus not to curse at the man and stalk away. Yeah, he took the pills to get through a game. But it was the so-called specialist who’d added the cortisone injections and ketorolac shots to his knee. Not to mention the fucking earlier surgeries that’d increased his misery by provoking the post-traumatic arthritis that’d set in.
Of course, he didn’t say any of that to the Glaciers’ owner. The man didn’t need to know exactly how bad his knee really was.
Segar nodded, a slow bob of his head that really wasn’t an agreement. “Call it what you want. But I was hoping the talk would be
between friends, not business associates.”
Friends? Had he ever considered the man a friend? Not when he controlled Scott’s income and future. “And what’s the difference?” he prompted, curious when he shouldn’t be.
Segar’s sigh reached over to poke at Scott. Maybe now wasn’t the time to be obtuse, yet it also wasn’t the time to let his guard down.
“If you have to ask, you’ve only proven my point.” He straightened to lean on his hands, the shift in posture signaling the change in tone of the meeting that matched his hardened voice. “The fact is, as an organization, the Glaciers can’t take the risk that you present. Not after Gardner.”
Scott’s quick inhalation sucked the air through his nose in a sharp rush. Hearing the words aloud was a sucker punch to his gut. It didn’t matter how prepared he’d been, it still cut through him to trample the little spark of hope that’d still lingered.
“You’re an excellent player,” Segar said, his words muffled in the fog that’d encased Scott’s brain. “One of the best centers in the league. You’ve been an invaluable asset to the team and players. But this isn’t a purely business decision. You have to know that. If it was, I’d approve the contract and turn a blind eye to everything else.”
It was Scott’s turn to stare unseeing at the far riverbank. What the hell was he supposed to say? “So you’re cutting me off after seven years of loyalty and investment to this organization? In a cover-your-ass move before a season where we’re poised to win the fucking national title?” His voice had risen, frustration overriding his calm. Was that his real issue? Would he be happy retiring if they’d won the title this past season?
“Can you honestly tell me you have one more year in you?” Scott opened his mouth to answer, only to be cut off. “One without more drugs and a two-hour post-game regimen of icing, drugs and a brace simply so you can walk out of the locker room?” He returned Scott’s hard glare that wasn’t masked by the dark lenses covering their eyes. “I love this damn sport as much as you do. I want to win that fucking cup just like you. But I won’t endanger the life of any man to get it. And that’s exactly what I believe I’d be doing if I re-signed you.”
He’d shifted forward until he was well within Scott’s personal space. Scott held his ground though, lips curled in a revulsive snarl that matched the angry rejection hammering through him. Yet he couldn’t shove the denial through his constricted throat.
Segar blew out a breath and eased back. “Is being disabled at the age of thirty-four worth a national title? Or throwing the rest of your life away to a habit that’s already controlling you?” He shook his head, looking back to the river. “I won’t be a part of that. I can’t control what you do. I know there are other teams eager to pick you up. But I can ensure that the Glaciers aren’t a part of it if you choose to keep playing.”
“I’m not fucking Bobby Gardner,” Scott barked, the words shooting out to void the unspoken insinuation Segar had leveled. “I’m not going to OD on pain pills and alcohol. And I sure as fuck would never put my teammates through the hell of dealing with that again.” Gardner’s sudden midseason death four years back had rocked the team to its core.
A breeze came off the water to whisper over Scott’s damp skin. He was chilled clear to his bones, despite the warmth of the sun and heat of the morning. There were too many truths to Segar’s words, ones he’d been battling himself. But he knew for certain he wasn’t anywhere close to being a Gardner repeat.
“And how the hell do I know that?” Segar countered just as adamantly. “We all trusted Gardner, too. Believed him when he denied having a problem. He worked the drug testing system, and everyone turned a blind eye to the obvious until we had to send him to rehab, only it’d been too late.” His jaw clenched, muscles jumping near his ear. “I made a promise to myself then that I would never risk anyone’s life for a game. I don’t care what season it is or the potential victories I’ll be giving up. Nothing is worth a life. Especially not hockey. Not to me.”
The impassioned speech hung between them in a gut-wrenching dump of guilt and mixed regrets. The really fucked-up part was Scott understood the man. He’d been the team captain who’d had to pick the men up and rally them to keep playing, all while wondering what he could’ve done to prevent the Gardner tragedy from happening.
“There’s no chance of you changing your mind?” Scott asked, his voice tight. “Even for a season?” The dangling carrot of the national title really was his weakness. The big thing that’d eluded him during his career.
