Of course, I didn’t understand the risk of such a move until I read a bit deeper on him.
And that’s when I found the source of his anguish.
About fifteen months ago, Tacker was piloting his own small craft from Dallas to Houston, taking his fiancée for her final dress fitting. They were to be married in two weeks.
There was a malfunction in the equipment, and he was unable to determine where the horizon was on a very cloudy day, causing the plane to turn upside down due to spatial disorientation.
He survived. His fiancée did not.
The reports seem to indicate he was out the rest of that hockey season, but they never specified the reason. It could have been physical issues, but it was vague. If I had to guess, he was probably just not able to return emotionally.
Regardless, at the end of the season, he’d been traded to the Arizona Vengeance in the expansion draft, which was considered to be an incredibly risky pickup by the new team. They either got themselves a really hot, dynamic player or a damaged liability.
I’m betting it was a little bit of both as his current stats seem to indicate he’s one of the league’s star players—at least from what I’ve read—yet, here he is, ordered into counseling to maintain his place on the team.
The final piece of information I’d seen was from just a few weeks ago, when he’d driven his truck right into a concrete barrier while drunk.
We’re going to need to explore that.
There’s a subdued knock on my door at exactly three PM on the dot. “Come in,” I call, swinging my boots off my desk to stand.
The door swings open, and in walks Tacker Hall. He’s dressed the same as he was the other day—jeans, t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Clean shaven, he holds a baseball cap in his hand.
He gives a short nod of his head in greeting, and I smile in return. He looks like he’s being led off to the guillotine or something.
“What’s your anxiety level?” I ask. “Because we can take the horses out for a ride. I call it ‘talking from the saddle’. It can help ease things.”
“Not much of a horse person,” he grumbles uneasily.
“I’ve got some gentle ones,” I assure him. “They’ll just plod slowly along.”
Tacker twists the ball cap in his hands but doesn’t answer me. Instead, he glances around my office, but it’s just a stall tactic. Not much to see in here.
“I read up on you,” I say. He shifts toward me, eyes slightly narrowed. “I know about the plane crash and your fiancée. The suspensions from the team. Everything.”
My words are a means to get him to face his reality… that he has to begin somewhere. I’ve just given him an opening to see if he’ll take it. It’s a tough-love type of opener, normally a path I would not take, but Tacker has made it clear he’s not keen on my Pollyanna-type attitude. I’ve already figured he appreciates plain talk with no fluff.
Tacker moves to one of the guest chairs. When he slowly sinks down into it, it’s a silent statement that he doesn’t want to ride today. I follow suit, dropping into my chair across the desk from him.
When he finally talks, it’s not what I’m expecting.
“I googled you, too,” he says quietly. “Not much there.”
“My credentials are all on the website,” I reply vaguely, although I don’t think that’s what he means.
Tacker shakes his head, looking me dead in the eye. “Raul said something horrible happened to you.”
Ahh… Raul… that stinker.
I nod, a genuine smile on my face so he knows I’m not mad about Raul’s comment. I have nothing to hide, and my past has greatly benefited me in what I do today as a counselor. “Would it make you feel better to know about it?” I ask tentatively.
I don’t want to assume I know what he needs.
He blinks in surprise, his chin jerking inward as he shakes his head. “No. I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything. I’m just… not buying the whole happiness and hope stuff. That old dude—”
“Raul,” I interrupt. “I’ll introduce you to him soon.”
“Can’t wait,” he replies with a grimace. “He was so charming.”
I can’t help but laugh. Raul can be very charming, but he can be an ass when he wants, too.
“He’s the best man I know,” I say firmly, making him aware I have a great allegiance to my friend.
Tacker’s expression seems dismissive, as if Raul isn’t something he wants to talk about. I’m surprised again when he blurts, “What happened to you?”
He does want to know. He’s convinced my happiness today is either a sham or that my pain wasn’t all that difficult to handle. While I don’t feel a need to defend myself or my history, I do think it can open a doorway to mutual trust with Tacker.
I push out of my chair, then sweep my hand toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go take a walk.”
Tacker stands, too, but he seems unsure. “I don’t need the walk. I’m good right here.”
“You might not,” I say with a smile. “But you asked about what happened to me and while I have worked hard to overcome my traumas, it doesn’t mean they don’t still pinch at times. I like being outdoors. It makes me feel more peaceful.”
Tacker shakes his head, slightly panicked. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
I move around my desk, put my hand on his lower back, and give him a gentle push toward the door. “Yes… I do need to tell you.”
I lead Tacker past the small paddocks, the barn, and along the large pasture to a trail used for the horses. No one is scheduled to be riding out here at this time, so we’ll have absolute privacy. The trail is mostly rocky terrain over gentle hills. The ranch itself is over a hundred acres of land, dotted with giant saguaros, mesquite, palo verdes, and ironwoods.
We walk for a good half a mile, and I occupy the time by telling him the history of the ranch. I explain how I bought it out of foreclosure, then about my dream to use the horses to reach people who are hiding behind walls. When I point out the flora and fauna of the Sonoran Desert, I’m pleased when he asks a few questions, his curiosity piqued. I want him relaxed.
