Tacker

by Sawyer Bennett

  Yup. Fine… or so she says. But I’m a worrier. Can you check? Don’t let her know I sent you.

  I snort, wondering if I ever acted that way about MJ. I can’t recall going to that extent, but I certainly appreciate Dax’s concern.

  Dax’s wife, Regan, holds a special place in my heart because of the way she’d once gotten me to open up to her. Last week, she landed in the hospital due to her exceedingly rare blood disease. She needed a transfusion, which righted her symptoms for the time being, and she was supposedly doing well.

  At least that’s what Dax reported during practice this week. But the team is now at an away game, so I imagine he might be a little freaked. It’s her first day alone since she got out of the hospital earlier this week.

  I’m on my way there now, I text.

  I owe you big, buddy, he replies.

  I like Regan a lot. She was a huge catalyst in pushing me toward admitting I really wanted to stay on this team. When she gave me a ride to the game last weekend, I had a good time with her. She’s easy to talk to, witty, and also doesn’t chatter up a storm.

  In other words, she didn’t make me feel like I had to keep up a running conversation with her.

  At the game, she got down to business as a fan and player’s wife, taking every single moment out there seriously. The girl knows the game, mostly because her late brother Lance was a professional player, too. She knows the rules, the strategies, and the players. Regan can more intelligently discuss the game on a deeper level than most people I know, so yeah… I had a great time with her.

  Which all means I don’t mind running by to check on her. It’s the least I can do for not only her, but also for Dax, too. He’s been gently pushing me in a supportive way over the last several weeks. At some point, I’m going to have to tell the dude I really appreciate it.

  The Uber driver stops perpendicular to the driveway. I’m confused by the two cars already parked there. If Regan has company, I’ll just do a quick peek to ensure she’s fine before reporting to Dax.

  Rapping sharply on the door, I step back and wait. Mumbled voices sound faintly and the door swings open, revealing a surprised Regan.

  “Hey,” she says with a bright smile. “What are you doing here?”

  Remembering not to give away Dax’s request to check up on her, I shrug. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood and had time on my hands. Thought I’d say hello.”

  “That’s awesome,” she replies enthusiastically. “Come in.”

  The wonderful smell of vanilla and chocolate hits my nose when I cross the threshold. As Regan shuts the door, she raises her voice, sounding like she’s trying to stifle a giggle. “Look who’s here, ladies. Now it’s a real party.”

  What the what?

  Jerking my head toward the kitchen, I see Brooke and Pepper, both wearing aprons. Brooke has a large glass bowl supported in one arm, the other stirring something inside it.

  Brooke is Bishop’s fiancée and Coach Perron’s daughter. Pepper is Legend’s fiancée. I suspect the only reason Blue—Erik’s girlfriend—isn’t here is because she’s a flight attendant on the team plane, which means she travels with them.

  “We’re having a cookie-baking party,” Regan says, latching onto my arm and pulling me into the kitchen. “You can help.”

  Trying to backpedal, I throw my thumb over my shoulder toward the door. “Um… actually, I have to—”

  “Hey, Tacker,” Brooke chirps. The next thing I know, Pepper wraps an apron around my waist and spins me so Regan can tie it in the back.

  “I-I really can’t stay,” I stutter, totally horrified I’d crashed a women’s party, which is the last place in the world I want to be.

  “Sure you can.” Regan laughs, tugging me over to the counter. “You said you had time on your hands. We’re baking cookies for Pepper’s church. It’s for charity, so it’s good for your soul.”

  “Plus… we get to eat cookies at the same time,” Brooke says with a grin. “Why wouldn’t you want to stay is the real question.”

  Fuck. I sigh heavily… resigned to stay for ten minutes at the most, then I can report to Dax that his woman is more than fine and I’m never doing another favor for him again.

  Two hours later…

  “Pay attention to what you’re doing,” I order Pepper, gesturing to the dough she’s dropping onto the cookie sheet. “They’re not uniform in size.”

