Edge

Luke

I didn’t even have to make eye contact with Ryke to know he was ready for my pass. We’d been teammates for a long time, and we were always in sync. I nudged the puck toward him, and just as it glided away, I was pummeled with the force of a freight train.

Getting hit was part of hockey. If Ryke scored this goal, we’d win, and the other team’s players were pissed off right now. But this hit was different. My knee was pushed back until my leg was perfectly straight, and then it went back even further. The twisting sensation sent a searing pain up and down my entire leg.

I lost control and dropped to the ice. When my knee struck the hard surface, the burning sensation was so intense I thought I might pass out. I clenched my hands into fists, trying to shift my focus from the agony to anything else.

When I rolled over and tried to pull my leg up, I got a glimpse of John London’s shit-eating grin. My nerve endings buzzed with a desire to jump up and pound that smug fucker. He deserved the kind of ass beating that would get me ejected from the game.

But I couldn’t even move, so I wasn’t kicking anyone’s ass right now. A ref slid down next to me on one knee.

“Take it easy,” he said. “Your trainers are on their way out.”

I felt movement near me on the ice.

“Luke? What happened?” It was Ryke, bent down next to me. I wanted to tell him to beat that smile off London’s face, but only a groan came out.

I finally managed a word. “Fuck.”

This shit hurt bad. Worse than any hit I’d taken in 20 years playing hockey. The pain was temporary, I knew that. Our team doctor would have something for that. It wasn’t the pain making tears well in my eyes, but knowing what a hit like this could do. Careers ended over knee to knee hits. Or worse, players tried to rehab and never made it back to the level they played at before the injury.

I squeezed my eyes shut. This was a fucking nightmare. I was 28. My contract was up in two years. Hockey was my life.

“Your knee, right?” Pete asked, dropping to his knees next to me.

“Ugh.” I said. “Fucking London hit me knee to knee. Christ, it hurts.”

“We’ve got a stretcher coming,” Pete said. “We need to lift you and it’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker, so sack up.”

Hands slid under me and I took in a deep gulp of air. I didn’t want to be a pussy in front of 15,000 hockey fans. I held my breath, cringing as I was picked up by several people and put on the stretcher. I wanted to yell every profane word I knew at the top of my lungs.

“Easy,” Pete said.

I felt the soft stretcher beneath my back and let out the breath I’d been holding. I was panting like a fucking pregnant lady in labor.

“I need something for pain,” I said to Pete.

“As soon as we get to the locker room,” he said.

“Fucking shit,” I muttered. “I’m out for the season. At least.”

I saw London still watching me from the corner of my eye. Bastard. I lifted my head from the stretcher, pulling my glove off at the same time, and extended my middle finger in his direction. If I never got a chance to, my teammates would take care of him. Not tonight, since this game was about over. But eventually, he’d get his.

Pete squeezed my shoulder and looked down at me as the stretcher was rolled off the ice.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said.

I sighed and stared up at the pennants hanging from the ceiling of the rink. Maybe I would be. But maybe not.

The crack of wood hockey sticks striking in a battle for the puck brought my senses to life. I didn’t just hear it; I tasted it on my lips and felt it deep in my gut. I’d never been in this minor league arena before, but I was home.

Two months without hockey had been harder on me than the pain of my injury. Hockey was more than a sport to me, and it was more than my livelihood. When I was on the ice, I thought more clearly. It was the place I took out my aggression, celebrated and brooded. It was a part of me.

My exhilaration at lacing skates up at a rink again was clouded by the fear in the back of my mind.
Was
hockey still a part of me? Or had John London taken more than the past two months from me? What if my knee buckled as soon as I got out there and I ended up flat on my back again?

“Hudson,” a warm voice called. Tanner Welch, the minor league team’s coach, was approaching, hand extended. “Great to have you.”

“Great to be here, Coach,” I said. “Practice still on?”

“We’re about done. I’ll introduce you to the guys and show you around. You can skate, too, if you want. And Dell will want to check you out.”

I nodded and slung my equipment bag over my shoulder.

“Anxious to get back out there?” Tanner asked, grinning.

“Yeah. I was hoping to practice today.”

“Plenty of time for that. Full practice tomorrow and then a game Wednesday.”

His words sent a rush of adrenaline through my body. A game. And
finally
– after eight weeks of watching my team play from the stands or on TV – I’d be back on the ice. It’d be with the minor league team I was rehabbing with, but that was good enough for me.

“I can’t wait,” I said.

Tanner, a lean man in a track suit with the team logo, smiled at me. I could tell he was one of those friendly, positive reinforcement kind of coaches. I didn’t have much experience with those.

“I’ve only got a few rules,” he said, turning to lead me toward the locker room. “Work your fucking ass off every day you’re on my team. I don’t tolerate slacking. If you slack, you’ll get bagged like never before. And if you bitch, you’ll get bagged again. Keep your fucking dick in your pants when it comes to anyone affiliated with this team. If I find out you fucked the owner’s daughter, came onto a team employee or so much as thought about the tits of another player’s wife, you’ll be very sorry. I don’t care how much of a superstar you are. You’re here to rehab. No fucking drama. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” He was only a few years older than me, and I made his salary many times over, but he had an air of authority. He was the boss. Good. I needed a hard ass coach to push me so I could get back to my team as soon as possible.

