Page 1 of Power Play

PROLOGUE

REX, 5 YEARS AGO

“Your career is over.”

Those words have played in my head on a constant loop since my injury six months ago, when my doctors and coaches told me I would never get on the ice again. At least not playing hockey for the NHL. I tried to ignore them, pretend none of it real. I went through with the surgery, the physical therapy, and even tried a new trial therapy that’s supposed to be promising for injuries like mine.

But if I’m being honest, I’ve known it was over for a while, and it fucking sucks. Hockey has always been the one thing I had that no one could take from me. It’s been something I’ve worked for since I was a little kid and have poured my heart and soul into. I’m not even sure where to go from here or what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s not like I have a backup plan. Hockey was it. It’s always been it. Hell, in college, I majored in fucking communications for fucks sake. If that doesn’t scream “Athlete that doesn’t know what he’s fucking doing,” I don’t know what does.

But in the blink of an eye, it’s gone, all because of a stupid accident.

Now, I’m injured with no idea where to go from here. It’s just me and a bottle of pain pills that will hopefully numb more than just my knee.

One year later

Laying in my bed, I stare at the ceiling, like I do every day. It’s where I think the most, which is a double-edged sword. I should definitely be thinking about my next steps, or how to pull myself out of this black hole. More importantly I should probably think about cleaning my apartment, at some point. Looking around, the stench of vodka from the random empty bottles and leftover takeout containers isn’t exactly a good look for anyone.

But anytime it’s quiet, I end up thinking about the accident and how I lost the one thing that means the most to me.

I’m a mess. Between the prescription pills, the alcohol, and fucking a different woman as often as I can, I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go from here. Something’s gotta give.

My parents have tried to help me. They even moved down here a couple of months ago to try and support me, but there’s nothing they can do when I’m so unwilling to see anything positive. I’m stuck wasting away in my apartment.

In my mind everything is already over, so what’s the point in trying to fight my way back? Even if I get more use out of my knee, I’m thirty-three years old. It’s not like I’m exactly in my prime, just waiting for the opportunity to join another team or to get back with my old one. I’m old news. Washed up. That’s a hard fucking pill to swallow, and trust me, I’ve had plenty of practice.

When the doorbell rings at seven a.m., I assume it’s my parents doing their usual check-in, or at least my mom. Ever since I got injured, my dad and I have had an interesting relationship. He’s not mad about the injury, but he’s ready for me to man up, pull my head out of my ass, and start making better choices.

Throwing on a pair of sweats, I walk to the door, passing more take-out containers and liquor bottles in my living room that I’ve yet to clean up. My mom’s going to have a field day with this mess.

But when I open the door, it’s not my mom waiting there.

I recognize the woman standing in front of me but can’t seem to recall her name or where I know her from. But that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is that she’s standing here on my doorstep, tears streaming down her face, holding a bundle of blankets in the shape of a baby.

What. The. Fuck.

“Uh, hi. Can I help you,” I muster out, unease slowly creeping in as I battle the fogginess of my brain. Why does she look so familiar?

Maybe I’ve seen her around before. It’s not unlikely, our apartment complex is weird.

“Rex?” she whispers tentatively.

Fuck me. Who the fuck is this?

“Uh, yeah, that’s me. Who are you?”

“Miranda. We met at The Last Stop, the bar over in old town. It was, uh, awhile back.”

She’s obviously nervous. Why is she here if she’s so nervous?

“You obviously don’t remember me, which isn’t exactly surprising. It was a weird night, for both of us. But I remember your name, and what you looked like, and you seemed like a nice enough guy,” she says, mumbling to herself and confusing me further.

It’s way too damn early for this.

“Miranda, right? It’s fucking early and you’re speaking too fast for my brain to process anything. What did you say you needed?”

She looks upset, but confident when she says her next words.

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