The pity in his eyes spoke volumes about what he wasn’t saying.
When I didn’t respond, simply staring at him, Dr. Harris shifted uncomfortably, turning to Dr. Sanders.
Dr. Sanders stepped closer. “Maddox, with your age, it is possible this is a career-ending injury.”
I jolted in bed like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. But my racing mind honed in on a single word.Possible.Holding onto it like a lifeline, I asked, “Are you saying Ican’tplay again?”
He sighed. “It’s my professional opinion, and that of Dr. Harris, that we recommend you not push yourself to return to the game.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I asked. If I follow through with rehab, can I play again?”
Dr. Sanders was used to dealing with headstrong athletes, so he nodded. “Everything in your recovery would have to be perfect. I don’t see you playing next season if you want to come back at all. You can’t take shortcuts in physical therapy or with exercises at home. And even then, I can’t make any guarantees. You know how it works. You’ll have to pass an extensive physical to be cleared to play.”
“Fine. Consider it done. A year off, rehabbing. How soon can we do the surgery?”
My mind wandered as both doctors prattled on about the intricacies of the repair surgery and when it would occur. I didn’t care about the specifics, focused only on the after, when I would work my ass off to get back on the ice.
The game was my life. I wasn’t just going to accept that a bad hit into the boards was the end if there was still a chance I could lace up again. I knew I was an old dog and the window was closing on my career, but in my mind, it wasn’t closed yet. I wasn’t giving up.
Come hell or high water, I would be back with the Indy Speed—with my teammates—as soon as I was healed.
That was a promise.
Chapter 1
Maddox
One Year Later
One year.
Well, fourteen months and two days, to be exact.
That’s how long I’d been sidelined, watching on as my team struggled without me being on the ice as their leader.
I had been a helpless bystander, stuck in the press box when the Speed lost the championship a year ago, mere weeks after I was injured. They’d fought hard in my absence but still came up two wins short of winning it all. It was torture knowing that if I had been out there with them, I could have contributed, perhaps turning a couple of the losses in that final series into wins.
My entire career now boiled down to what-ifs.
What if I hadn’t been out there on that exact shift?
What if I hadn’t skated hard enough to beat Hartley to the boards?
What if I hadn’t wasted an extra second scanning the ice, instead trusting that my defensemen were stationed at the blue lines and ringing the puck along the boards to them while continuing to skate?
What if I hadn’t taken the penalty against the Comets the year prior, and we won that year?
It was enough to drive a man insane. But none of those questions compared to the one that kept me up most nights.
What if I hadn’t fucked around so much in my younger days and had settled down?
Since the injury, my life had been lonely. Even after getting back onto my feet, the female companionship that had been a constant due to my status as a professional athlete dried up. None of the puck bunnies—girls looking to score with a hockey player—were interested in a guy whose skates might never touch the ice again. Honestly, I couldn’t even be mad at them for being shallow. I’d used it to my advantage to get laid for over a decade. And I was willing to bet that as soon as I was back on the ice, it would be like a switch flipped, and they’d all fall right into my arms again.
But I couldn’t help but wonder what having a partner might have been like this past year. Someone committed to me who cared about the person I was beyond the game I played. Someone who would have been by my side during the recovery because they were my person, and my status on the injury report was secondary to the life we shared.
And it sure didn’t help that my closest friends were marriage-minded.
Not long after the championship loss, it came out that Braxton hadn’t just requested a trade from the Comets; he’d demanded it. All because of a girl who had broken his trust. He’d explained that he flew off the handle, needing to get away. But when she showed up in Minneapolis—where we had been playing against the Freeze in the finals—they’d hashed it out and gotten back together.
