Back in Play

by Lynda Aicher

  She’d broken up with guys before. Left relationships that had lasted longer than this flash of intensity. Yet none of those had left her shivering and numb.

  It was done now. He probably hated her, especially after her stupid last comment, and she couldn’t even be mad at him for that. She could’ve said something earlier about why she didn’t do long-distance relationships. Maybe even tried the distance thing. Been more supportive of his drive to return to hockey.

  But she hadn’t. Wasn’t. And he was gone.

  With a deep inhale, she wished him luck. Sent out the love she’d never confessed to in a stupid attempt to contain the pain that was now consuming her, and then she let him go again.

  If only it was really that easy to forget him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The scent hit him the second he walked through the doors. It slammed into his senses with a rush of memories and emotions. He stopped, sucked in another lungful of the cold, musty air and savored the rightness that always came with it.

  Home.

  The rink had always welcomed him. Always had a place for him.

  Damn. It was good to be back.

  He could forget Rachel here. Forget all his troubles. There was no space for them when he played. No time for anything but the other eleven men on the ice and the little black disk that’d been the center of his life for longer than he could remember.

  The locker room was full of men preparing to skate. The mellow chatter and rustle of pads as men dressed sent another wave of comforting familiarity over him. He belonged here.

  “Hey, Wally,” Feeney called, his boisterous grin stating their run-in at the wedding was long forgotten. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “Scotty!”

  “We thought you got lost.”

  “Good to see you, man.”

  Scott’s grin was the first real one in days. It stretched his cheeks as he fist-bumped and high-fived his way through the locker room. “Who let your ugly ass in here, Feeney? Great to see you, Tanner. How’s the family, Middy?” He maneuvered around equipment and questions with the same ease.

  His chest expanded with the warm welcomes and familiar camaraderie. This he knew. This he could do with his eyes closed. He found a free bench space near the back and started getting dressed.

  The stale sweat smell that wafted out of his bag was even welcomed. Two days of stewing about Rachel, bouncing between anger, disgust, hurt and loss had been more than enough. He had something to prove and he was ready to do it.

  It didn’t matter if Segar still refused to meet with him. Or if his house reminded him of Rachel and how warm it’d felt when she’d been there. He’d booked out of his home at 8:00 a.m. yesterday after a sleepless night and hadn’t returned until almost midnight. An endless Sunday spent at the gym and park and dinner and wandering through stores for things he didn’t need.

  He slung his practice jersey over his head and settled it around his pads. This was right.

  “Hey, Walters.” Hauke gave Scott’s shoulder a rough shake. “Where the fuck did you disappear to this summer?”

  Scott ducked his head, unable to lie to his friend’s face. “I needed to get away from here for a bit.” Ah, see? He was still telling the truth. His promise to Rachel raged back to nip at the calm he’d found. Damn it.

  “How come?” Hauke leaned on the lockers, already dressed and ready to skate. “Does it have anything to do with your dropped contract?”

  Fuck. He’d hoped to avoid that question for longer. He’d been delusional to think no one—everyone—wasn’t wondering what the hell was going on. He’d caught and ignored the speculative glances on his trek through the locker room.

  Scott shrugged it off. “Some.” He flashed a grin at Hauke. “That’s the way it goes though.” He quickly pulled his sock over his shin guard and knee brace.

  Hauke edged closer, glancing around before he spoke. “You’ve ignored me all summer, and I’m not stupid enough to believe the bullshit you’re tossing out right now.” His expression had hardened into a formidable coldness usually reserved for the ice. “We’re going out after this, and you’re telling me what the fuck’s going on.”

  Scott stared him down, waffling between flat-out denying him and thanking the man. At least someone seemed to have his back, but would Hauke still have it if he found out how fucked up he was? Rachel hadn’t. Well, not for the long haul.

  “Cappy!” Rylie’s booming call saved Scott from answering his own internal debate. “It’s great to see you. Does this mean you’re back?”

