Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(66)

So yeah… should be an easy game.

Except it’s not.

One of the last-minute trades the Mustangs’ management made was for Lars Nilsson from the L.A. Demons. He and I have a history, and it’s not good.

In November, we had an incident where he was handing out jabs and stabs, trying to get me to retaliate. It’s what defensemen do to star players. Ordinarily, I’m cool under pressure. Able to compartmentalize that shit away from my emotions. I understand the value of keeping steady so I can score for my team.

But Lars got dirtier than normal, telling me that I played hockey as well as I flew planes.

At first, I couldn’t believe he’d said something so heartless. To prey upon someone’s loss—my loss.

Things went black after that.

No clue what the fuck happened except I was being pulled off an unconscious Lars Nilsson. Deep down, I knew I’d done something to him.

Even deeper down, I was pissed to still see him breathing—although I’ve never admitted that dirty little secret to anyone.

Later, I’d been told I’d struck him in the head with my knee. I’d even watched video of it—felt immense satisfaction in watching him go limp.

In hindsight, I’m sorry for it. Head injuries are serious, and I could have truly hurt the guy with long-term effects. I hated what my actions did to my team because I got suspended for ten games.

Hated how I felt about myself because I’d liked causing him pain.

But I’m not that guy these days.

Today, I’m a guy who’s back in the swing of life and focused on the championship prize. I’m not going to get distracted by a hockey player with a dented ego looking for some payback.

Like right now—Nilsson hacks at my leg with his stick—playing it off like he’s just trying to jockey for the puck Bishop just sent my way.

Lowering my shoulder, I give him a hard nudge to his chest as I put my blade on the biscuit. I juke right, he follows, then I cut left, making a one-eighty circle around him.

Left in the dust, Nilsson takes one more slice at my leg with his stick, but he misses.

Aaron Wylde does not. He comes out of nowhere, speeding like a freight train and squatting to lower his center of gravity. His shoulder goes into Nilsson’s chest, and I have a brief image of his feet flying out from under him. I toss the puck off to Dax in the corner, but it doesn’t matter.

Aaron is called for a penalty.

It was a vicious hit, which was completely illegal since the puck was nowhere near Nilsson when it was delivered.

Unsurprisingly, Aaron’s called for a game misconduct and booted off the ice.

Doesn’t matter.

There’s less than three minutes left until the end of the play, and we’re up by three goals.

Nilsson doesn’t mess with me for the rest of the game.


“You looked really good out there tonight,” Charles Schmidt says to me from across the table. He’s got a draft beer in front of him.

MJ’s father, Charles, is everything a man could want in a father-in-law. He was doting and protective of MJ, but never threatening to me. He treated me like an adult—a man—from the start, and we became close over the few years MJ and I dated. I’m especially touched that he came to the game tonight in an Arizona Vengeance jersey with my name and number on the back.

His wife, Patty, sits next to him with a glass of prosecco in front of her. She and MJ both loved that bubbly wine, and it’s exactly how I would describe her.

Bubbly.

Effervescent.

She was always the life of any party, but, right now, she looks subdued and unsure of herself.

How can I blame her? I haven’t exactly been open and friendly to these people over the last year and a half.

Haven’t been mean, either. I couldn’t be outright mean to the two people who treated me like a son before I ever officially became one.

But I pulled away when I should have been helping them with their grief. I didn’t let them console me. Instead, I let their insistence I was not at fault in the crash fall on deaf ears.

I took my love away from them.

It’s something I need to rectify immediately, which is why I reached out to them and asked if they could meet up after the game.

So in a quiet but swank bar near the arena, I look first to Charles—then Patty—and lay out my apology. “I’m sorry for not being there for you after MJ died.”

They both jerk, their eyes flying wide in surprise. Patty starts shaking her head, and Charles’ eyes fill with tears.

I press on. “I was selfish. Caught up in my own guilt and grief, I forgot you two were probably hurting more than I was. Worse… you tried to help me and love me through it, and I ignored you. I know that caused you more pain, and I’m just so deeply sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

Patty starts crying in earnest, pulling her cocktail napkin out from under her wine to dab at her eyes. Charles blinks his eyes furiously, giving a hard cough.

I have more to say, though, and I need to get it out before I lose my fortitude. “I got really lost for a long time. Didn’t want to go on, but I didn’t know how to end things either. So I just withdrew and became an ass to most people. I made so many bad choices, and I felt like shit all the time. MJ would have been so disappointed in me. The daughter you raised would have smacked me and told me to get my head out of my ass. You raised such an amazing woman, and I did her memory a disservice with the way I acted. If she—”