Page 100 of Game Misconduct

thirty-eight

. . .

Nick

My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and the vibration sends a wave of pain through my head. I’m only three days out from my crash on the ice, and I’m still struggling.

I squint at the screen, the light too bright even on the dimmest setting. What I see makes no sense, though.

Why is my former teammate from New Orleans reaching out? Why now?

Toby Whittaker: I hope you’re doing okay. That hit looked rough.

I blink a few times, trying to process through my pounding headache. It still doesn’t become clearer.

Whittaker and I played on the same line. He’s a lethal right winger with a killer shot and a wicked sense of humor. We weren’t super buddy-buddy off the ice, but when we played together, we were electric.

So why did it take him six months to reach out? Is it because I’m older? Is it like Henry was saying, and I kept everyone at arm’s length? Do I exude don’t talk to me vibes from my pores?

After a few moments, I tap the button for voice-to-text. “It definitely wasn’t fun,” I say into my phone, and the words float across the screen. I stab the send button, then flip my phone upside down and return it to its spot beneath my pillow.

And then the damn thing vibrates again. Annoyance floods my system as I pull it back out, squinting at the text.

Whittaker:

Hastings was suspended. I’ll deny it if asked, but he’s been even more of a dick than usual. I can’t believe we traded for that asshole and lost you.

“Not like I had a choice.”

Whittaker:

We definitely miss you here. Could use a guy like you in the dressing room.

Bitterness seeps through me once again, but the sting of his words fades quickly. I loved New Orleans, even if they didn’t love me. But Boston is my home now. It helps that they’re in a win-now mode, gunning for the playoffs; gunning for the Cup. While New Orleans is clearly more focused on a rebuild.

I want to win now. I want my name etched on that trophy, the greatest in professional sports. Even though I’ve made my mark on the world of hockey, there’s an itch deep inside me that tells me this isn’t it. I’m not done yet.

A knock sounds on my door, and I heave myself out of bed with a groan. My entire body is bruised black and blue, thanks to Hastings’s hits, and everything hurts on top of my never-ending headache.

Shuffling through the apartment, I take note of the small ways Bex has already improved the place. The throw blanket over the back of the couch. The vase of flowers on the kitchen counter. The orange-blossom diffuser that never fails to remind me of her.

I open the door, surprised to find Coach McKittrick on the other side, our team physical therapist Amelia beside him holding a casserole dish.

“Hey?”

He gives me a nervous smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can we talk?”

My stomach fills with dread. “Uh, sure.”

If they wanted to trade me, or force me to retire, I’m sure that message would come from management. Or my agent. It wouldn’t come from a first-year player development coach.

Amelia rolls her eyes. “Nothing is wrong, everything is fine. Let us in. Tyler made lasagna.”

My stomach growls. “I could eat.”

Her brother does my meal prep, as well as for most of the team. Every week, glass containers of high-protein meals appear in my fridge, and I never have to think about what’s for dinner. His lasagna is one of my favorites—and definitely not on the diet plan.

Stepping back, I allow them to enter the apartment. Both McKittrick and Amelia are wearing house slippers, so they don’t bother to kick them off. Their apartment is up on the nineteenth floor.