Back in Play Page 14

  Chapter Thirteen

  Crickets warred with the frogs, filling the night with a soothing ambiance that matched the muggy heat that’d settled in. Summer had swept in with its first true heatwave that included ninety-eight-percent humidity and matching temps.

  Scott closed his eyes and waited for the peacefulness to soothe him like it once had. He’d always loved nights like this¸ when he could sit outside after midnight and let the heat wrap around him. It was a good night to hang outside with friends and drink—at least it had been when he could still drink.

  Before the pills.

  Just the thought of a cold beer sliding down his parched throat had his mouth watering for what he couldn’t have.

  Was it the same thing with Rachel? Did he want her more because he couldn’t have her? Not long term, at least. She was leaving in two days. Going back to her life and home, which didn’t include anything to do with him. Not that he was in any place or condition to have a long term with anybody.

  “Fuck.” He barked the curse into the night, fist smashing in an unfulfilling thump against the lounge cushion. What had he expected? Their time had always been a temporary distraction that’d worked too well.

  She’d been his knight in shining armor disguised as a tour guide the last four days with a stunning smile, warm touches and giving heart. From ice cream, to a game store, to hours lost in a bookstore that’d stocked every one of his favorite fantasy novels, even the ones he’d thought were out of print. Digital was convenient, but he still treasured physical copies. She did too, he’d discovered. There was something about the paper-and-print scent of a bookstore that was comforting. Like a promise of the escape to come.

  Just like every time he caught a whiff of her fruity shampoo.

  Or the long-familiar cold, musty smell of an ice rink.

  Right. No matter how successful Rachel had been at avoiding everything hockey, the ache in his knee served as a constant reminder of the multitude of decisions waiting for him. Ignoring the calls and emails would only work for so long. The short text replies to his closest friends wouldn’t hold them off indefinitely. It only worked right now because most of them had ditched town right after the wedding.

  Then there were the media questions and speculations that’d led to blatant exaggerations. He’d made the mistake of glancing through the sports news online two days ago. Where in the hell did they get that he was fighting with the Glaciers’ management?

  Like that kind of bullshit story was good for his image and career. Why had he worked so hard to keep his All-American persona if they were going to trash it anyway?

  It didn’t help that the Entry Draft was tomorrow. The one day each year that the young hotshots—boys, really—were picked off and bought by the professional teams. He scoffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head at his cynicism. That was a really fucked-up way to look at it, but when it came down to it, that was what happened. Any kid between the age of eighteen and twenty could throw his hat into the draft ring and see if a pro team picked him out of the hundreds of hopefuls.

  Having his name called in the first round when he’d been nineteen had been the best day of his life—at the time. It’d been another step toward his dream. The continuation of the hope and validation that his hard work had been worth it. What he hadn’t realized at the time was it was also a sentence of sorts. From that point on, his ass had been owned by one team or another. Until now.

  For the first time in fifteen years, he was completely free. No contract. No obligations. No pressure. No one looking up to him or breathing down his neck to replace him.

  And all he wanted was one more year of it. Just one more.

  Shit.

  He’d talked to his agent more in the last few days than he had in the previous two years. As he’d suspected, offers from other teams were coming in. Most with struggling organizations who wanted multi-year deals. Which wouldn’t get him any closer to getting his name on that fucking cup.

  The cherry on top of his solid career.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, not that it helped him figure anything out. He stared through the break in the trees and tried to focus on the few visible stars. Even in the burbs, the residual lights of the city dimmed the stunning view he remembered from childhood. Simpler times, when the world was still his to conquer.

  A dull ache spread across the back of his skull, a migratory effect he unfortunately recognized. Just like the increased muscle aches and sour stomach.

  In a defiant move to prove Segar wrong, he’d bought fewer pills on Monday. An action that was backfiring on him now. He’d consciously cut back on the amount of pain pills he’d taken the last few days. Both in a self-test and as a way to stretch his supply until Rachel left. Yet he could eyeball the bag and see it wouldn’t last, even with his lower-than-normal intake.

  And the mounting evidence said his body was revolting against his efforts, proving... Shit.

  The restlessness that vibrated through his muscles and mind at three in the morning had forced him from his bed and the gorgeous woman who’d been snuggled up next to him. He had to have the worst case of the stupids. There was a warm, beautiful woman waiting for him upstairs, and he was down here lamenting the fucked-up state of his life. Hell, he couldn’t even find that blissed-out state of exhaustion from coming—not that he hadn’t tried.

  There were multiple brands of prescription sleeping pills in his cabinet that he could take. He didn’t though. Like the alcohol, it was a cocktail he avoided. He wasn’t a junkie. Yet he couldn’t even cut back to his prescribed dosage of pain pills—which was significantly less than he’d taken today—without feeling the effects.

  He held his hands out as a test. The almost full moon provided plenty of light for him to see his jittery hands. He quickly fisted them to hide the damaging evidence.

  Did he have a problem? Was Segar...right? He choked on the thought, but...

