Rush: The Season (Austin Arrows Book 1)(4)

In my defense, I had to deal with some major bullshit last year.

Nevertheless, I haven’t spent the last eighteen years of my life busting my ass in the NHL just to be knocked down or forced into retirement. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve sustained a few injuries during my career, sure, but nothing major. Even at thirty-six, my body’s in prime physical condition, and I’m not ready to give up yet.

Okay, maybe not prime—there are some unusual pops and creaks from time to time—but I damn sure have no intention of letting those stop me.

I wish I could say the same for my mental state.

“Hey, Optimus!”

I glance over at the sound of a voice being projected loud and far.

Coach is standing at the open doors, hands cupped around his mouth as though he’s trying to bounce his voice off mountains. I peer over at Spencer, a.k.a. Optimus (yes, just like the fictional Transformer character), but he’s focused on the puck.

I try to get Spencer’s attention by standing up straight. He doesn’t notice. When he lines up a shot and gets ready to take it, I point in the direction of the open doors. Nope. No go, either. Spencer takes the shot, and I drop into position, managing to deflect it back behind the net with my body. It’s pure instinct on my part not to let a puck into the net.

“Son of a bitch,” Spencer growls when he passes by me. “Damn sure not looking forward to this right now.”

I don’t know what this is, but that doesn’t stop me from grinning, more than thankful that I’m not even eligible to be the captain or an alternate, due to the fact that I’m a goaltender.

Following Spencer with my eyes, I watch as he slowly glides over to where Coach is standing. I can’t help but wonder what they’re discussing because Coach is trying to look casual—one shoulder resting on the wall, arms crossed over his lean chest—and not doing a good job of it. Instead, he looks constipated.

Rather than interrupt, I lay my stick over the top of the net, pull off my gloves, and push up my mask before grabbing my water bottle. I don’t pretend not to be listening in. Inquiring minds want to know. I’m not shy. I don’t give a shit if they notice me, either. Being that we’re only a few days away from the regular season kicking off, there’s no telling what’s taking place behind closed doors.

Coach leans in and talks to Spencer. I watch, being full-on nosy. Less than a minute later, Spencer is heading back my way.

“’Sup?” I ask, hoping like hell my buddy will fill me in. Otherwise I’ll spend the whole f*cking day trying to figure it out on my own.

“Phoenix is on his way in. Coach said they want to talk to me before everyone gets here on Monday.”

“Bro, I do not want to be in your skates right about now.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ve gotta shower and meet him in Coach’s office.”

I nod, not knowing what to say.

Whatever they want can’t be good. Although I can tell he’s as curious as I am, I know Spencer didn’t bother asking what they want to chat about because it doesn’t matter. He’s been summoned.

“Good luck with that,” I call to him as he saunters off the ice, heading toward the locker room.

Spencer flips me off over his head.

I can’t help but laugh.

I get the feeling it’s going to be a long day.

If not for me, then definitely for Spencer.





Ellie

“Bianca! Come on!”

Good night, Nurse! Even as the saying pops into my head, I can see my brother rolling his eyes and telling me to get a new phrase because that one’s getting on his nerves.

It is what it is.

But seriously, what on earth could possibly be taking Bianca so long? It’s not like my twelve-year-old daughter is putting on makeup or anything. She’s in seventh grade, for Pete’s sake.

How hard is it to roll out of bed, pull on some clothes and shoes, grab her backpack, and come downstairs? Until this week, I thought the answer was, “It’s not.” In fact, that’s typically a pretty simple feat for my kid.

Today, not so much.

I toss back what’s left of my cold coffee before heading to the bottom of the stairs once again.

“Bianca! The bus’ll be here in two minutes!”

I pace the entryway anxiously, peering out the narrow window that runs parallel to the front door and then up to the top of the stairs. Back, forth. Back, forth. Window, stairs. Window, stairs.

Nope, no Bianca.

I make one more pass as though that’s going to make my daughter magically appear. I even squint—because, you know, squinting always makes people appear faster.

Nope, still nothing.

“Shit.” I grab the rail and put my foot on the bottom step. “Bianca! Come on, girl. Bus! One minute!” Or less.

When I’ve counted to ten and she doesn’t appear, I have to wonder if she’s gone back to sleep.

I insert a significant amount of impatience into my voice this time. “Bianca!”

One, two, three, four—

“Can you take me to school?”

Well, at least she’s awake.

“Why?” It’s not that I have a problem with taking her to school, but this is the third time this week that I’ve had to, which means she’s missed the bus more often than not. That’s very unlike her.