Page 1 of Offside for Christmas
1
COLE
Cole Hansen stared at the bottle of prescription painkillers on his kitchen counter like it was a live grenade.
His shoulder throbbed—a deep, grinding pain that radiated down his arm and up into his neck. The same pain that had been his constant companion for six weeks. The same pain he'd been hiding from team doctors, coaches, and anyone else who might decide he wasn't worth the trouble anymore.
The bottle promised relief. Two pills and the fire in his rotator cuff would dim to a manageable burn. Three pills and he might actually sleep tonight.
It also promised the end of his career if anyone found out how much he needed it.
Cole's phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the marble with an aggressive insistence that made his jaw clench. Rick Maxwell—his agent. The only person who still called him these days.
He considered ignoring it. Letting it go to voicemail. Pretending, for just a few more minutes, that his life wasn't imploding.
The phone kept buzzing.
With his good arm, Cole grabbed it and answered. "Yeah."
"Cole." Rick's voice had that overly cheerful tone that meant bad news was coming. "Got some news. You sitting down?"
"Just tell me." Cole shifted his weight, trying to find a position where his shoulder didn't scream at him. There wasn't one.
"It's done. You're being traded. Evergreen Cove Eagles, effective immediately."
The words hit him like a blindside check. "Where the hell is Evergreen Cove?"
"Vermont. It's a minor league team—"
"Minor league." Cole's laugh came out bitter and sharp. "From the Chicago Blackhawks to some no-name minor league team. That's poetic."
"It's the ECHL, and it's called the Eagles," Rick continued, his voice taking on that patient, explaining-to-a-child quality that made Cole want to put his fist through a wall. "And before you start, this is a lifeline, Cole. After that bar fight video went viral—"
"That video was edited."
"I know. You know. But the media doesn't care, and more importantly, the league doesn't care. You're toxic right now. Liability. Every team that was interested went cold the second that footage hit Twitter."
Cole closed his eyes. The bar fight. Of course. All anyone saw was Cole Hansen, known hothead, throwing punches in a parking lot.
The fact that someone had conveniently cut the first five minutes didn't seem to matter.
"Six weeks," Rick was saying. "That's all they're asking. Keep your head down, play for the Eagles, show everyone you're not the guy in that video. Then maybe—maybe—we can get you back to the NHL."
"Six weeks in Vermont." Cole opened his eyes, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. He looked like shit. Stubble, dark circles under his eyes, the kind of exhausted that went bone-deep. "In December."
"I know it's not ideal—"
"Not ideal? Rick, I'm being exiled to some town I've never heard of to play for a team nobody watches while everyone forgets I exist."
"Or," Rick said, his voice hardening, "you could be grateful you're still playing at all. Because honestly, Cole? With that shoulder? You might want to start thinking about retirement."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"My shoulder's fine," Cole lied.
"Right. And I'm the Pope. Look, I've seen your medical reports. I know you got cleared, but those numbers don't add up. You're hiding something."
Everything, Cole thought.I'm hiding everything.