  Scott forced a laugh, turning away from Hauke. “I’m here to skate today. That’s all I know.” And his knee still felt great. Only a minor thread of pain ran up his inner thigh.

  Rylie stopped in front of them, frowning. He glanced between him and Hauke. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Hauke said, cutting a glare to Scott, which he refused to acknowledge.

  “What the fuck, dudes?” Grenick barged up, towering over the rest of them. “Is this a private party?”

  Scott’s bark of laughter was dry and cutting over his throat. Shit. He loved and hated these guys for butting into his business. “If it is, no one told me.”

  “You ditched us all summer,” Grenick accused, brows drawing down. “You don’t fucking do that to friends.”

  The direct jab nailed the last chunk of defense Scott had in place. He was stripped of everything. His patience. His resistance. His pride—was that gone too?

  No. That was the only thing keeping him on the ice right now.

  “Hey!” Feeney called out, his voice echoing through the almost empty room. “You pansies coming, or are you gonna stay in here hugging while we play?”

  “Fuck you,” Rylie and Grenick said in unison.

  “Not if I catch you first,” Feeney taunted before leaving.

  “Meathead,” Henrik muttered before pointing a finger at Scott. “We’re going to Bart’s after this. Don’t bail, or we’ll hunt your sorry ass down. I know where you live.” With that, he strode away, his gait long, even on his skate blades.

  Hauke nodded toward the rink. “Let’s skate.”

  “I can’t wait to school your out-of-shape ass,” Rylie joked, giving Scott a shove as he turned away.

  And that was the way of it. Now he’d have to decide how much he shared. But that was two or three hours away.

  Scott quickly laced up his skates, grabbed his stick, helmet and gloves then followed a waiting Hauke out. The ice beckoned, shiny and cold at the end of the tunnel. Fuck, yes. That was exactly what he needed. A few hours of not thinking about the mess that was his life.

  Because Christ knew, it’d still be waiting for him when he was done skating.

  * * *

  Scott slumped in the chair, a comfortable smile warming his face. His back ached, his thighs told him he’d been a lazy fucker all summer even though he hadn’t been that bad and his knee had daggers jabbed along the inside, but it was all fucking great.

  Bart’s bar was quiet at the sweet spot between lunch and dinner. Even if it hadn’t been, they could’ve sat there unbothered. Bart, the owner, was hugely strict about people leaving players alone, which was why they kept coming back.

  He’d played decent in the pick-up game too. Held his own against the starting Philly center and skated all over the second line Boston forward who’d been there. Conners wasn’t back yet, but being on the line with Hauke was almost as good as sex for how natural it felt.

  Well, now that he could actually have great sex again.

  “What’s that stupid-ass grin for?” Grenick asked.

  “What grin?” Yeah, Scott knew he probably looked like a sapped-out teen, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to needle the man.

  “The I’ve-just-been-fucked grin,” Rylie answered before Grenick could.

  Scott barked out a laugh, head shaking. If only they knew how close to the truth they were. He’d been fucked good b
y Rachel, both literally and figuratively. His happy glow faded, taking his grin with it. His three-hour reprieve was over. It was clearly time to tackle more of his fucked-up life. He should be grateful his friends had allowed him to finish his lunch before the grilling began.

  “Seriously though,” Hauke said, resting his elbows on the table. “What’s going on?”

  Scott scanned his friends, noting the honest concern of the three men looking back at him. Fuck. He rubbed his eyes and tried to formulate a plan. One that still hadn’t come to him.

  “Rumor has it the Glaciers are bluffing,” Rylie said at his side, voice lowered.

  They’d all hunkered in, closing ranks against possible eavesdroppers, even though no one was around them. The only other occupied table was across the room. There were two guys at the bar and another two shooting pool and that was it. He still appreciated their discretion.

  “I think the Glaciers are blowing smoke up your ass,” Grenick said, scratching his jaw. “But I can’t figure out why.” He shoved a forkful of lettuce in his mouth, scowling.

