Page 5 of Unraveling Rain
And then it hits me—a morsel of a feeling I haven’t felt in a while.
Hope.
Chapter 2
Xander
“Xander, do you have a minute?”
Ha. Jordan—my manager—has got jokes. I’ve got nothing but time since a season-ending injury took me off the ice back in April—right before the playoffs. I’ve been in a sour mood ever since.
Getting injured in your twenties is one thing—your body bounces back faster. But at thirty-four? It’s a whole different story. Recovery is slower, more painful. And it’s killing me.
I broke my collarbone after crashing into the right post while chasing the puck. I lost my balance like a fucking idiot and ended up needing surgery. My arm was in a sling for six weeks.
To say I’ve got time on my hands is the understatement of the century.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Eric contacted me today and asked if I knew when you might get back on the ice,” Jordan says, carefully enunciating every word.
Fuck.
Eric is the general manager of the Carolina Red Wolves, the team I’ve been playing for the last eight years. And the reason he contacted Jordan? Because I’ve been sending his calls to voicemail.
I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone.
“He said they haven’t seen you at the facilities for physical therapy. What the fuck, Xander?”
I let out a deep breath, switch off the TV, and rustle my hair. I’m sprawled on the couch in my penthouse in North Hills, a neighborhood in Raleigh, North Carolina.
I’m not a quitter, but this last season was supposed to betheseason—the one where we’d finally become champions. I’d retire on a high note, carrying on my family’s legacy.
“Xander? Are you there?” Jordan’s voice cuts through the silence after my long pause.
I sigh.
“Listen, I know this isn’t ideal,” he begins. “I know you wanted to win the Cup and retire. But this is not the end of the world. You’re a badass, Xander. Let me help you.”
That’s when I snap.
“And how exactly are you supposed to help me, Jordan? I truly appreciate you trying to lift my spirits, but my career is over. Every man in my family who played in the league lifted the trophy, except me. I’m a loser.”
“No, you’re not. Look, I found this place in the mountains where you can get physical therapy and psychological coaching,” he says in a chirpy tone.
“You want me to spend summer in rehab?” I scoff.
I can already see the media having a field day if I end my career at a rehab center.
“This place is like a vault. No one would know you’re there. And if you take recovery seriously, you could be back on the ice for preseason.”
I raise an eyebrow. Now he’s got my interest.
This could actually work.
“Preseason? Is Eric willing to extend my contract?” I ask, a hint of hope sparking in my chest.
“Not so fast, Xander. You know you have one more year left on your contract. An extension would depend on your ability to recover and come back like the motherfucking menace I know you are,” Jordan says, excitement oozing from his tone.
