Rafe: An Arizona Vengeance Novella

by Sawyer Bennett

  We tried it again in seventh grade, and it wasn’t so gross. By ninth grade, we were going steady and where one was, so was the other. Fingers laced, we’d strut the halls of our high school, and the message was clear to anyone that paid attention.

  We were together, and always would be.

  I went to every single one of Rafe’s hockey games when he played locally, usually hopping in Brenda’s minivan to ride with her. He was a hockey star, and I was popular by virtue of my association with him and growing into my odd looks in a way that people found striking. When he went off to juniors, I sometimes traveled with Brenda to see him as much as I could. We burned up the phone with calls, texts, and FaceTime. When he returned home after the season was over, we were inseparable, making up for lost time.

  We were the quintessential golden couple. Prom king and queen. Most likely to live happily ever after. I was sitting by his side, his hand clutching mine so hard, I thought my fingers would break, when they called with his draft offer to the league. I shared in the same excitement as he did because we had planned for that moment. We’d spent so much time talking about what would happen if he ever made it to the professionals. I had doubts, but Rafe...never.

  He’d straight-out asked me, “Poppy, you’re coming with me, right? Wherever I land? Whatever city? You’re coming with me, right?”

  My answer was fast and easy. “Yes, Rafe. I’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth.”

  Until he decided he didn’t want me to follow him at all.

  When he changed his mind—disregarding all our future plans—it came as such a shock I couldn’t even understand it. Just two weeks before he was set to join his new team, he flat-out told me that he didn’t want me to come.

  I couldn’t even process it. I was so hurt, so blinded by what I thought was a failure on my part to be the right woman for him, that I had trouble even fighting against it at first. I was just...numb.

  Then, after a whole lot of crying in my mom’s arms, I tried to rally a bit. Attempted to fight to keep him.

  God, what ensued was awful. Without really even understanding why he was doing what he was to me, I tried to hold on to the illusion of happiness we had. It ended up being me...flat-out begging Rafe with all my might to change his mind. It was so ugly. The woman I am today is so ashamed of how pathetic I was back then, down on my knees, holding on to his legs, sobbing and begging him not to leave me behind.

  My face heats up just from the memory of that pitiful eighteen-year-old girl who didn’t understand her own worth. Who couldn’t figure out that Rafe wasn’t good enough for her, and not the other way around.

  But I know it now.

  Rafe shifts in his seat, gaze still on the scenery whizzing by. I steal a glance at him, irritated that he’s only gotten better-looking over time. He’s filled out...become brawnier, but it’s the face that always gets me. Warm brown hair that always looks tousled and expressive hazel eyes. Gone is the boyish hotness, and in its place is an incredibly handsome, rugged-looking man.

  Hell, even his gorgeous looks piss me off, and I turn back to the road.

  The silence between us should be welcoming, but in a way, it’s grating. I’m torn between wanting to be a bitch to him because he deserves it and wanting to hug the hell out of him because of what he’s going through right now. To complicate matters, I love his father, too. I’m grieving just as he is, and I can’t even accept comfort from him, which I know he’ll attempt to give me at some point. I figure I’ll reconcile those conflicting feelings eventually.

  I pull into our neighborhood. It’s mostly modest split-levels built in the sixties on small lots shaded by oaks and pines. Rafe’s house is the same dove gray it’s always been, with burgundy shutters and a small slab concrete porch with three steps. My parents’ house used to be a baby blue, but they just recently painted it white with black shutters. They added an iron railing to the porch, something my mom had wanted for years and my dad surprised her with.

  I choose to park at my parents’ home since I’ll be joining them for dinner tonight—not that it matters. The parallel driveways actually run right beside each other, separated only by about three feet of new spring grass.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Rafe says without looking my way, and then he’s out the passenger door. It’s closed before I even get the engine shut off. By the time I’m stepping out, he’s got his suitcase out of my rear hatch and is headed to his front porch.