  “You being off the map for most of the summer hasn’t helped the rumor mill,” Hauke added from his spot across the table. A fact Scott was well aware of.

  His stomach rumbled around the chicken and pasta he’d just inhaled and he concentrated on the familiar pain in his knee instead of the unease that pressed down on his chest. His friends were waiting on him, and he was out of delays.

  “Segar made the decision,” Scott revealed. Grenick’s brows winged up, and Rylie froze with his water glass halfway to his mouth. Treading carefully, he went on. “He’s concerned about my knee and refuses to be responsible for another Gardner.”

  “What?” Grenick’s shocked bark had a few heads turning their way. “Why the fuck would he be worried about that?”

  There was no need to explain what he meant. Every player in the league knew about Bobby Gardner’s overdose on oxycodone and alcohol. But Grenick was the only one of the three who’d been on the team with Scott when it’d happened four years ago.

  “I didn’t know your knee was that bad,” Hauke said, his gaze speculative. At least Scott had hidden it well.

  He flexed his leg beneath the table. The brace had stabilized his knee better than his other ones, and the pain was only at mildly irritating right now compared to the throbbing, constant ache at the end of last season. Plus he could already feel the ibuprofen kicking in.

  “Last season was long,” he said evasively. “But I was fine.”

  And there was a lie. One he tried to tell himself and knew wasn’t true. It was out anyway. His promise broken within six hours of being back within the hockey world. His internal grimace cramped around his lunch and sent acid burning up his throat.

  The three men studied him, each with a different expression on his face. Concern. Confusion. Dawning understanding. Scott avoided them all by taking a drink of his water.

  It started at the back of his neck this time. Crawled down his spine then raced across his abdomen to cramp his stomach. The craving was almost a physical ache that he logically knew was psychological now. He’d been through this with the therapist. His body didn’t need the drugs.

  Yet he wanted them so badly right then. They’d make this conversation easier. Manageable. Somehow less humiliating. But fuck, this was nothing compared to the sex convo with Rachel. It was, however, just as humbling on a completely different realm of manliness.

  “Where were you all summer?” Grenick’s hard rumble held no room for evasion. His scowl deepened when Scott glanced at him. Brows pulled low, long grooves stacked on his forehead in a menacing warning. He recognized the determined look. Wanted to duck and run from it.

  And Grenick wasn’t going to allow that.

  The man was hard as fuck on the outside but had taken Gardner’s death like a personal blow. Hell, they all had. There hadn’t been a man on the team who’d wondered if they could’ve done something. But Grenick’s struggle over the wasteful loss of his friend had taken months for him to get past.

  Scott stared at the silent TV screen mounted on the wall over Hauke’s head. Did he trust these guys enough? Could he even admit how bad he’d been? Shame over the lies and omissions clashed headlong into the craving to laugh at him.

  “What was it?” Hauke asked.

  There was an unspoken assumption and acceptance that every player had a guy. A contact who would provide him pain drugs beyond what the team doctors prescribed. Especially after the league lockdown and new prescription policies that had gone into effect after Gardner’s death.

  Scott swallowed around the chokehold on his throat. His fingers dug bruises into his arm, but the tight fold across his chest did little to hold back his racing heart.

  “Not oxy,” he finally got out. Barely.

  “Fuck.” Grenick’s low curse raked over him and managed to nick his defiance.

  Scott whipped his head around to glare at the man. “Don’t even try to fucking tell me you’ve never taken anything for pain.”

  Grenick stared back, expression empty. “I’m not judging, Scott.”

  The use of his first name, along with the even tone, sucked the insolence out of him. His shoulders deflated when acceptance took hold. Shit. A quick glance at Hauke and Rylie confirmed it. None of them were judging him. The only one doing that was himself.

  Still only him when everyone should be doing so.

  “But I want to know,” Grenick continued. “If it was—is—that bad, why are you back?”

  “Because I want to play.” Scott’s instant answer burst out on a wave of raw truth. “This is my life, and we’re one season away from winning the cup. I can’t give that up.”

