Prologue
Cason
This is it.
My career is over before it could even start.
Limping into a new bar seemed like the only option for me. The doctors had spoken. There was no chance my knee was going to be saved enough for me to continue playing. My first game in the National Hockey League had also been my last.
One wrong move.
One dirty hit.
One check into the boards.
That was all it took, and I was going to have to figure out what my next move would be.
All I had ever wanted in my life was to be a professional hockey player, and my dreams had become a reality when I was recruited from my college team to be the left forward for the New York Otters. Practicing with those guys had been incredible. Skating alongside Chase Harding, Gavin Hayes, and the rest of the team was a dream come true. I had finally made it to the big leagues. I was ready to prove myself on my team—but I never got the chance. In an instant my life had started and stopped at the ripe age of twenty.
Fucking bullshit.
“What’re you drinking?” The young bartender leaned over the bar with a gentle, sneering simper.
“Whiskey neat,” I growled out, barely looking up from the bar top.
As she poured my drink, she glanced up at me. “Rough day?”
I shrugged, taking the rocks glass from her. “What gave it away?”
Her dewy voice cooed as she started to wipe down the bar to my right. “The furrowed brow coupled with drinking at three in the afternoon. Besides, I’m good at my job. Most people pour themselves into dive bars to soothe woes and get a little therapy from the bartender.” Her dewy voice cooed as she started to wipe down the bar to my right.
“It’s been a rough week,” I acknowledged, gripping the glass in my hand.
SportsCenterwas playing on a television off in the corner. To add insult to injury, the newscaster started playing the reel from the devastating career-shattering blow I had taken only weeks prior.
“The New York Otters rookie, Cason Bennett, suffered a blow that has put him out at least for the season, if not longer. Bennett took a skate to the knee, a career-ending injury, rumors have said.” The gruff anchor’s words sent daggers into me as I quickly slammed the amber liquid to the back of my throat.
“Another please,” I called over to the bartender.
She filled my glass straight from the bottle.
“So, Cason, wanna talk about it?” Finally I looked up into her kind face, the blue of her eyes piercing as she tried to lend a sympathetic ear.
“Not really. You heard the guy—that’s it in a nutshell. I’m finished. That’s all she wrote.” There was nothing more to add. The rumors were true, and the Otters were going to be throwing me out on my ass before the next game. There was no use keeping a broken rookie on payroll after he couldn’t even make it through the first period of his first game.
“That’s a bad break. I’m sorry to hear it, but I’ll leave you to your whiskey. I’m Natty. If you need anything, just holler.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. “You can leave the bottle.”
“As you wish.” She reached down and placed the bottle of well whiskey in front of me.
The more I drank, the chattier I became. The hours passed with me spilling my guts to Natty as customers trickled in and out. She was sweet and extremely attractive. It could have been the booze, but it was nice to get attention from someone who wasn’t trying to get the scoop on my situation. She didn’t pry or probe with too many questions, just let me ramble on and on about how pissed I was about the entire situation.
“The worst part of it all is that game was on my birthday. What a fucking terrible birthday present.” I slammed down one more shot before asking for my check.
“Don’t worry about it.” Natty waved me off.
“I can’t do that,” I protested, taking a few twenties out of my wallet and placing them on the worn wood in front of me.