Tacker

by Sawyer Bennett

  TACKER

  Arizona Vengeance

  Sawyer Bennett

  Tacker is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sawyer Bennett

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Find Sawyer on the web!

  sawyerbennett.com

  www.twitter.com/bennettbooks

  www.facebook.com/bennettbooks

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dear Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  Dear Reader,

  I know how much Tacker’s story has been anticipated by the Arizona Vengeance fans. If you’re new to the series, no worries. Tacker can be read as a standalone—it’s a complete, emotionally sexy story unto itself.

  For you die-hard fans who have been clamoring for this book, you’ll notice that Tacker picks up near the end of Dax with just a few days of overlap. Hang on tight!!! It’s an emotional roller coaster, and, as always, #sorrynotsorry.

  Love you all,

  Sawyer

  CHAPTER 1

  Tacker

  “Three Three December,” I say into the headset. “I’m having some issues with the primary attitude indicator. I’d like to climb a bit.”

  I glance over at MJ. She always used to snicker when I’d say “attitude” indicator. Most people think it should be “altitude,” but no… it’s called an attitude indicator. She thought that was hilarious.

  How many times has she sat in the copilot seat of my Cessna 335, glancing out at the world with pure joy on her face? She loves to fly as much as I do, but she’s always content to let me have the controls. Though she loves being up in the air, she’s never had a desire to pilot.

  I’ve never seen her look scared before, and it causes my anxiety to skyrocket. She doesn’t even look back to me, her eyes squinted and peering through the windshield, trying desperately to locate the horizon.

  The radio crackles, then the controller replies, “I’ll be able to issue a higher altitude in two miles. Copy?”

  “Roger that,” I reply, resolving to hold steady for that long. I’m at twenty-six-hundred feet, flying through fog as thick as pea soup. My attitude indicator—perhaps the most important instrument on my dash that shows my plane’s orientation relative to the horizon—is fritzing out. Without clear skies, I can’t find the fucking horizon and I’m at risk for spatial disorientation. My request to climb to a higher altitude is to get us above this mess.

  Get us to safety.

  I don’t risk taking my hands off the yoke to grab MJ’s for reassurance. So instead, I say, “Hey… think you’ll let me take a little peek at the dress?”

  It’s the reason for our trip. We’re flying from Dallas to Houston for the last fitting of her wedding dress. Then, in two short weeks, we’ll be married.

  MJ—short for Melody Jane—and what I’ve called her since I first met her in Dallas, tears her gaze away from the foggy air surrounding us and gives me a quick glance. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  I don’t dare look at her, only able to see the sharp twist of her head from my peripheral vision. But I grin, loving her sass even in the face of true danger.

  “Cessna 121 Papa Papa,” the controller says over the radio. “I’m going to have you make a slow left turn heading southeast, then climb to seven thousand feet. You should have seven miles visibility but some light rain.”

  “Roger,” I reply, glancing down at the attitude indicator. The horizon line sits flat, telling me I’m flying straight as an arrow. I hope to fuck it’s working correctly now because I’m going to have to rely on it heavily in just a moment.

  This time, I do take a moment to look at MJ, and she slowly swivels to meet my gaze. This left turn is all going to be dependent on that indicator leading me through the fog.

  “I love you,” I say solemnly. Not a goodbye. Just a reaffirmation.

  “I love you, too,” she replies, and I start to turn the plane.

  Terror clutches me so hard I can’t breathe. I come flying out of my nightmare, soaked with sweat. My mouth is wide open, but no scream comes out. I never screamed as we were going down, but MJ had. It had been loud, piercing, and filled with horror. I can hear it vividly ringing in my ears right now, even though my nightmare didn’t progress far tonight.

  Sometimes, I relive the entire crash.

  Sometimes, it will only be a loop of MJ’s last moments alive. She hadn’t been killed instantly. We’d both been trapped in the wreckage, and I had to watch her die a long, torturous death. That was the worst nightmare I repeatedly suffer.

  Scrubbing a hand over my face, I wonder what time it is. I don’t have a clock, and I don’t wear my watch to sleep. My phone is plugged into a charger on my bathroom vanity. The only thing I have in my bedroom is an inflatable air mattress covered with a fitted sheet, a fleece blanket, and two pillows.

  Judging by the dark gloom with a bluish cast coming through the blinds, I’d guess it was on the verge of dawn. I’m exhausted. If I lay back down, I might be able to drift off to sleep. However, the thought of falling into a vortex of plane crash terrors doesn’t appeal to me, so I roll off the mattress, careful of the cast on my left wrist. I have a slight fracture to the scaphoid bone, compliments of my idiotic choices of drinking and driving two weeks ago. I’ve got another few weeks in the cast, although maybe I can talk the doctor into taking it off sooner.