  Regan snorts from her perch at the kitchen sink where she’s washing what seems like a never-ending supply of dirty bowls.

  “Admit it,” Brooke teases from her seat at the kitchen table. Apparently, she’d gotten tired of making cookies and had popped open a bottle of wine. She’s currently on her second glass. “We’re fun to hang out with.”

  Sadly, I have to admit it’s true. “Only because you ladies know hockey and other sports and didn’t discuss PMS or the Kardashians.”

  Airily, Brooke waves her wineglass. “We’d already covered those subjects before you got here.”

  Pepper pulls a batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven, and my stomach rolls a bit. I’ve eaten more than my fair share, and I feel like I need another workout. She puts three on a small plate, brings them to the table, and sets it in front of me.

  Fuck. I should decline, but they’re too good. I reach out and nab a hot one, moving it from hand to hand as it cools.

  I glance up at Pepper, noting the healthy color of her skin and the smile in her eyes as she watches me. “How are you feeling? Recovery going good?”

  Her brow lifts in surprise, even though I’ve been engaging with all the women in constant conversation since I got here. I guess it’s still a bit shocking to them that I actually know how to talk.

  “I’m doing really good,” she says, glancing at the engagement ring on her finger with a soft smile. Legend had given it to her in the hospital after she’d been shot by his ex-girlfriend. It scared the fuck out of him…the prospect of Pepper dying.

  I remember that feeling all too well. That same sick, twisted pain deep in the pit of my stomach I’d felt after the crash when I had to sit there for hours and watch MJ die beside me.

  A rush of panic hits me, the urge to lurch out of my chair and run for the door overwhelming.

  Then Nora’s words filter in through the buzzing in my ears. “Take a deep breath, Tacker. Let it fill your lungs, expand your belly. Hold it for three… two… one… and let it out slowly.”

  She’d done that hippie-dippie shit on me Thursday at the end of our session. Wanted to teach me a few meditation techniques, then had encouraged me to use it whenever I felt a negative emotion.

  I suck in air through my nose, trying to be unobtrusive in what I’m doing, but the closing of my eyes probably gives it away. There’s total silence around me as I fill my lungs, my stomach… then hold the breath and let it out. I do it again, slowly as Nora urged, and then once more for good measure.

  When I open my eyes, Brooke and Regan are at the sink, chatting away, but Pepper watches me with sympathy. My face flushes, but I hold her gaze.

  Her hand comes to my shoulder, and she gives me a short squeeze. “I meditate, too. It really helps, especially if I wake up from a nightmare.”

  “From when you were shot?” I ask.

  She nods, adding in a matter-of-fact tone, “It also helps to practice throughout the day. Just a few times, whether you need it or not.”

  “Okay,” I reply sort of dumbly. It’s hard to believe that in just a week, I’ve managed to reconnect with my teammates and my best friend, opened up in therapy in ways I never thought I would, and attended a girls’ only party to bake cookies, where I’ve gotten advice on how to meditate.

  My world has turned fucking upside down.

  A chime from my phone distracts me. I nab it from the counter, setting the cookie I’ve yet to eat back on the plate.

  It’s a text from Dax. Have you been by the house yet? How’s Regan?

  Suspicious now, I glance around the kitchen at
the women, realizing this was a setup. Dax knew damn well this was going on, and he’d sent me right into the midst of this gaggle of female hormones.

  I don’t hesitate, typing back quickly. She’s great. In fact, I convinced her to divorce you and marry me.

  Not funny, dude, he replies.

  Laughing, I tuck my phone away, not bothering to respond. My silence will irritate the shit out of him, which he deserves.

  CHAPTER 12

  Nora

  I’m waiting for Tacker by the paddock closest to the long driveway off the main road to the ranch. I want to work with Starlight today, so I’m planning to intercept him.

  I’m surprised when he pulls in, driving what looks to be a sparkling new truck. He sees me and I wave, pointing for him to park alongside the paddock.

