Page 1 of The Maine Attraction

Chapter 1

Luke

My head started throbbing the second I walked into the doctor’s office. Now, after ten minutes in the lobby, it’s about to explode.

I pull the bill of my ballcap down to shield my eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights. It only helps a little, since the four other people in the lobby seem to have made it their mission in life to be the death of me.

A few seats away, a kid with a broken arm plays a videogame at top volume. There’s zero chance his mother will attempt to quiet him. She’s too busy Facetiming a friend about an upcoming girls’ trip to Las Vegas to notice the racket he’s making. And across the room, a teenager bangs his crutches on the ground like he’s attempting Buddy Rich’s impossible drum solo.

The man seated next to me is blissfully silent, but he reeks of cigar smoke and stale coffee. The stench mixes with the antiseptic scents of rubbing alcohol, bleach, and latex to create a noxious cloud of poison gas that hangs over the room.

I wonder how long I can hold my breath before I lose consciousness.

Finally, a nurse emerges, glances at her clipboard, and calls out, “Luke Donovan.”

I wince, wishing that she hadn’t said my full name. All four heads in the waiting room swivel in my direction. The teenager freezes with his crutches in the air, the smoker coughs, and the kid’s mouth falls open. His mother hisses into her phone, “OMG. You’ll never guess who’s here. Luck Donovan!”

As the door swings closed behind me, I hear her friend reply, “Not so lucky now, is he?”

The nurse leads me to an examination room where I wait for several more minutes. When the doctor enters, his face is serious.

“Well, Luck,” he begins.

“Luke,” I correct.

“Right.” He taps his iPad against his thigh, and I can’t help but wonder when doctors switched from paper charts to electronic ones. “Sorry about that. I’m a big Thoroughbreds fan.”

Normally, I’d force a smile and say something quippy. Today, I just don’t have the energy. The truth is, I’ve always hated the nickname. My childhood nemesis, Charley Corbin, gave it to me in peewee league, and I’ve never been able to shake it.

The doctor clears his throat and launches into a summary about my X-rays and test results. My eyes drift from his white coat to his receding hairline to the medical poster on the wall over his shoulder. Across the top, in big, bold letters, it says,Anterior Cruciate Ligament (ACL) Injuries. As I take in the detailed medical illustrations of muscle, connective tissue, and bone, a wave of nausea rolls through my body. Bile rises in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

The doctor continues to drone on and on, sounding like the teacher from Charlie Brown. I don’t hear any of the words he’s saying, but the message is clear: my NHL career is over.

I hold up a hand to stop him from saying any more. “I hear you, doc. The puck stops here.”

His glasses slide down his nose, and he shoves them back up with his forefinger. “The good news is, with continued physical therapy, it’s possible that you’ll regain full range of motion in the knee, but—”

“No more hockey.” Tears burn the backs of my eyelids, but I will not cry. I refuse to let a single drop fall. I’m a hockey player, as tough as they come. Or, at least, Iwas.

“I’m really sorry, Luck—Mr. Donovan.”

I shrug. “I’m not the first guy to be done in by a torn ACL, and I won’t be the last.”

He shakes my hand. “It was a pleasure watching you play.”

“Thanks. Um… does the office have a back door? I’d prefer not to walk back through the lobby. Some of the other patients recognized me and…” My voice trails off.

He nods. “Sure thing. I’ll show you the way.”

When I leave the building, I spot a news van in the parking lot near my SUV. Someone in the lobby must have tipped them off.Probably the mom with the cellphone…

Not wanting to announce my retirement from hockey to the evening news just yet, I pull my phone from my pocket to call an Uber. There’s one less than five miles away.

I lean against the brick wall to wait, thinking about the moment last season that changed my life forever. I’d known immediately that the injury spelled doom for my career. After two surgeries and countless hours of physical therapy, I’ve come a long way. But I’ll never be able to move on the ice like I did before.

No one will be surprised by the news. The team’s already chosen my replacement, a rookie from Michigan who skates with the grace of Oksana Baiul but checks with the power of a Mack truck.

Gemma called it months ago.My ex-girlfriend saw the writing on the wall after my first surgery. She dumped me a few days later, claiming she needed to focus on her upcoming European tour. Her star was on the rise and mine was fading fast.

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