Segar hung his head, his sigh coming out like a pained release that told Scott what he needed to know. Segar removed his sunglasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looked every bit his age when he faced Scott, the regret lined into the creases at his eyes and brow.
“It’d take a lot. I’m sorry, Scott.”
He’s sorry. That was all he got after the years of sacrifice. It really didn’t feel like enough and it had nothing to do with money. “Tell me,” Scott insisted. “Lay out the requirements.” The rejection was a challenge to him now. One he couldn’t best if he didn’t know the criteria.
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not about checking off some list of items,” Segar snapped. “When you can see that, maybe you’ll understand.”
Scott tapped a hasty pace on the railing, the only vent to the swarm of emotions raging inside him. Anger, frustration, annoyance, disappointment, loss—they were all there to churn in his chest and rot in a sick mush in his stomach.
“Does my agent know this?” His words were clipped and he didn’t try to hide his irritation. He stared at the river though, unable to meet the other man’s eyes out of fear of what he would say if he saw even an ounce of pity in them.
There was a long pause that shifted with accusations and the reality that had just been delivered. Scott was out. The Glaciers didn’t want his sorry ass anymore. “Management will be contacting him later today.”
Scott nodded once. “And a public announcement?” With the entry draft coming that weekend, teams were looking at salary caps and positional needs for the coming season. That included the available free agents who would be able to sign contracts five days after the draft.
Now was the critical time for jockeying trades and negotiations that would define a team’s potential roster for the coming season.
“I told them to wait.” Again Scott could sense Segar studying him, but he still couldn’t look his way. “I wanted to give you a day to decide.”
“On what?”
“On if you had any input on what was announced.”
Implication, was he officially retiring from the sport, or keeping his options open as a free agent? Go out in glory, or hold out for another chance of greater glory? Which also came with the possibility of going out in a pitter of diminishing ice time and sad commentary on his lackluster performance.
A day. That was all he had to decide where he was going from here.
He clamped his free hand around the rail. The other gripped his helmet to his side. It was the only way he could control the shakes that rattled down his appendages to give away his distress.
“Think on it,” Segar said, the honest concern taking the edge off the command. “This isn’t coming from a vindictive or cruel spot. I hope you know that without me having to state it. You’ve made a solid name for yourself in this sport and with this organization. You’re respected across the league for your on-ice skills and your off-ice manner. I don’t want you to lose that.”
“And you think that’ll happen if I play even one more year with the Glaciers?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” His sigh was heavy and long. “But I won’t take the chance.”
Scott finally turned to stare at the man who was slowly ripping his life to shreds. With a slow precision that could’ve been intentional but was actually necessary to keep his hand from shaking, he slipped his sunglasses off. He blinked at the
shock of the bright sunlight then forced his eyes open wide so Segar could see them clearly.
There were a few things he had to clarify. “Have I ever failed a drug test?”
“No.”
“Was my performance last season affected by drugs?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Or by the state of my knee?”
“Again, not that was visible.”
The answers were exactly what he’d suspected. “Yet you expect me to retire from the only thing I’ve ever done because you’re concerned about my health and future?”
“No.” Segar’s eyes narrowed, voice gentling. “I hope that you’ll retire before you have a future filled with pain, drugs and regrets. You’re still young. Find someone to share your life with, or at least something else that makes you happy.” He offered a bemused smile. “Life isn’t hockey. No matter how much we love the damn sport, there’s more in this world to enjoy.”
Fucking A. The words were so similar to the exchange he’d had with Rachel it was impossible not to cringe. Theoretically he knew it was true. The problem was he had no clue how to find that elusive other thing that’d make him happy.
Segar clapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder, the firm squeeze both a comfort and an annoyance. “Think about it. If we don’t hear from you or your agent by noon tomorrow, we’ll go with the standard release statement.”
Scott managed a nod but he couldn’t bring himself to verbally respond, let alone look at the man again.
“Off line,” Segar added in a low tone. “No matter what you choose to do, I hope for your own health you take care of the drug issue while you can still control it.”
He walked away then, and Scott held his breath until he was certain the man was far enough away not to hear his choked exhalation. His heart pounded a beat of contained rage mixed with adamant denial. The one-two punch of rejection and condemnation was more than he’d been expecting.
Drug issue. He sneered at the words. What the fuck did the man expect him to do? Abort them all and hobble around in pain every damn day? Risk yet another surgery that would most likely leave him with more pain and keep him off the ice for months?
