Page 1 of Breakaway to You

Chapter1

Zeke

After having been traded five times in my NHL career, I began to wonder if the hockey gods were trying to tell me something. Or maybe they just really hated me.

Or…maybe the fifth time would be the charm.

Oh, who was I kidding? My hockey days were coming to an end no matter how much I tried to fight it. This last trade was proof of that.

The Minnesota Wolves had reluctantly agreed to take me because they wanted Holden Prescott, an up-and-coming star in the NHL, supposedly. The New York Coyotes had agreed to the trade if they would take me as well. To get me off their hands, they made Prescott and me a packaged deal.

I might have sustained some injuries last season, and I might have been on the older side for a professional athlete, but I wasn’tthatold. I was only thirty-two, but everyone was acting like I was sixty-two. Okay, maybe thirty-two was old, but whatever. I could still play hockey and still make plays happen on the ice. I wasn’t completely useless. I just didn’t bounce back as fast as I used to. Everyday I trained just as hard as every other player. Possibly more. I lived and breathed hockey. It was my entire life, and I wanted to keep it that way. Every decision I made was impacted by my desire to keep playing hockey—the game I loved. Really, theonlything I loved.

So as I made my way in the August heat to the Xcel Energy Center in downtown Saint Paul to meet with the team’s physical therapist for a full evaluation, a buzz of anger flowed through me. The team manager had assured me it was standard protocol and that every player would be undergoing the same evaluation, and it wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, but I had a feeling my evaluation was going to go very differently. I would be under a microscope as they determined how fit I was to play the game, the game I knew inside and out. But yeah, let’s ask the physical therapist who has never played before if they think I will be an asset on the ice.

I tried to take deep breaths to calm myself down before I arrived. The only good thing about this trade was that I was back in my home state of Minnesota. My hometown of Glacier Grove was only a little more than an hour south, and although I no longer had any ties to that small town, my old childhood friends, Crew and Addie, had moved back there. Crew had retired from his successful hockey career a year ago and moved back home to coach the youth hockey team in Glacier Grove. To his surprise, his high school girlfriend, Addie, had moved back to Glacier Grove a couple years before, and her son played on the team Crew coached. No one was surprised when they rekindled their relationship and were now living happily ever after.

Crew and I had kept in touch over the years and had played against each other plenty of times during our careers. Now that he was coaching instead of playing, I was getting more frequent phone calls from him. At a guess, I’d say he was worried about me and my impending retirement, but there was nothing to worry about. I wasn’t retiring.

I walked into the arena, the air smelling the same as every other rink—cold, faintly metallic, with a lingering trace of sweat and stale popcorn—but that was where the similarities ended. The team colors, the layout, the Minnesota Wolves logo were all unfamiliar.

I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. Another city, another team, another shot at pretending I wasn’t a guy holding his career together with duct tape and desperation.

As I wandered around looking for the locker room and the physical therapy suite, I thought back to my rookie season. I had been a wide-eyed kid who had believed hockey would bring him everything he’d ever wanted—fame, a family, a future carved out of the stability of staying with one team for my whole career. Instead, I’d spent a decade chasing a dream, bouncing from city to city like a puck no one could pin down. My career had turned me into a nomad, and with every trade, my jersey number changing as often as my address, I’d felt the ties to the person I used to be slipping farther away.

Hockey was my anchor, the one thing I could count on. No matter what team I was on or what city I was in, hockey was there. When the holidays came and went with no one to call? Hockey was there. When every night was spent alone in some large fancy apartment? Hockey was there to fill the silence. It had become so much more than a game. It was my everything.

But now, walking into a new stadium about to be examined for all myelderlyflaws, trying to ignore the ache in my knees and right hip, I pushed away the thought that I wasn’t so sure “everything” was enough anymore.

But ithadto be enough. I couldn’t give up hockey. The sharp slice of skates on fresh ice, the roar of the crowd after a goal, the camaraderie of teammates—even when those teammates changed every season. Hockey may have given me everything, but with each step, I couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that I was running out of time to figure out what came next. I just had to prove to this physical therapist that not only could I play every game this season, but that I had several more seasons left in me.

After turning down a couple of wrong hallways, I finally located the room where I was supposed to meet the team’s physical therapist.

I stepped into the brightly lit room, the scent of antiseptic cleaner mingling with the faint tang of athletic tape and liniment. There was a set of sturdy treatment tables, each draped with crisp white sheets. Cabinets lined one wall, stocked with everything from ice packs and heating pads to kinesiology tape in various colors. A nearby counter held tubs of muscle balm, containers of antiseptic wipes, and bottles of water for hydration.

Everything looked exactly like every other PT suite in every other rink I’d ever played in, but the woman standing with her back to me as she faced the counter scribbling things down on a clipboard was not what I expected.

I’d seen plenty of physical therapists in my day. Different by gender, height, age, personality. But not one of them had ever piqued my interest in a single look. And I hadn’t even seen her face yet.

Her golden-brown hair was thrown up in a high ponytail, showcasing her slender neck. Her scrubs were nothing like what I was used to seeing. Usually when I thought of scrubs, I imagined baggy, toothpaste-green material that was in no way designed to show off what one’s body looked like underneath. Her outfit was far from that. The forest-green material hugged her curves, the high waist giving it a jumpsuit look that accentuated her waist…and her lower assets. I hurried to avert my gaze from her backside before she turned around and caught me staring.

I cleared my throat, alerting her to my presence so she wouldn’t think I was some creepy guy staring at her behind.

She turned around, and if the back of her was a ten, the front was a twenty.

My eyes greedily roamed her face, which was framed with loose tendrils that had escaped the ponytail. The dark green of her scrubs matched the green of her eyes, and her full lips looked inviting, although they were pressed into a flat line as she took me in.

She held the edge of the clipboard against her waist. “Are you Zeke Lawson?” Her tone was no-nonsense, and her serious expression had me wanting to see if I could get her to smile.

“The one and only.” I gave her my most charming smile. “Although I’m known by most as The Zeke Man.” Okay, that wasn’t technically true. I’d self-proclaimed that name, and in my head I’d thought it would make me seem more intriguing. But I had sounded more like an immature wannabe. Fantastic first impression. Hopefully my embarrassment wasn’t easy to see on my face.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, nonplussed, dismissing my comment as she looked at her clipboard and wrote something down.

What was she writing? I’d barely said ten words, and it didn’t have anything to do with my physical evaluation. Unless there was a question asking if said hockey player is a dork.

She set her clipboard down on the counter. “I’m Piper. I’m the team’s physical therapist. Today we’ll be doing the standard physical evaluation we give all of our team’s players before the start of each season.” She barely looked at me as she rattled off what sounded like a rehearsed statement she gave to all the players.

Her approach was anything but warm, and she looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here. I wasn’t used to people not wanting to be around me. Especially women. They were usually clamoring for a date—and if not a date, an autograph for their boyfriend. Although those requests were coming less frequently. I wasn’t as popular as I used to be.

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