  I follow along behind, telling myself that it would be nice to check in on Jim and Brenda. Doesn’t matter that I just looked in on them a few hours ago, which led to me being asked to pick up Rafe from the airport. Doesn’t matter that Rafe and I aren’t even on speaking terms really. I stick close to him as he bounds up the porch steps and drops his suitcase off to the side beside an empty planter.

  He hesitates for just a moment, his hand inches from the storm door handle. His face angles my way, and I get a glimpse of hesitancy in his expression. It doesn’t last but a second before his jawline hardens, and he pulls open the door. Without delay, he steps into the house, and for a moment, I lose sight of him.

  I scramble...the screen door closing all the way. I wrench it open, finding that Rafe left the interior door open. There’s nothing wrong with me barging into the Simmonses’ home...I’ve been doing it for well over two decades, and no one expects me to knock.

  I step into a small foyer from which a half staircase leads up to the living area, and a half staircase leads down to the basement level. I choose up, knowing that’s where Rafe will find Jim in his cozy recliner, watching sports. It’s where the recliner will eventually be replaced by a hospital bed once he loses mobility. I was there when Brenda sat down and talked with a hospice representative not long ago.

  I trot up the steps—five in all—and round the banister that opens into a small living room.

  I see Brenda first, pulling away from a hug with Rafe. He holds on to her just a bit longer than he might ordinarily, then releases her with a wan smile. She touches her fingertips to his cheek and steps away.

  A lump forms in my throat as Rafe turns toward his dad. Jim struggles out of his recliner, his body becoming noticeably weaker every day. Brenda takes a step his way, intent on helping him up as she often does, I’m sure, but Rafe places a restraining hand on her shoulder. A silent plea to let his dad do it himself because he wouldn’t want to look weak to his son.

  Rafe’s never been very close to his dad. Hasn’t had to care for him the last few weeks as he started rapidly declining without even understanding why at first. But right now...in this moment...Rafe understands him better than any of us. As a man might understand another’s need to be as strong as possible, despite the circumstances.

  Jim scoots to the edge of the recliner, plants his slippered feet on the carpet, and pushes himself out of the chair. His clothes hang loosely on him, his lack of appetite for months raising all kinds of red flags for Brenda. Try as she might, she just couldn’t get him to go see a doctor.

  “Son,” Jim says, his voice sounding strong. It’s all for show because that’s not usually how he sounds these days. Rafe will figure that out soon enough.

  “Hey, Dad,” Rafe replies softly, and in two big strides, he’s bridged the gap between them. Both men open their arms, and then Rafe gently enfolds his dad in an embrace. They hug tightly and long, Rafe’s face bending down to press into his dad’s shoulder.

  My eyes get misty as I realize I’ve never seen them hug before.

  In my entire lifetime of knowing Rafe and his family, discovering that this is the first time I’ve ever seen the men embrace is a stark realization.

  How did I not notice that before?

  Was it because my eyes were so starry and dazzled by Rafe’s brilliance that I didn’t notice something as simple as a lack of physical connection between father and son?

  I feel a bit more of my anger toward Rafe drain away, only to be immediately replaced by sympathy for what he must be feeling now
.

  That big clock now ticking down to an awful, painful conclusion that no one is ever ready for.

  I imagine there might be a lot of regret on both sides, and I really hope they can make the most of their remaining time together.

  Rafe is the first one to pull back, but he still holds on to his dad’s shoulders, studying Jim’s face. His lips quirk up, and he teases, “Your hair’s getting grayer.”

  Jim tips his head back and gives a hoarse, frail laugh of delight.

  I take that as my cue to leave. I’m not needed here right now. And besides, in addition to all of the heavy emotions swirling around in the house, I’m dealing with my own conflicts about Rafe’s return.

  Chapter 3

  Rafe

  The Cold Fury management offices are more traditional than the Vengeance’s. Where the Vengeance executive suite is all airy with light colors and chrome, the Cold Fury décor is dark-paneled walls, thick, plush carpeting, and ambient lighting from wall sconces.