  His tolerance for the drug had definitely increased over the last two years, which justified his need for more to manage his pain. The doctors had all told him that each time they’d prescribed higher dosages. And they would work for a month or two before the pain became almost unbearable again. That had repeated until he’d reached the point where they’d refused to increase his prescription, citing potential liver damage because of the acetaminophen in the pills.

  Which had led to Jessie helping him out.

  His stomach contracted like he’d taken a punch to the gut as the logic behind his thoughts slowly sunk in. Fucking A.

  The frogs croaked their happy tune, a branch snapped deep in the woods, an owl hooted—all little sounds his subconscious absorbed. He swallowed past the dryness that’d claimed his throat and tried to regulate his heart, which was beating entirely too fast for a man lying on a lounger.

  The patio door clicked open, a rocket blast into the quiet that yanked his attention to the woman stepping outside. “Hey,” Rachel said, her voice hushed to match the night. “You okay?” She covered a yawn, brushed her bangs to the side but didn’t advance. Thank God. He wasn’t prepared to face her, not with his mind tripping over his latest thought.

  I might not be a junkie, but...

  “What are you doing out here?” The sleepy huskiness in her voice flowed over him to restore some calm. With her arms tucked tight to her chest, the hem of one of his T-shirts grazing her thighs and the moonlight casting shadows over her form, she was a vision of sensual vulnerability.

  How in the hell could he not get off with a woman like her? One who became more beautiful the longer he knew her? One he had no problem picturing his life with? She’d already blended seamlessly into it in a matter of days. Even his sister had liked Rachel. Could it be possible to have that always?

  The sarcastic laughter echoed in his head. Even if she lived closer, how long would she stick around if she knew exactly how messed up he was?

  Against his better judgment, he reached out his hand and beckoned her over, needing her close when just m
oments ago he’d wanted to hide. She was there for one more full day, and he intended to relish every second he had.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said as she kneeled on the double lounger and settled in beside him. He tucked her under his arm so he could absorb the solid press of her. Her hair tickled over his bare chest as she wove her leg between his, toes grazing the hair to send a rush of longing to his groin.

  Which was the last thing he wanted right then. And how fucked was that?

  Her chuckle was more of a breathy rumble. “You wore me out. I guess I didn’t do a very good job of returning the favor.” She slid her hand down his chest, the glide a tantalizing warning to her intent that any normal man would cheer at.

  He sucked in a breath when she reached the waistband of his cotton shorts. Sure, his dick was responding, blood already filling it to half-mast, aroused by her simple touch. And to what end? More faking? Another round of pretending to find the release that a healthy thirty-four-year-old man should have?

  He grabbed her hand when she dipped her fingers beneath the elastic band, tugged it up to press a kiss to her knuckles. “It’s okay,” he said against her fingers. “You were fantastic before.”

  She lifted up, a frown pulling her brows down when she studied him. “You’re sure?” The underlying doubt in her tone fired his guilt, and a sharp jolt of pain stabbed at his heart. The last thing he wanted was for his own inadequacies to hurt her.

  He couldn’t do that to her.

  Her lips were so soft and welcoming when he captured them in a gentle kiss. Was it possible to communicate how much she’d come to mean to him in such a short time without using words? He’d tried it earlier in bed when he’d brought her to multiple orgasms once again. But that obviously wasn’t enough.

  “What’s going on?” she asked when he sat back. Her frown had deepened into worry. Even with the shadows of darkness, the concern showed in her expression.

  For the first time in forever, he wanted to put a voice to everything that weighed him down. To the frustration and pressure. The lonely nights and tumbling doubts. The pending sensation that it was all about to crash down to leave him with nothing.

  And how much of a man would she think he was then?

  He wrapped his arms around her, encouraging her to rest on his chest. Her scent was a welcomed rush of rightness. Longing and fear clogged his throat and he squeezed her tighter in an attempt to hold himself together.

  He was the captain. The leader. The one who was supposed to know what to say and do and act. The one everyone looked to for direction.

  And how could he be anything for her when he had no idea what he was to himself?

  Somewhere along the way, he’d lost himself. To the sport, the game, the dream. Avoiding truths instead of facing them. Was it possible to change that now?

  “I think Segar was right,” he whispered into her hair, voice shaking.

  “What?” She tried to pull back, but he wouldn’t let her. There was no way he could continue to speak if she could see him. It was excruciating enough just to get the words out.

  Sweat beaded across his nape and dampened his forehead. Nerves and fear scrambled for control in his twisting stomach, and there was no way his voice was going to work. She’d run so fast if she knew how far he’d fallen. And maybe that would be best.

  His last girlfriend had dumped him a week before their wedding because he’d opted to stay in college instead of going right into the pros after the draft, and he’d still had his whole career ahead of him then. His dad had encouraged him to finish one year of college before entering the draft, and Scott had intended on finishing all four years so he’d have his degree as a backup.

  Now he was basically a has-been with nothing to offer Rachel outside of his large bank account but a spiraling drug problem and a fake sex life.

  After a moment, she stopped resisting and slowly relaxed into his hold. Her long sigh gushed hot over his chest to leave a wave of goose bumps behind. He loosened his arms incrementally, afraid she’d bolt as soon as he let go.

  “Does this have to do with your knee?”

