Page 5 of His Big Bad Stick

And that’s that.

The kid thanks me. The mother too.

I walk to my truck and get the hell out of the parking lot, hidden very well by my illegally tinted windows.

Every now and again a cop will pull me over, wanting to break my balls.

Most of the time they recognize me and we bullshit about hockey, take a picture and accept the warning that we both know I’m going to ignore.

Fuck it. Life goes on.

The drive from the arena through the city is a pain in the ass.

Traffic sucks in the city.

As much as I just want to get to my condo, I think about my private house in the woods. Upstate. My closest neighbor across the lake.

It’s heavenly up there.

If I get a few days off from hockey I always find myself road tripping up there, alone, and just enjoying the quietness of it all.

No chance of that tonight.

I grit my teeth, battle the city traffic, and arrive to my overpriced condo building.

At least I have a designated parking spot in the underground garage.

As I start to make the turn, I kid you not, someone walks right in front of my truck.

I have no idea how I don’t hit the person and end up all over social media and news outlets, then end up forced to step away from the team and the sport of hockey so I can focus on whatever legal stuff would ensue…

Luckily the brakes work. The truck stops.

My hands are white knuckled on the steering wheel.

Instead of letting out a slew of curse words, I roll the window down.

This is worthy of me half climbing out of the truck to berate this damn idiot.

There’s just one problem.

When I lean out of the truck, I realize I know who this damn idiot is.

My jaw drops, almost hitting the side of my truck and the ground.

“Sorry about this,” her voice says.

Her voice.

A voice I haven’t heard in a really long time.

Years.

I can’t even bring myself to say her name.

But I sure as fuck think it.

Abrielle.

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