  Pushing up to my knees, then my feet, I make my way into the small bathroom across the hall. This apartment complex is a dump, and I’d rented a small one-bedroom when I moved to Phoenix in September after having been picked up by the Vengeance in the expansion draft.

  I was a pretty unmarketable player, having sat out most of the second half of last season due to the plane crash. Not because of my injuries, though. I came out relatively unscathed except for some deep lacerations. Rather, I didn’t have much spirit of competition left within me and stayed on “injured reserve” with the Dallas Mustangs.

  I wasn’t surprised they put me on the auction block for the expansion draft. I was too much of a risk, but apparently not to the Vengeance. They wanted me on their team, and so I thought… what the fuck? Why not? At least it provided me some respite from my demons.

  What I found when I came back to playing professional hockey was that as long as I was out on the ice, I was able to keep MJ and her death out of my head.

  Step foot off the ice and she occupied everything.

  I do my business in the bathroom, wash my hands, then nab my phone from the charger. After I shuffle into the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee. While it brews, I reach into the cabinet and pull out the only coffee mug I have. An Arizona Vengeance one I picked u
p in the arena fan store when I first moved here. It’s the only drinking container I have in my apartment unless the empty water bottles in the recycle bin count.

  My phone lets me know it’s six forty-five, and I wonder if I’ll actually make my nine AM meeting. I have plenty of time. A ten-minute shower and change. A twenty-five-minute Uber ride to the arena—thanks to my license being suspended due to my DUI charge—and probably a five-minute mandatory wait in the front office until I can be granted an audience with Christian Rutherford.

  He’s the general manager of the Arizona Vengeance, and he’s expecting me to give him an answer today.

  The question?

  Will I choose to continue playing with the team?

  His offer for my continued employment as a player on the team wasn’t made without a lot of thought and care. He met with Coach Perron and the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson. They discussed the benefit I could provide, and they weighed it against the terrible shadow I’d thrown over their entire program with my antics.

  They are not without compassion, although it’s probably misplaced in a man like me.

  Regardless, they made me an offer, and I’ve been considering it. Last week, I got called in to talk to Christian. His terms were simple and nonnegotiable.

  First, I was going to be fined one-hundred-thousand dollars for driving drunk. He wanted to send a message to the Phoenix community as well as to the hockey world at large that my type of behavior would not be tolerated and would never be condoned.

  Really, it was a punishment designed to make me think twice if I were to ever do something so stupid again.

  The second requirement was no big deal. I was not allowed to drink alcohol anymore. Not a single drop. If evidence were presented that I had partaken, I would be released from the team with a forfeiture of my contract. This didn’t bother me. I didn’t intend to drink again as it was never really my thing to begin with. MJ didn’t drink at all, so neither did I.

  It wasn’t for any religious, spiritual, or health reasons. Neither of us liked the way it made us feel. Besides, the morning after my run-in with the concrete barricade, along with the three-quarters of a fifth of Jack I had drunk, left me vowing never to touch another drop of alcohol again.

  The third requirement to my continued employment was I had to attend some sort of grief counseling. The terms were specific. I had to go at least twice a week for the remainder of the season, and I was even provided a list of suitable places I could go. I had to sign a full release so the counselor could communicate my progress back to management. If at any time I was not fully participating, he could release me from the team with forfeiture of contract. If I skipped one session, I’d be released. If I didn’t make progress in emotional healing, I would be released.

  It was all very rigid, narrowly defined, and almost designed to set me up for failure if I didn’t know any better.

  There’s a big part of me that just wants to hand the team a big ‘fuck you’. The terms aren’t going to be easy. It means I’m going to have to confront my demons.

  It means I’m probably going to have to let MJ go. No matter how fucking painful it is to remember her dying beside me in that plane, they’re the freshest memories I have of her. I don’t know if I can do it.

  I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve prayed to the only God I know and one who I never called on much until now. I’ve searched my soul for the right answer, but there’s no clarity.

  There seems to be no right answer for me, except…

  Except if I hand a ‘fuck you’ to the team, my hockey career is over. And for better or for worse, it’s the only thing in the world that gives me some small measure of happiness.

  Maybe happiness isn’t the right word, but it sure as hell gives me respite from the pain.

  And that has value to me.

  I glance at my phone again, noting it’s now six fifty-one. Still time to think on this some more, but I know the clock is ticking ever closer to the decision I’ll have to make—one that will have a profound impact on my future.

  No easy task.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tacker

  That may have been the most horrible hour of my entire life, and trust me, I’ve had some horrible moments.

  I let the door of the counselor’s office swing shut behind me, glancing over my shoulder at the nameplate before walking away.

