Page 26 of Hat Trick
“Goddammit.”
“Come on, Mitchy. You can do it.”
I’m not used to being on the receiving end of praise that doesn’t stem from how I’m playing on the ice or how fast I am with the puck, but I like it. I like the way it dips low in my stomach then moves up and across my shoulders. How it lights me up and makes me feel invincible, if only for a second. It’s how I’m able to focus, how I’m able to blow out a breath as I count each rep, and I’m proud I don’t yell out while my body screams in pain.
You can do it.
For her, I’m going to try my damn best.
When we finish the first exercise, we go into hip movements and something Lexi calls a pelvic tilt. She works on my hip flexor and bursts out laughing again when I mumble a string of curses as she pushes down on my amputated leg.
It hurts like fuckinghell, but under the pain, there’s something else: thoughts that I may be able to do this.
We stop for a ten-minute break, and I’m grateful when she brings over a bottle of water. I chug the fluids down in three gulps and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, already utterly fucking exhausted.
I’ve been lucky not to have any major injuries throughout my career. I’m glad I’ve kept my body healthy, because I can tell these sessions aren’t going to be a walk in the park.
And Lexi?
There’s a gleam in her eye. A spark of excitement I’m desperate to hold close to my chest.
It’s the first time in a long time I’ve been anything other than miserable and pissed off, and I don’t know how to react.
“This is humbling.” I toss the empty bottle in the trash and groan. “I’m getting my ass kicked.”
“It’s going to take some time for things to not feel difficult. When we’re not working on your rehab, you’ll be with the conditioning coaches to rebuild your upper body strength. You’re going to be a totally different guy by Christmas.”
“You’re going to turn me into the Hulk, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to try my best.”
“Can’t wait.” My phone buzzes on the table. My agent’s name scrolls across the screen, and I push myself up on an elbow. “Do you mind if I take this?”
“Of course not.” Lexi flashes me a pretty smile. “We’ll start back up when you’re finished.”
“Thanks.” I slide my thumb across the screen. “Marcus. You finally tracked me down.”
“Only took me fucking weeks,” he says on the other end of the line. “Did you block my number?”
“No.” I adjust my position so I can lean against the wall behind me. “Okay. Yes, I did. But only because I wasn’t ready to talk.”
“Are you ready now?”
“I guess.”
“Good, because I just had a nice chat with Brody fucking Saunders who told me he’s leaving you on the Stars’ payroll? That would’ve been nice to know,” Marcus says, and I can’t help but smile.
He played years before I came into the league, but he’s always been a businessman. After he won the Cup and became the record holder for most points by a Black player in NHL history, surpassing the great Jarome Iginla, Marcus retired. He said he was ready to move on to the next thing in life, which was helping young athletes earn the money they’re worth.
He’s been a shark, pushing the Stars for a contract extension and making sure I’m getting paid like my veteran teammates. I’m not the best skater or scorer on the team—those titles belong to Maverick—but I’m damn good at what I do. On any other squad, I’d be a top priority. The go-to guy. But I’m happy here.
Or, I guess I was.
I don’t know what the hell I am now.
“It’s contingent on a few things.” I say.
“Like?”