  “Or we could be ten seasons away,” Grenick countered, all cool logic. Scott had only seen him like this on a few occasions. One being after Gardner’s death. “There’s no way to predict the future.”

  “And if I don’t try and you guys do win it, where does that leave me?” A fierceness born of bitter loss lined his voice. “Wishing I’d given it one more year. Manned up enough to get that final victory.”

  “This isn’t about being man enough to play.” Grenick eyed him steadily. The pain was there when Scott met his gaze. The loss that still dug at the man. The regrets and second guesses over Gardner. “This is about being around to play at all.”

  That was one hard kick in the gut that sucked the wind from Scott. “I wasn’t like that,” he said quietly, reassuring Grenick. “I didn’t drink or mix drugs I shouldn’t. I was careful.”

  “Yet you still became addicted. Enough so that Segar let you go and you sought out a rehab center.”

  There was no way to counter that statement. Grenick spoke the truth, even though Scott hadn’t copped to the addiction or rehab.

  “Shit,” Rylie said under his breath. He’d been silent for so long, Scott almost didn’t want to hear what the younger guy was thinking. What a role model he was now. “I had no idea. I mean, I know how much we all play through pain. And I know there are issues with how that’s dealt with, but I naively thought it’d improved since...since Gardner.”

  “So your problem was known throughout the organization?” Grenick dug into Scott further.

  The low note in his question was a warning Scott took to heart. Grenick played up the pushover, meathead jock persona, but there was a serious brain locked away in that man’s head. A guy didn’t graduate with honors from Harvard on his hockey skills.

  “No,” Scott admitted. It would’ve been easy to pass the blame. That was what he’d been doing until about midway through rehab. “At least I don’t think so. Doc had been digging around for months. Asking a lot of questions. Checking the logs. Doing extra scans on my knee.” As the head team physician, he oversaw the entire medical staff that rotated through and was responsible for managing the prescriptions. “But everything they gave me was within regulation. Including the ketorolac and numbing shots, the prescription NSAIDs and the painkillers they provided.�
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  “So Vicodin then,” Grenick said. “If it wasn’t oxy. From another source.”

  Scott gave a single nod. His throat was parched again and his water glass was empty. Great. The craving marched right up the dry path to nudge at the roof of his mouth. One swallow, and two pills would be down—if he still had them.

  “Can you skate without it?” Hauke asked.

  He fucking hoped so. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  Silence dropped over the table. Rylie stared at the TV. Hauke glared at the table. Grenick studied Scott until his skin crawled with self-inflicted accusations. He jumped at the crack of breaking pool balls. Fuck. His leg bounced with the urge to flee.

  But his therapist had insisted part of his recovery was being able to admit that he was an addict. Is a recovering addict.

  “I get the dream.” Grenick’s low statement had everyone looking to him. “We all play for it. Dream of wearing that championship ring and seeing our name on the cup. It’s the ultimate statement on our abilities. A physical proclamation that we’re the best at what we do. But at what cost? Is it worth the pain? Your happiness? Your life?”

  “That’s...” Scott shook his head, lips pressed tight. “Shit. I told you, that’s not me.”

  “So you’re happy with your life?” Grenick continued to push.

  “What the fuck is your deal?” Scott shoved back, tired of the grilling. “I didn’t come here to have my life examined.” Not so soon after Rachel had just hauled him over the coals with the same fucking questions. He was a goddamn adult. He didn’t need anyone questioning his motives and actions.

  His outburst didn’t faze Grenick at all. The man just studied him, his normal grumpy, lost expression replaced by a flat inflexibility. “My deal is one of my best friends, the fucking captain of our team, hid a drug problem for how long?” He’d moved closer with his insistence, but his voice had dropped increasingly lower until it was laced with an undercurrent of betrayal and hurt. “A year? Two? More? So you could play a damn game for a few more years.”

  There it was. Finally. Something he could react to. Rail against and justify his actions.