  Gordon Dumfries, III, PsyD, MA, LCSW-C

  Jesus fuck… with all those goddamn initials behind his name, one would think he’d have a clue about people.

  The man had spent the first twenty minutes of our session lauding himself and explaining all those letters after his name. Then, in the next fifteen minutes, he’d explained the importance of opening myself up to confronting pain, and that the best way to release it was through tears and the shredding of the soul.

  Or some shit like that.

  The last twenty-five minutes of our session, we spent staring at each other because I wasn’t going to make it easy on him. He was forced to ask me pointed questions just to get any information out of me.

  At the end, he shook his head in disappointment and said he expected better of me next time.

  Fat fucking chance there will be a next time, Dr. Dumbfuck.

  Yes, I’m well aware my hockey career is dependent on me getting counseling. Two days ago, and on the heels of another horrible nightmare about the crash, I sat before our general manager, Christian Rutherford, and the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson, and I told them I wanted to stay on the team. I accepted the given ultimatums I couldn’t drink alcohol again and had to seek counseling.

  The alcohol was easy. I was never a big drinker anyway and my abuse of it a few weeks ago—where I got drunk and drove my truck into a concrete barrier—coincided with MJ’s birthday. It was a low fucking moment for me.

  But it also wasn’t my first brush with trouble on the team. I’d been suspended and heavily fined back in November for what some would call an extreme act of brutality on an opposing player.

  Bottom line… the management has had it with me and while I’d managed an average 1.32 points per game, putting me at the top of the league, that wasn’t going to save me anymore.

  So the other part of my ultimatum was the counseling, something I’ve successfully managed to avoid since the plane crash that killed MJ fifteen months ago.

  I fucking hated the idea of doing it, but there was one other thing that factored into my decision to make a go of it with the team.

  Yesterday, my teammates, Bishop and Dax, showed up at the door of my crappy apartment, and they pleaded for me not to give up.

  Well, Dax pleaded.

  Bishop was an asshole about it, and I could tell he’s reached his limit with me. He’d said I needed to get my head out of my ass—to figure out not only how to be a professional hockey player again, but also how to be a comrade to my teammates.

  It was something I knew how to do prior to the crash. I was close with all the guys at my former club, the Dallas Mustangs.

  And despite the fact he was a dick about it, he actually reached through to me. So that was my intent when walking into Gordon Dumfries’ office, actually somewhat heartened by the amount of letters after his name.

  Until I realized what a douche he was and that I’d rather repetitively stab myself in the ear with a Phillips-head screwdriver than listen to him for another moment. He’d tried to set up another appointment when he declared our time over, and I told him I’d call him once I knew my schedule.

  I have no intention of calling him.

  Making my way out of his building, I take a moment to pull up my Uber app to order a car. It sucks having lost my license following the DUI charge I’d received following my up close and personal meeting between my truck and the concrete barrier, but that’s the price I’ll have to pay. Luckily, Dominik Carlson recommended a great lawyer, who I retained, and he’s supposedly going to be able to plead me down to a reckless-driving charge. He told me I’d be able to get
my license back after I complete a driver-safety course or some shit like that, but I’ll gladly do it. I hate being driven around.

  Dominik isn’t like other organization owners. He takes a very personal and vested interest in his players. He’s already gone to bat for several of us on the team in one form or fashion, and apparently, I’m not any different. In addition to helping me find a good lawyer and giving me another chance to stay on his team, he took me aside after our meeting on Monday.

  Pushing a business card in my hand, he’d told me, “My personal cell phone is on that card. I don’t give it out to many people, but I’m ordering you to use it if you think I can help you in any way. I want you to succeed, Tacker. I want this team to succeed.”

  And that was all he’d said, but I know, without a doubt, I need his help now.

  While I wait for my Uber to show up, I fish his card out of my wallet and stare at it for a moment. I debate if it’s wise to call him.

  I could suck it up, go back into Dr. Dumbfuck’s office, and make another appointment. I’m required to attend at least twice a week, and I could suck it up. I could tune him out when he drones on and on, and I could even muster a few fake tears to mollify him.

  But fuck… I don’t want to do that. If I’m going to confront my demons and try to purge some of this guilt from my system, I want to at least see some results. I know damn well I’m not going to get them from the dumb shit in that building.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter, then dial Carlson’s number.

  I fully expect to get his voice mail, and I’ll make my message to him short and sweet. He can return my call at his convenience.

  I’m surprised when he answers on the second ring, and even more stunned when he calls me by name. “Tacker… what can I do for you?”

  I don’t know whether to be impressed he has my number programmed in his phone or creeped out. To have it there, he would have had to make some effort in tracking it down. Probably had his personal secretary call the Vengeance personnel office for it, so he could program it in. Which probably means he’d fully expected me to use it.