Page 51 of Top Shelf
I spun when I realized the strange voice was talking to me. It was a very tall man who was holding two hockey sticks, skating toward me with a very stiff gait. I wondered if he was new, but the look on his face said he was not. He was very tall, pale with a lot of freckles and blond hair that edged toward red.
“Hey.” I frowned as he came to a stop a few feet away.
He grinned, and I could see dimples in each cheek. “Sorry. I know it’s weird when a total stranger comes up to you, and I don’t mean to interrupt your contemplation.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t that deep,” I told him. No, really. It was just a total relationship crisis with a soon-to-be NHL goalie who was just shy of half my age.
It wasfine.
He snorted a laugh and tapped his right stick on the ice. “Sweet. Anyway, I’m Alex.”
“Quinn.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Quinn Rhodes. It actuallyisyou.”
Well. Fuck. “Mm.”
“I’m not trying to make it weird, bro. I promise. My brother and I had a bet whether or not you really had moved up here after the whole…thing.”
The whole thing. Meaning losing my entire career.
“Who won?” I asked.
He laughed again. “He did—the fucker. It’s fine though. He’s in so much debt to me I was starting to feel bad. Anyway, pretty sweet to see you out on the ice.”
“Hard to give it up.”
Normally, when I had interactions like this, I fled as quickly as I could. But there was something about Alex that made me feel less on edge. Maybe it was the way he didn’t start asking me invasive questions about how I felt now that I’d lost my former life.
“I feel that.” He used his sticks to help himself shimmy back and forth, and then he jerked his head ahead of him and started skating. It only took me a second to realize he was inviting me to come along. “I was in the USHL when I was a kid. I thought I was gonna go pro, but I ended up signing up to do four years in the Marines.”
“Shit,” I said.
He sighed. “Yeah. Best worst mistake of my life.” He transferred one stick under his arm, and as we fell into an easy glide, he lifted his right pant leg, and I could see he was wearing a prosthetic. That explained his stiff gait. “Got deployed, got my legs blown off, met my wife in rehab, and now I own this rink.”
I blinked at him. “I…don’t know what to say. I kind of feel like a shit for complaining about my knee.”
“Nah, man. We don’t do oppression Olympics here. But wedodo hockey.”
I knew what he was talking about. Sled hockey. It was up and coming in the professional world now that a league had been established, but just like women’s hockey, it didn’t get the time, attention, or funding it deserved.
I thought about looking into it once, but it felt way too much like a compromise. And frankly, I was done with the idea of being pro anything. I just wanted to live my life.
“Ah, I know that face. I don’t mean to overstep,” Alex said quickly.
I waved him off. “It’s not that. I skate for fun now. My life is busy as hell.”
“That’s what we do. My brother kept telling me I should look into getting agented—see about joining one of the pro teams—but I like this. The guys show up here, we have a few drinks, put our asses in some sleds, and fuck each other up. It’s great when you’re having a really bad day.”
He did look happy. No, he looked more than happy. He looked content. My gaze caught on his wedding ring. It looked like one of those silicone athlete rings that were so popular these days. It was a deep, royal blue and contrasted brightly against his pale skin and freckles.
“I don’t have the equipment. And I’m not sure what kind of time I’d have.”
“Equipment is easy. We have a guy. He can mold your ass and get a sled going for you in days,” Alex said with a grin. “The rest is all on you. Show up when you can. And if I’m being too much, just tell me to fuck off. My wife says I don’t know social boundaries.”
I couldn’t help a small laugh. Ferris had said something like that to me once. He had charmed the actual pants off me with his lack of social boundaries. And while Alex was different, the fact that he just went for it made me feel good.
Less like a freak.