  Tacker exits his truck and rounds the front to meet me. I’m pleased to see an easy smile on his face. He’s already such a different person in just a few short weeks. He has miles to go, but he’d absolutely made it over a major hump.

  “You’re driving,” I note, nodding toward the truck.

  He glances at it. “Yeah… my attorney advised me to plead to a careless and reckless. I have to take a substance abuse and safe-driving course, but I managed to get my driving privileges back.”

  “That’s great,” I say, starting toward the paddock gate. Tacker follows. “We’re going to work out here today.”

  “With a horse?” he asks, his tone not quite fearful but not happy either.

  “No, with a two-headed pig,” I tease with a laugh.

  “Strangely, I’d be more comfortable with that,” he mutters.

  With perfect timing, Raul comes out of the barn, holding Starlight by her lead. She plods placidly along behind him. I open the gate, taking Starlight from Raul, who nods at Tacker in greeting.

  “What are you up to today?” Tacker asks in greeting.

  “More work than daylight time,” Raul replies in his age-roughened voice. “Going to clear some brush in the back pasture.”

  “But I’ve got the team coming out tomorrow,” Tacker says, and I have to smile over the concern in his voice. After each of his last few sessions with me, Tacker stayed to help Raul with some of the manual labor around the ranch. They’ve developed an easygoing friendship.

  “There’s more work than a hockey team can do in one day,” Raul points out.

  “Then we’ll come back out on another day,” Tacker counters.

  Raul winks. “Stop talking like that. Nora will fire me if she figures out she can get all this done by volunteers for free.”

  “As if,” I exclaim. “You’re irreplaceable, you old fart, and you know it.”

  Tacker and Raul grin at each other.

  “Enough of the small talk,” I order the men. “Tacker and I have work to do, just like you, Raul.”

  Raul takes his leave of the paddock and soon, we hear the Gator roaring off into the distance. I turn and face Tacker, stroking Starlight on her muzzle. “You ready?”

  He shrugs. “I guess.”

  “Come closer,” I tell him, and he takes two tentative steps. “Just stroke her here… like me for a bit.”

  He does as I ask, this time with no hesitation. Starlight holds perfectly still as Tacker’s fingers on his good hand rub along the length of her face.

  “Take the lead,” I say, handing over the rope. “But keep stroking her.”

  His casted hand takes the rope, holding it lightly. Starlight is so gentle that I have no problems with him controlling my horse with a broken wrist.

  “Now, just walk her around the arena,” I say. “Keep her on your right.”

  Again, Tacker does what I ask without any complaint or question as to why I’m asking him to, and I’m doing it for no other reason than to just give him a little bit of practice and experience with a horse. Plus for what I plan to talk about today, I want him to have something else to focus on other than me.

  Tacker has hit a lot of milestones over the past two weeks in therapy with me. I can take some of the credit, but, honestly, he has a lot of external factors that have been playing well into his healing. He’s been hanging some with Aaron, along with his other teammates.

  I watch as Tacker leads Starlight around a few loops before calling them to me. After I take the lead from him, I tie it to the top rail of the fence and instruct, “Go to her side.”

  Tacker does and I walk around her, taking up post on her opposite side so we’re staring at each other over her back. “Just put your hands on her. Anywhere. You can stroke her or just hold them there. You can touch her anywhere you want. I just want you to get used to her, so you can see she’s super sweet and doesn’t mind you doing it.”

  “What’s the point of this?” he asks, actually taking a lock of Starlight’s blonde mane in his hand and running his fingers down the length.

  “Change of scenery, distraction, and plus… I want to get you over your fear of horses. That’s just a personal goal of mine.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he says, his eyes coming to mine. “I just… don’t have experience with them. They’re unpredictable.”

  “Not all are,” I say. “But like any animal, there are some that aren’t well trained.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “Are you excited about next week?” I ask, referring to the fact he’s going to play in his first game on Tuesday. They have back-to-back away games next week. He’s been doing so well in practice this week that his coach told him he’s going back onto the first line.