  None of that matters to me, though. I’m just happy and grateful to be on this team. It’s a miracle of sorts that I even made it here. The move was made after the trade deadline, which meant I wasn’t eligible to play in the playoffs. As such, Dominik Carlson and Gray Brannon came up with a risky plan and maneuver to release me down to our minor league team on waivers. The same was done with my counterpart here at Cold Fury, Kane Bellan. Then, when the waiver time expired, both coaches snapped us up to join opposite teams. I’m sure other teams wanted us, but I expect that some palms were greased or something to make the switch happen as it did.

  Regardless, I’m just so fucking relieved to be here. It means I get to spend time with my dad and continue playing hockey. I know it will end up being my saving grace throughout my dad’s last days.

  The receptionist in the lobby area of the executive suite looks up with a smile as I approach her desk. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Rafe Simmons,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to meet with Gray Brannon this morning.”

  “Of course, Mr. Simmons,” she says exuberantly, rising from her desk. “Ms. Brannon is expecting you and told me to bring you right back when you arrived. If you’ll follow me, please.”

  She leads me down a hall to Gray’s office, a luxurious space as traditionally styled as the rest of the suite. The receptionist gives a short rap on the door but doesn’t wait for a response, merely pushes it open and steps inside to announce me.

  I’m stunned to see Gray on the floor in front of her desk, playing with a baby, who is chewing on a wooden block.

  Gray Brannon is a beautiful woman with fiery red hair and crystal green eyes. She’s gorgeous, but it’s not what she’s typically known for. Instead, she’s the first and only female general manager in the league, a former Olympic hockey player and bronze medalist who managed to lead the Cold Fury to back-to-back Cup championships since joining the team four years ago.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see her on the floor, performing just another duty of her incredibly busy and challenging life: mom. I know she and her husband—former Cold Fury goalie Ryker Evans—had the baby about eleven months ago.

  Gray looks up and grins at me, a toothy welcome that’s also wholly unapologetic. She’s not sorry that she’s on the floor with her kid rather than greeting me with a handshake. “Hey, Rafe. Come on in.”

  I step past the receptionist, who backs out but leaves the door open.

  “Sorry about this.” Gray waves at herself and her baby—a little boy who smiles up at me, all gums and drool. “Ryker is swinging by to pick Milo up, but he’s running a few minutes late.”

  “No worries,” I reply with an easy smile, clasping my hands in front of me, unsure of what I should do. I think this meeting is just a formality, although Gray and I have talked on the phone twice since I approached Dominik Carlson with my request to come to the Cold Fury.

  There’s a knock on the open door behind me, and I turn to see Alex Crossman walk in.

  Alex is the captain of the team, one of the finest players in the league, and heads up the first line as the center. It’s the same position I play, except on the second line.

  “I was just walking by,” Alex explains as he sticks his hand out to me. “Saw you in here and thought I’d officially welcome you to the team.”

  I shake his hand, and he gives mine a hearty pump. “Good to see you,” I tell him.

  I’ve met Alex on a few occasions at public events, and he’s always been gracious. I’m excited to play under his leadership.

  “Alex,” Gray says, pulling Milo onto her lap. “Ryker’s coming by to pick up the rug rat, but he’s running late. Do you mind taking Rafe down to the locker room and showing him around? I’ll be down later.”

  “Not at all,” Alex replies easily and turns for the door. “Just headed there myself.”

  This isn’t unexpected. We have a team skate in about half an hour, which will be just a light workout since there’s a game tonight. The Cold Fury is taking on the Toronto Blazers tonight in the second game of the first round of the playoffs. The Cold Fury already took game one the day before last. While I won’t be playing in tonight’s game, I will be skating with the team to get my feet wet. Gray told me they expect me to head up the second line for game three in two days’ time.

  Today is more about meeting my teammates and establishing some chemistry with the rest of the guys on the second line.

  “It was great meeting you, Gray,” I tell her with an incline of my head that speaks to my gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this.”