Tanner waved a player over, and a burly dark-haired guy skated over and stopped smoothly at the open wall on the ice, which we stood in front of.

“Luke, this is Nikola Vereshkova. You need to know what’s what from a player, he’s a good one.”

“Hey, man, it’s Niko,” the Russian said to me, his accent faint. I shook his hand, but Tanner was already heading for the locker room, so I followed.

“So how’s the knee?” the coach asked, glancing up my way.

“Great.”

He sighed lightly. “That’s what the brass said, too. But it’s important. We don’t want to push too hard or you’ll be right back where you started.”

I adjusted the bag on my shoulder again and looked straight ahead. “My knee’s good. I’ve been in physical therapy seven days a week. My game … I don’t know where the hell it’s at. But the knee’s good, and I’ll let you know if it changes. I’ve got too much riding on it to bullshit you.”

Tanner nodded, looking satisfied. “Drop your bag off at the locker on the end and go find Dell. Probably in the training room around the corner.”

I left the bag with my skates and sticks and headed in the direction he’d pointed. With the team still on the ice, the locker room was silent.

I stuck my head in the doorway and looked around. All I saw was someone dressed in black digging through a cabinet near the floor. From the size of the lithe frame, it had to be a woman.

“Hey there,” I said. Her head snapped my way, green eyes wide with surprise. “I’m looking for Dell.”

“You found her.” She stood – all five foot nothing of her. “Something funny?”

“I just … ah, was expecting Dell to be an older … man, I think.”

“Nope. You must be Luke Hudson.”

“Yeah. So you’re the trainer?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.”

She arched her brows and crossed her arms over her dark, baggy sweatshirt. In her black baseball cap, she could’ve passed for a college student. “Are you one of those guys who’s never had a female trainer?”

Her eyebrows were dark reddish brown, and I wished I could see if her hair was the same shade, but it was buried under the hat. “No, I’ve had female trainers, but you’re … what, five feet tall in heels? And a hundred pounds soaking wet. My legs’ll knock you to the floor if you try to stretch me.”

She laughed, but was clearly not amused. “I’m 5’5” and I weigh 118. Not that it’s any of your business. And I appreciate your concern, but I’ve trained bigger men than you, and I’ve yet to be knocked over.”

Her tone and body language showed more maturity than her athletic co-ed appearance.

“How old are you?” I asked.

Her brows shot up even higher. “How old are
you
?”

“28,” I said, her indignation making me grin. “And 6’3”, 215 pounds, so we’re on even ground.”

“More like 225.” She eyed me from head to toe, and I realized my time off the ice must’ve caught up with me on the scale. “And I’m 25. Is my interview over? I’d like to assess you before practice is over. I have to work on several of the guys today.”

“Well, somebody’s a busy girl.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sit down and zip it, Slick.”

I took a seat on the table. “Are you a redhead?”

Another eye roll. “Yes. And yes, the carpet matches the drapes. I’ve only been asked that like three dozen times by hockey players, so don’t consider yourself original.”

“I didn’t ask that. I just wanted to say your hair’s a pretty color.”

Her face tightened tensely. “You can’t even see my hair.”

“Your eyebrows.”

She ignored me, her eyes scanning me up and down. “Can you take your pants off?”

“For you, I can.”

She sighed as I stood and pulled down my sweats. I kicked my shoes off and rid myself of the pants, sliding back on to the table.

While she looked my knee over, I was looking her over. She felt it, pressed my foot to her chest and bent it, studying the notes on her clipboard.

“Any discomfort? Ever?” she asked. Her fair, creamy skin and pale pink lips had captured my attention.

“Hmm? Oh, not really. I lifted weights last week and I felt a pull in my knee, so I took it easy after that.”

Her brow furrowed. I looked at her hand, which was still resting on my knee. It was small and graceful with practical, short nails.

“I’ll work with you before practice tomorrow,” she said, still looking at the clipboard. “And make sure you tell me if you ever have any discomfort in the knee.”

“What if it bothers me outside the rink? I’d need your number to tell you about it.”

She almost smiled. “I’ll give you my email address and you can use that if it’s urgent.”

“I’m more of a texter.” I air texted with my hands.

“I’ll bet you are.”

“Your boyfriend doesn’t like men calling you about their aching parts?”

She did smile this time, and my hopes sank. “The man in my life likes having me to himself.”

A player walked into the room, shirtless and sweaty. “My neck hurts,” he said.

“Okay, you’re dismissed, Hudson,” Dell said. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you then,” I said, not wanting to bother with a stupid line. She was pretty. Really pretty. And there was something about her. Was it the fact that she was taken? I didn’t think so. Getting with unavailable women wasn’t my thing.

I shrugged it off. I wasn’t here to look at women, pretty or not. I was here to rehab and get back to work with my team. And that would take every ounce of my focus.

Dell

For just a second, I wondered if Chad Lennox was going to tear through the towel I’d given him to bite down on while I worked on his leg. His grimace said it all; the guy was in serious pain, and I was inflicting it.

But he wanted to play tomorrow night, and I had to work out the knot in his leg for that to happen. I took a breath and prepared for another round, but when a tear slid from the corner of his eye, I just couldn’t do it.

“Let go,” I said softly. His teeth unclenched from the towel, leaving marks in the white terrycloth.

“Keep going,” he said, preparing to bite back down on it.