Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(37)

What was my sole reason for living after the crash… and the one thing that had kept me going until I metaphorically crashed again.

Nora had texted a few hours ago as we were on our way from the team hotel to the arena. We’re playing the Seattle Storm, who happen to be sitting near the bottom of the standings. While players can never take any game for granted, it does help my nerves that we’re playing one of the lower-ranked teams for my return debut.

Nora’s text helped. It simply said, Enjoy the moment.

She’s talking about right now—with my nerves buzzing and my adrenaline surging. The scream of fans and the energy pouring off my teammates.

My legs strengthen, and my backbone locks.

I’m ready, and I fucking love it.

The ref moves into the circle, right up to where Bishop faces off against his opponent for the face-off. His eyes cut to me briefly, and he winks.

Not a facial muscle of mine moves in response. I’m fucking ready to play.


For a man wearing a cast on a wrist that was fractured five weeks ago and who had only been back at practice for two weeks, I played a damn good game. My biggest accomplishment is in not getting in a fight.

As a center, I’m a shooter, not a fighter. That means I’m relied on to score, not to play defense or get tough with other players. My body is too valuable to mess it up in a slugfest, so I’m rarely enticed into a fight.

But that didn’t stop the Storm players from trying to bait me. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up, me… the man with a cast.

While league regulations allow players to wear casts in a game, we are absolutely forbidden from fighting with one. As such, I stepped out onto the ice tonight expecting players to push me to my limits. Most opposing players would not be sad to see me suspended again.

I kept my cool all night.

I played well, even if not stellar, and that met everyone’s expectations for the evening. I had one assist and a severely aching wrist as the final moments of the game tick down.

There’s thirty-seven seconds left on the clock, and the Storm is down 2-0. They have nothing to lose, so they pull their goalie once they gain possession of the puck. My line just stepped out, and our legs are fresh as we defend.

Back and forth, they pass the puck, looking for the long shot or a quick dump inside for a goal. My back is to Legend as I keep myself facing the action, letting my stick play loose.

They make their move as the crowd’s screams escalate in tune to the clock ticking closer to zero. With a sharp flick of the wrist, the puck makes it past Dax to the inside. Players crash the net, Aaron poke checks, and the biscuit shoots out toward me.

Bishop has broken loose and I tap it to him, just as he crosses into the neutral zone. I follow, my eyes darting up to the clock to note seven seconds left.

Bishop carries the puck across the blue line, the empty net right in front of him.

“Tacker,” he calls. To my surprise, he shoots it over to me.

It’s an easy flick of my wrist, a snap of my stick blade, and the puck easily glides in for a goal. The fucker didn’t need to give me that point, but I’m not surprised he did. My team as a whole has gone way out of their way to make sure my return has been the stuff dreams are made of.

They all surround me… Bishop, Dax, Aaron, Erik, and Legend. Pats of their gloved hands on my helmet, stick blades gently against my calves.

Win, lose, or draw, I’m grateful for this moment. I’m back where I need to be, and there’s no way I’m ever fucking this up again.

Oddly, I wonder if Nora’s watching on TV and I don’t even chastise myself for letting my thoughts go there.

I hope she is.

Watching.

Knowing that part of me being here is because of what she’s done.


The team continues to celebrate our win in the locker room. Shouts, loud jokes, slaps of towels on asses. Something I had not participated in since coming to the Vengeance, and I actually don’t participate in it now. It’s a bit overwhelming and while it felt natural on the ice to be back on the team, I’m not sure of my place here. I’ve caused a lot of hardship on this team because of my attitude and behavior that this feels just a little too strange.

Shower complete, I stand at my locker and work on getting dressed. We’ll be taking the team bus back to the hotel. Because our next game isn’t until day after tomorrow in Los Angeles, we’ll stay overnight here.

A hand comes down on my shoulder and I twist my neck to see Rafe standing there. “Awesome game, man. God help our opponents once that cast comes off.”

My smile comes easy in response to the genuine nature of his praise. He’s not bitter in the slightest that he’s been bumped back to second line. “Thanks, Rafe. Appreciate it.”

He nods and drifts away.

“So… truth… how’d it feel?” Aaron asks as he comes up to my side, a towel wrapped around his waist. Flipping a leg over the bench, he sits with legs splayed. “Great to be back on the ice?”

Grimacing, I turn my head away. “Dude… I don’t need to see your junk.”

Snickering, Aaron pats his thighs. “My man… this is what the ladies love. The Wylde secret place.”

“You’re fucking gross,” I mutter, but I do it while suppressing a laugh. Aaron thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but he at least comes by it honestly. He’s a fucking chick magnet.