  Shit. He squeezed his eyes closed, thankful she couldn’t see his reaction. The seemingly innocent question was a thread of opportunity he could either ignore or take, but he had no idea if he was strong enough to catch it, let alone hang on. Just the mention of his knee had the pain redoubling to radiate up his inner thigh.

  “Yes,” he finally mumbled so low he almost hoped she hadn’t heard.

  She wrapped her arm around him before laying the softest of kisses on his chest. “And the pills?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Everything inside him spun into a tight bundle of anxiety, denial and pure distress. Panic raced in to match the beat of his heart and chill the sweat that covered his skin. His breaths came too fast. He sucked in a deep gulp of air and held it to keep his chest still.

  How had she guessed? What did he say?

  He’d been careful around her. Sneaking them when she wasn’t near. He didn’t space out or tweak like a junkie. I’m not a junkie!

  “Breathe, Scott.” Her gentle voice penetrated his spiraling anxiety. Her palm ran a soothing path up and down his chest but other than that, she hadn’t moved. With her still safely tucked against him, he stared down at her, too in awe to rebel.

  The trapped air rushed from him on a draining sigh. A man didn’t panic over a question if he had nothing to hide. And he’d been hiding. For years. Hockey had been his drug of choice long before the pills became a factor.

  What would he do without either one of them to shield him? And what would happen to him if he continued to hide?

  “How?” he croaked, needing to know while petrified to hear her answer.

  She didn’t need an explanation to follow his question. “I’ve gone through a lot of drug-awareness training for my teaching position.”

  He sniffed, trying to understand. “It’s that noticeable?” He’d thought he’d covered it so well. Where had he slipped? Had others noticed? Was that how Segar knew?

  “No.”

  Her admission had him releasing a long breath of relief. A notch of tension left his muscles, but he couldn’t relax his hold on her. She was his anchor, and he was afraid of what would happen if he lost his grip.

  “Not at first.” This second part had the stress rushing back to clamp around him. “It’s not obvious if you’re not aware or looking for it.”

  The chirping serenade of the frogs filled the silence as he gathered his thoughts. An irrational part of him wanted to find the pond and blow the noisy little fuckers to smithereens. And that would solve everything.

  “So you were looking for it?” The barest hint of betrayal snuck in to sour his scrambling emotions. It was something else for him to grab ahold of. A defense that kept him from the other damaging truths.

  The soothing stroke of her hand never stilled though. “No.” The pure note of honesty chased away his thin thread of indignation. “We’ve been together almost constantly for four days.”

  “And?” he prompted when she didn’t go on. He had to know what had given him away.

  There was a pause before she turned her face into his chest, each word formed over his skin. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Was that hope in her voice? He’d braced for accusations and now floundered against her gentle persuasion. He didn’t owe her an explanation, yet she’d earned one by simply being here. Her offer was an open sanctuary for him to unload into. One he was certain he hadn’t earned.

  “Can I trust you?”

  She flinched, going stiff in his arms. He instantly regretted the question, even though he wouldn’t draw it back. How in the hell did he trust his darkest secret with someone he’d known for a week?

  “If you have to ask that,” she said in a stilted cadence, “then it’s probably best that you don’t tell me.” She pushed on his chest to sit up, only he couldn’t let her go. “Scott.” Her warning tone was heavy with sadness and anger.
<
br />   Damn it. He was hurting her when that was exactly what he didn’t want to do. He loosened his hold, hand trailing down her arm as she scooted away. At the last second, he gripped her wrist. What was he doing?

  She stopped, back to him, chin lifted.

  Was he really going to let her go like this? For what? His pride? Fear? Another bag of pills that only masked the pain and dug him deeper into the pit of dependence?

  “It started two years ago,” he said, the words rushed in his haste to get them out. To start somewhere. Keep her there. “I reinjured my knee in a game with Boston.” He waited, heart lodged in his throat for her to react.

  Her slow nod allowed him to inhale. Eventually, she shifted to face him, one leg tucked under her. The hem of her shirt rose high, baring the sexy length of her thighs and calves. She wet her lips then twisted her hand out of his grip. His hopes sunk in a swift dose of defeat until she laced her fingers with his.

  “What happened?” Her question wrapped around him like a hug. She wasn’t leaving. He wanted to haul her back in until she rested against him once again. It’d be easier that way. To talk to the night instead of her face.

  And cowardly. Exactly what he didn’t want to be anymore.

  “I got tripped up in a skate. Knee twisted. Tore the cartilage—again—along with the ligament on the inside of my knee.” This part he could recite easily. Had done so countless times to reporters, doctors and physical therapists. “It was my fourth major injury to that knee. I waited for the off-season for the surgery and was back before the next season started.” Maybe he’d waited too long then pushed too hard to get back. There was no way to know if he’d have healed better under different circumstances, and it was pointless to speculate.

  “It was fine at first, but within weeks of the season starting, the pain increased.” Negligible at the start of the season, it’d eventually grown until he was limping out of the stadium after every game. “Long story short, arthritis set in and the cartilage is shot. And there’s no guarantee another surgery will help.” His free hand had drifted down to rub at the source of his frustration.