“Keep your eyes peeled for rattlesnakes and scorpions,” I say with a sly smile.
Tacker actually jumps sideways as if I were pointing one out, shooting me a glare. “I thought you said this walk was to help reduce anxiety.”
Laughing, I pat him on the arm, not breaking stride. “I did. But I’ve got boots on. I’m not anxious at all. Your ankles are a little exposed with those tennis shoes, though.”
Another glare, and I toss my head back to laugh. “I’m just teasing. Any creatures prone to bite aren’t going to be on the trail. It’s well used, and they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”
He seems unsure of my explanation, but his stride doesn’t falter.
I pick up an old stick laying across the trail, about three feet in length, and carry it with us. Just in case we come upon a lazy snake I need to push out of the way, but I won’t let Tacker know that.
“Okay,” I finally say after taking a breath. “You want to know about me.”
He doesn’t reply, and I take that as his tacit agreement I should proceed forward.
“I was born in Albania, but my parents moved us to the Drenica Valley in central Kosovo when I was extremely young. I don’t even remember Albania really.”
“Your accent is more pronounced right now,” he points out, and I nod.
This is never easy to talk about.
“Do you know anything about the war in Kosovo?” I ask.
Tacker lowers his head as he shakes it. “Can’t say I do. Just what I’ve heard on the news here and there.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” I tell him. “All you need to know is that I was eleven when war came to Drenica. My name was Nora Cervadiku then, and my father and grandfather were part of a Kosovo Albanian group of rebels fighting against the Serbs who controlled the region. I had an older sister, Besjana, who was fifteen and
a younger brother, Pjeter, who was just seven. Besjana was only four years older than me, but she acted very much like my mother, who had died giving birth to Pjeter.”
“I’m sorry,” Tacker says awkwardly.
With a smile, I press on. “I’ll never forget March 3rd. It was my birthday. Like I said… I was eleven. And Besjana had promised to make me a shendetlie, which was my favorite dessert.”
“But that didn’t happen.” Tacker stops walking, turning to face me.
“No, that didn’t happen.” I look off into the distance, the sun starting to hang low over the foothills. When I shift to face Tacker, I just lay it out for him. “Serb forces came into our village and went house to house, rounding up suspected members of the rebel group. My entire family was taken into the village square, along with other suspected rebel families. They separated the males from the females, then promptly opened fire on all the males.”
“Even…” Tacker says, but his voice fades quickly.
“Even my seven-year-old brother, Pjeter.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, punching his hands down into his jeans. I’m heartened by the empathy I see on his face. If I had to guess, it’s not an expression he’s probably worn a lot lately.
I give a slight cough to clear my throat, because it gets even worse. “My sister and I were given to the soldiers. Besjana was repeatedly raped, often right in front of me, and by multiple men. I was made to cook and clean for them.”
“Christ,” Tacker growls. He starts to take a step toward me before faltering. I can tell he’s not sure what type of support to offer, so I smile to excuse him from the burden.
“One night, a drunken soldier was getting ready to take his turn on Besjana. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I didn’t care if I was putting myself at risk, so I screamed at him to leave her alone. And he only laughed. Then he taunted me. Went so far as to take out his pistol, put it right in my hand, and dared me to shoot him if I wanted to stop it so bad.”
A low rumble emanates from Tacker’s chest, and he looks sick to his stomach.
“And I couldn’t,” I admit without dropping my gaze. It’s a shame I’ve learned to own over the years of my healing. “I was so scared. That I’d miss. That I’d hit the mark and another soldier would kill me. It didn’t matter the reason—I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t save Besjana.”
“You were eleven,” Tacker bites out with a grimace. “You couldn’t have done anything.”
“I know,” I say softly, freely giving him another smile so he knows I’m okay. I turn to head back on the trail toward the paddocks. “I’ve come to learn that. It was part of my healing and recovery from the massive guilt I suffered.”
“But you escaped,” he says, seemingly wanting to leave the bad parts of the story behind and push me forward in the narrative.
I could tell him so many more awful details, but it’s not necessary. So my smile turns brighter, because there was a beginning to my happy ending. “A NATO worker smuggled me out of the camp one night. She was at the end of her tour and leaving for home soon. Her name was Helen Wayne. She was from here… in Phoenix. She adopted me, and that’s when I became Nora Wayne.”
“And Besjana?” Tacker asks, stuttering only slightly in the pronunciation of her name.
“She took her own life,” I say sadly. “Long before Helen got me out of there.”
We walk along in silence for a few moments. Finally, he almost whispers, “I don’t even know what to say to that. In all the things I’d imagined, that didn’t even come close.”
I stop, reaching out to touch his forearm once again. Tacker comes to a halt, regarding me curiously. “I didn’t tell you that to try to one-up you on the trauma scale or to prove you can survive something awful. I only told you so you could see it’s possible to not only push past it, but also to flourish.”
He just stares.
So I repeat, with emphasis. “I have flourished, Tacker. And so can you, if you want to.”
He swallows hard, letting out a long breath.
“I’ve laid a lot on you today,” I say, hearing the slight hint of apology in my tone. “And it’s taken up almost our entire hour. No charge for today, but, if you can, come back tomorrow. We’ll talk about MJ then, okay?”
