Page 1 of Outlaw Heartstrings
1
EASTON
“Next road trip, you’re wearing a diaper.”
Through the windshield, I watch my three brothers bickering as they exit the gas station convenience store.
Lincoln snatches the car keys from Rocco’s hand and climbs behind the wheel of our oversized rental SUV.
“I have a small bladder. Show some fucking sympathy.” Rocco tears open a bag of nacho chips as he slips into the spacious backseat. He bumps into the back of my seat a dozen times as he shifts around, getting comfortable.
Oliver juggles his own pile of convenience store snacks as he yanks open the other rear passenger door. “We’re all out of sympathy. Why have you been chugging down back-to-back energy drinks all day anyway?” My youngest brother stretches over my shoulder to drop the packet of chocolate-covered almonds and the licorice I requested into my lap.
“Had a long night. This babe from the gym came over and kept me upwaypast my bed time.” Cracking open yet another energy drink, Rocco lets out an obnoxious yawn. “Caffeine was the only thing keeping me from running us off the road when I was the one driving earlier.”
Lincoln dutifully checks his mirrors and starts backing out of the parking lot. “Well, we’re not stopping for you again. You’re gonna have to hold your next piss until we get to Fairy Bush.”
I can get onboard with that. I’ve lost track of how many stops we’ve had to make on the eight-hour drive up from Oliver’s place in Chicago.
I shouldn’t complain—my brothers have been taking turns behind the wheel while I’ve been sitting here in the front passenger seat like a useless log. But at this point, I’m just so ready to get to our destination.
Oliver lets out a grunt. “Don’t count on it. This is Rocco we’re dealing with. I lost all faith in him that time he got wasted at Chloe Chapman’s house party and peed all over her grandma’s couch.”
I huff out a chuckle at that. The sound startles me. It’s the first time I’ve chuckled since I-don’t-know-when.
Lincoln laughs along, taking a gulp from his coffee cup as he merges back onto the highway. “Oh, that was a low blow.”
Rocco retaliates with a hard shove to Oliver’s shoulder. “Hey—I’m sensitive about that stuff!”
“Sorry,” our youngest brother mumbles. “Feeling a little…snippyright now.”
For the record—Oliver isalwaysfeeling a little snippy. Cranky bastard.
Still, I feel for him. The poor guy is stuck in the backseat with Rocco and his smelly-ass cheese dip, so I don’t blame him for being at his wit’s end. We all are.
The guys continue to trade jabs throughout the drive. I stay quiet. Just staring out the window and ruminating.
This trip back to our hometown isn’t exactly a vacation for me. Not like it is for Lincoln, Rocco and Oliver.
I made it nine years into my professional hockey career without a serious injury. Then, near the end of this last season, I had to go and fracture my goddamn fibula. While it’s not exactly the worst injury I could have faced, it’s still pretty serious.
I’m no spring chicken anymore. I’m twenty-seven now, and in hockey years, that makes me, well,old.
Why did this shit have to happen to me? Especially now that I’mfinallyplaying for a team that has what it takes to go all the way.
The Sin Valley Saints are only in our second year in the professional hockey league. We had a few high-profile hiccups in our first season, missteps that threatened to ruin our credibility as a team. But ever since we ironed those issues out, our performance has been strong, our fanbase has been growing, and—maybe we’re a bunch of delusional and overambitious dipshits—but we’d been hoping we could take home the championship cup this year.
That dream went right down the shitter after I sustained my injury.
I let my team down. I let myself down. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’ll ever get another shot at the championships.
In any case, I have the summer to recover from my broken ankle. And how well I recover will determine the fate of my career. Can I bounce back and return to the sport I love? Or is it time to hang up my skates for good and move on?
Lincolnkeeps sending me worried looks from the driver’s seat. My oldest brother also happens to be my sports agent. So it’s safe to say that he knows how much is at stakehere. That’s why he rented me a cozy hideout in the small town where we grew up.
“This will be good for you, Easton,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. “None of the distractions of the city. Plus, people know you well enough that theyprobablywon’t be all stupidly starstruck every time you venture outside. You can recover, take it easy, enjoy some normalcy and focus on yourself.”
I stab my fingers through my brown, greasy, overlong waves. “Yeah, I guess.”
