“Yeah,” I say, already recalculating my morning schedule. “I need to stop at the arena first, but I can get them on the way back.”
Her face falls. “Tell me you’re not working today.”
The article echoes in my head:Brendan Marco’s lack of qualifications may be the real reason the Crushers lost their last game.
This can’t wait until after the wedding. “Something came up that I need to handle.”
Her eyes widen. “Brendan. It’s the day before my wedding.”
“I know,” I say, trying to keep her calm. “I’ll get the tuxes. I just need a couple of hours.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, then goes back to eating. “Fine. Just please don’t forget, okay?”
“I won’t.” That’s always been the problem. I’m the responsible one, holding together two worlds simultaneously, trying to satisfy my uncle and make my family proud.
I glance across the kitchen at Scarlett, who’s deep in conversation with Grandma Rosa, her laugh carrying over the hum of voices. She doesn’t know yet that I’m leaving, nor all the rumors flying around over my qualifications.
For the first time in my career, I find myself wishing I could ignore all of it.
But Coach Marco has responsibilities. And the two halves of me—the man who wants to stay in a bubble with Scarlett, and the coach who answers to an entire organization—haven’t figured out how to coexist.
After breakfast, I head to the Ice House, hoping to handle everything quickly and get back to the wedding festivities sooner rather than later. The arena seems quieter than usual. The first thing I notice is Jaxon sitting on the bench, his knee wrapped in ice.
Not again.
“What happened this time?” I ask, dropping my bag on the floor beside him.
He pulls back the ice pack. His knee is already turning a sickly, bluish-purple color under the swelling. “Took a hard check in practice this morning from Piper.” He flashes that trademark grin that says it’s not a big deal, but underneath, there’s worry in his eyes. “I’ll see Gabriella about it. Should be good in a few days for Sunday’s game.”
I study how he winces when he shifts his weight. “I don’tknow how much Gabriella can fix when you keep getting injured like this. What did the doctor say?”
He looks at the ice pack, adjusting it slightly. “He mentioned surgery. But I’m not sitting out the rest of the season. I’ll get through to summer, then I’ll deal with it.”
We both know that’s wishful thinking. One bad hit and he could be done for good.
“Jaxon.” I sit down next to him, even though I have a dozen other pressing things that need my attention. “You and I are both straight shooters, so I’m going to be honest with you. You need to listen to the doctor. This isn’t something to gamble with.”
“I’m not. I know exactly what I’m doing.” His jaw clenches, and I can tell he’s just as stubborn as all the other players who won’t admit they’re past their prime. “I just need to finish this season. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And then what? Do you have a plan for life after hockey?” I ask him, point-blank. “Because eventually, your career is going to end, whether you’re ready or not.”
“You mean a plan B?” His knuckles turn white where he grips the edge of the bench and lets out a sigh. “Nope. I’ve been so focused on this career, I haven’t thought about what comes after. The only plan I have is to keep playing.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t care if my knee screams every time I skate or if I need more surgeries. I’m not going home with my tail between my legs.”
That’s when I realize what’s at stake for him. He feels like there’s nothing else for him beyond hockey.
“Where’s home for you?” I ask.
“Small town in Kentucky. My parents own a horse farm that I want nothing to do with,” he says. “When I left, I told them it was hockey or nothing. So if you’re suggesting my career is over, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll keep playing until my body falls apart. Because going back isn’t an option.”
There’s desperation in his tone. But I’ve seen whatprofessional sports does to bodies, and what it does to souls when the game ends and there’s nothing waiting on the other side.
“If you’ve got family to go home to, that’s something,” I tell him, glancing his way.
“Yeah, they would love that,” he laughs, but it’s empty. “Three brothers just as rowdy and stubborn as this hockey team. Believe me, my mama would love nothing more than for me to come home and marry the girl I dated in high school, like a whole small-town fairy tale.”
He doesn’t hide the skepticism in his voice about the way that fairy tale usually turns out.
“I take it the girl’s still there?”