  Since I’ve met Tacker, I’ve never seen him smile so broadly. It’s almost as if this news gave him a new burst of energy, and he seems to be eagerly confronting most any topic in our sessions.

  “I’m dreaming every night of getting back in the game,” he says with a chuckle, returning his attention to Starlight’s mane. Both hands work at it as he talks. “Like vivid, technicolor dreams. I can feel the chill of the ice and the screams of fans. And, in all my dreams, I score every goal.”

  I laugh, running a hand over Starlight’s back. “That’s awesome.”

  “It’s part of my life,” he says quietly, his eyes coming to mine. “I don’t think I realized that until I was cut loose from it, then given this chance to come back. It’s like I have a new appreciation.”

  “It’s a good sign in your journey,” I point out. “It’s the gratitude we were talking about. Where you can take joy in the things you have.”

  He nods, fingers moving busily. Following his movement, I laugh when I see he’s actually braided a section of her hair.

  “Didn’t know you were so accomplished with hair?” I say.

  His lips curl up, his voice going soft. “I used to braid MJ’s hair. Weird, huh?”

  “Not at all,” I say. “Very intimate.”

  Again, his gaze moves to me and he swallows hard. “Now’s the time to talk about it, right?”

  “I had hoped we would. I think you’re ready.”

  We’re talking about the actual crash and what happened after. It’s a subject he’s steered me far away from over the last two weeks, but because he’s made such amazing strides, I know he can do it. I honestly think he needs to do it—needs to make it over that final big hurdle of the most painful thing to talk about.

  To my surprise, Tacker puts his forearms on Starlight’s back, one on top of the other, then lowers his head until his chin rests on them. He’s leaning slightly against the horse, and the sunlight makes the differentiation of browns, golds, and green in his eyes sparkle.

  “I don’t remember the crash. For a few moments, I couldn’t even tell if we were going up or down because I was so disoriented. At some point, we were upside down, but that’s really all I know. The crash investigators say I’d managed to get it upright again, and that the treetops sort of slowed us down a bit. But I pretty much blacked out the actual impact.”

  His voice isn’t quite flat, but it is a little detached. A safety mechanism.

  “
What’s the next thing you remember?” I ask.

  “Pain,” he replies. “In my back. A piece of the wreckage had sliced diagonally across my back, which is what woke me up. I remember reaching back, my hand coming away with blood all over it. The plane remained pretty much intact, or at least the cockpit area had. Except…”

  His voice trails off.

  “Except?” I prod.

  Tacker blinks a few times, then straightens. He doesn’t bolt, but merely starts playing with Starlight’s mane again. His fingers work at braiding another long piece as he talks. “Except a huge tree branch had come through the cockpit windshield at a downward angle, hitting MJ in the lower stomach and pelvis.”

  I don’t say a word, but my stomach cramps with pain over what it must have been like for him to see that. What it must have been like for her to feel that.

  “She… um,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “She was… um… unconscious at that point. I actually thought she was dead when I figured out what had happened and saw all the blood. I was in shock and couldn’t tear my eyes away, unsure what to do. When I finally snapped out of it, I tried to move, but my legs were pinned in by the wreckage. Then, the radio sort of crackled. Startled me.”

  “Were you able to call for help?” I ask, giving him a moment to distance himself from the horror.

  “Yeah. They had me on radar still. Said help was on the way, but I was in a pretty remote area. It took a few hours.”

  “And what did you do during that time?”

  “Realized MJ wasn’t dead,” he replies bitterly, his eyes still locked on his fingers that diligently work at Starlight’s mane. “Had reached out to her with my hand. Wanted to just touch her and when I did, she sort of moaned.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” I murmur, which causes his attention to come to me.

  “You can, though,” he replies. “You watched people you love die right in front of you.”

  “Not for hours,” I say.

  He shrugs, but it’s a pitiful attempt to diminish the horror.

  “She was in so much pain,” Tacker says, his voice cracking even more. “And she was lucid through some of it. She’d wake up, then pass out again. But the times when she was awake, she was very much aware of what was happening to her.”