  Her face softens, and she pulls Milo in a little closer to her chest. “We’re glad to have you. I hate the circumstances that brought you to the team, but we’re all here to support you. That being said, we think you’re a great addition, and will be of great benefit to us.”

  That’s overly kind of her to say. It’s going to be a bit of a transition for them to get used to me and my style of play. While Kane Bellan and I were a pretty even trade, there are slight differences. It’s going to be a hindrance to the second line until we can gel—something that could happen within the first game, or several after.

  Alex and I leave the executive suite. In the elevator heading down to the basement level that houses the locker room, he makes the overture that I’m sure I will get a lot today. “I’m really sorry to hear about your dad.”

  “Thanks,” I reply with a smile I don’t feel. “I appreciate it.”

  He studies me for a moment, a bit of calculation in his eyes. “Listen...I don’t need to tell you that every player needs to play at an optimum level since we’re in the playoffs. I also don’t need to tell you that you’ve got some tough times ahead of you with your dad. If, at any time, your head isn’t in the game the way it should be, I just need you to let us know. We’ve all got your back. You may be new to the team, but you are a brother to us now. If you need to take a step back, not one man on this team will ever begrudge you for taking the time you need for yourself and your family.”

  That was way more than I expected, and it touches me. He doesn’t need to make those assurances. In fact, he has every right to be tough with me...acknowledging my shitty circumstances but making expectations clear—that I should be performing at peak level, no matter what.

  “Thanks man… I really appreciate it,” I say and he responds by clapping me on the shoulder.

  The locker room is noisy and bustling. All of the players are in front of their wooden cubbies in various states of undress. The mood is jubilant, with a lot of laughing and joking going on. It reminds me of the Vengeance locker room, and I have a moment of intense longing for my old team.

  Alex leads me over to my space, stopping along the way to do quick introductions. I already know many of my teammates, either from having played with them or against them, even dating back to my junior hockey days.

  My cubby is open-faced, made of solid stained wood with an etched plaque that reads R. Simmons at the to
p. The equipment manager has been diligent. There’s a practice uniform, the requisite pads, skates, and even my preferred brand of sticks waiting to be taped—which is something players usually do themselves.

  A guy that I immediately recognize but have never had the opportunity to meet before is at his cubby to my right. Tall, with dark hair and the weirdest-looking golden eyes I’ve ever seen, ones that probably make women swoon, he shoots me an easy smile and sticks out his hand for me to shake. But it’s Alex who makes the introduction. “Rafe... this is Zack Grantham. He’ll be your left-winger.”

  We pump hands, and I tell him, “Hope I can fill Bellan’s place and do it justice.”

  “I’m sure you can,” he replies with an affirming nod of his head. “Looking forward to getting out on the ice with you.”

  Zack plops down on the bench that runs in front of our cubbies and starts to untie his shoelaces.

  Another man approaches, and I recognize him as well. An icon, Garrett Samuelson is a first-line right-winger for the Cold Fury. He’s joined by one of the best goalies in the league, the lynchpin of this team, Max Fournier.

  We shake hands, and they are equally as warm and welcoming. The crowd starts to grow.

  Max motions a guy over, and I can tell immediately that they’re related. He introduces his brother, Lucas Fournier, to me.

  “Glad to meet you.” We shake hands, and I lean in with a conspiratorial grin. “Loved that hip check you put on Lars Nilsson a few weeks ago.”

  Lucas laughs and nods. “I bet you did.”

  Lars is a douchey player for the L.A. Demons. Last year, he pulled one of the lowest forms of violence I’ve ever seen in our league, and he did it with words.

  Our first-line center for the Vengeance, Tacker Hall, was having a rough time. He lost his fiancée in a plane crash the year before, and as if that weren’t bad enough, Tacker was the one piloting the aircraft, so he was dealing with loads of misplaced guilt.

  At any rate, Tacker and Nilsson got into a scuffle on the ice, and rather than handle it the normal way by dropping gloves and duking it out, Nilsson made reference to Tacker killing his fiancée.