He doesn’t balk at my demand. Instead, Tacker nods. “Okay.”
CHAPTER 8
Tacker
The breeze lifts MJ’s blonde hair where it suspends, making it float across her face. She scrapes her fingers across her forehead, grabs the errant locks, and tucks them behind her ear. It’s hopeless as the wind merely pulls them free to whip them around once again.
“This was a stupid idea.” She laughs, turning her head to look at me. My hands are clenched tight on the pommel of the saddle, my legs gripping the sides of the horse in a death grip.
Yeah… it was a stupid idea, but I wasn’t about to say “no” to her. We were spending a romantic week at a resort in St. Croix, and MJ had it in her mind she wanted to ride horses on the beach at sunset.
Sure, the sunset and beach part would be romantic, but the horses… not so much. Being from Texas, MJ wasn’t a stranger to horses, but I was from the concrete streets of Richmond, Virginia and had never so much as touched a horse before.
Not only was I out of my comfort zone riding the huge beast I was afraid would embarrassingly dump me on my ass into the wet sand at some point, but the winds were also so fierce coming off the water that my eyes were watering.
Still… I know I’m dreaming, but I hold onto it. It’s one of the rare dreams of MJ that I get that I actually treasure. A happy time where we were laughing and in love.
“Who’s that?” she asks, raising a finger to point down the beach.
Turning my head, I squint my eyes against the wind to see a figure in the distance. I can’t make out who it is, but it appears to be a woman.
Weirdly, the wind doesn’t seem to be touching her. Her dark brown hair lays calm along her shoulders. As our horses move closer to the woman, I can see she’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, which is definitely not how one dresses on a Caribbean beach.
And then I recognize her.
Nora.
I take in the odd way she’s dressed, yet still appreciating how her curves fill out her western wear in all the right places. The exquisitely refined facial features and cat eyes that stare knowingly at me.
It makes me hot under the collar and I slowly shift toward MJ, ready to explain how I know this woman and how there is no need for her to be jealous. MJ doesn’t give me her attention, though. She just stares at Nora, head tilted slightly in curiosity with a pleasant smile as she uses her hand to battle the froth of hair blowing around her face.
When I dart a glance at Nora, she’s still looking only at me, as if MJ doesn’t exist. Her hand reaches out, beckoning me to get off the horse and come to her. Again, weirdly, the air around her is utterly calm and peaceful.
Do I go to her?
Do I stay with MJ on this stupid romantic ride on the beach, which is one of my favorite recent memories that we would always laugh at later, or do I get off this horse and go to Nora?
The woman who is supposed to help me… what did she call it?
Flourish?
I wake up, jolting almost painfully out of the dream in a way that has me gasping for breath. My emotions are all over the place as I try to reconcile that it was just a dream, yet I still feel an unbelievable loss.
I don’t want to leave the beautiful memories of MJ behind, but I’m feeling an emptiness inside over not getting off that horse and going to Nora.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter in frustration, now feeling a flush of guilt for even having Nora in the same dream as MJ.
Suddenly, my entire body flushes as I start to feel awareness of other things.
My body.
My dick to be exact.
It’s fucking hard as a rock, tenting the loose sheet over me. I have no clue if my erection exists right now because of
MJ, Nora, or because I’m a man who hasn’t gotten laid in a long damn time.
Regardless, I don’t want to be torn between which woman might encroach into my thoughts if I were to take myself in hand to get some relief, so I stubbornly ignore my hard-on and roll off my air mattress.
A cold shower is the only thing in my immediate future.
Few things touch me these days. When people wall themselves off, things just tend to bounce back from whence they came.
But like Aaron showing up on my doorstep yesterday, this gesture by some of my teammates has a little cramp forming in the center of my chest.
Aaron showed up at my apartment not long after I finished my cold but effective shower, demanding I grab some ice gear and get in his car.
There’s a home game tonight, which means that workouts will be light. Some guys will hit the gym while others skate some drills. Nothing that will overtax, only get a player primed.
I’m not back in the lineup, so it means a lot to be invited to an impromptu skate at one of the local ice rinks where we often practice. Dax, Bishop, Erik, and Legend are meeting us there. Coupled with me, it’s the original first line of the Arizona Vengeance.
Feeling some fucking nostalgia for sure and not surprisingly, also excitement to get back on the ice. It’s been two weeks since I’ve skated.
We walk in, finding the guys already out there. They’ve apparently rented out the entire place, and it’s quiet inside. Aaron and I give them a short wave before heading into the locker room to get dressed.
It feels good… the ritual of putting on my gear. Like slipping into a favorite pair of worn jeans or the softest t-shirt.
When I step out onto the ice, there’s not even a wobble or stutter. It feels like I’m a fish that’s been out of water and I’m now getting my first gill-full of oxygen-rich water.
My first glide of blade to ice, I actually sigh in contentment. An overwhelming rush of gratitude overtakes me, and I swear if Dominik Carlson were here, I’d probably fucking hug him in thanks, which would cause a major freak-out in my teammates for sure.
Tacker Page 5
