Page 2 of Offside for Christmas
"Six weeks," Rick repeated. "Keep your nose clean, play well, and we'll talk about next steps. But Cole? This is it. Your last chance. Don't screw it up."
The line went dead.
Cole stood there for a long moment, phone in hand, shoulder screaming, the weight of his entire failing career pressing down on him like a physical thing.
Then he reached for the pill bottle and shook out two tablets. Paused. Added a third.
He swallowed them dry.
Packing didn't take long. It never did.
Cole's apartment was expensive—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan, hardwood floors, the kind of modern furniture that cost more than most people's cars. It was also completely impersonal. No photos on the walls except the generic art that had come with the place. No books on the shelves. No indication that anyone actually lived here.
He'd never unpacked from the last trade. Or the one before that. His entire life fit into two duffel bags: clothes, hockey equipment, toiletries, and the pill bottle he'd transferred to a vitamin container. Just in case anyone looked.
The only personal item he owned was a single photo in a cheap frame—his grandmother, Rosa, at her kitchen table, flour on her hands, smiling at whoever was behind the camera. She'd raised him after his parents died. Taught him to cook, to work hard, to fight for what mattered.
She'd also been the one who got him into hockey. Scraped together money for equipment, drove him to practices at dawn, sat in freezing rinks and cheered louder than anyone else.
She'd died four years ago. Heart attack, sudden and brutal. He'd been at practice. Didn't even get to say goodbye.
Cole wrapped the photo in a t-shirt and tucked it carefully into his bag.
Six weeks, he told himself.Six weeks in some Christmas card town, then back to real hockey. Just have to hide the shoulder long enough to prove I'm still valuable. Still worth something.
He grabbed his bags and walked out without looking back.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, around midnight, Cole pulled into a rest stop and did what any self-destructive person would do: he Googled his destination.
Evergreen Cove, VermontPopulation: 4,200Founded: 1791Known for: Tourism, maple syrup, Christmas festivals.Voted - Vermont's Most Festive Town - Christmas Capital of New England.
Below that:
Annual Christmas Festival - December 18-24. Vermont's largest holiday celebration featuring tree lighting ceremony, ice sculpture contest, gingerbread competition, Santa's workshop, and more. Over 50,000 visitors expected.
Fifty thousand people descending on a town of four thousand to celebrate Christmas. For a full week. Cole pressed his palms against his eyes. This was a nightmare.
Below the Wikipedia entry were photos. So many photos. Evergreen Cove looked like someone had taken a Hallmark movie and decided it wasn't quite saccharine enough. Snow-covered Main Street lined with Victorian buildings. A town square dominated by what had to be a forty-foot Christmas tree. Ice skating rink. Horse-drawn carriages. People in scarves and mittens carrying shopping bags and looking unreasonably happy about it.
"Kill me now," Cole muttered to his phone screen.
More scrolling revealed the Eagles' official website. The team photo showed a bunch of guys who looked younger than him, all grinning like they were thrilled to be playing for a minor league team in the middle of nowhere.
The roster was small. Twenty players total. He recognized exactly zero names.
At the bottom of the page:Season Schedule. Their next home game was December 10th. Exactly six weeks until his sentence—no, his "opportunity"—would be up.
Cole closed the browser and sat there in his truck, engine running, heat blasting, staring at nothing.
His phone was silent. No calls from former teammates asking if he was okay. No texts checking in. Just him and the hum of the engine and the distant sound of truckers fueling up at 1 AM.
Sports radio had been brutal on the drive. He'd made it about two hours before some talking head said, "Cole Hansen, once a first-round draft pick with unlimited potential, now shipped off to the minors after yet another disciplinary issue. You have to wonder if this is the beginning of the end for what should have been a Hall of Fame career."
Cole had turned off the radio and driven the rest of the way in silence.
Now, sitting in a Pennsylvania rest stop, he wondered if the talking head was right. If this was the beginning of the end. If six weeks in Vermont would turn into permanent obscurity. If anyone would even remember his name by February.
He popped two more pills and got back on the road.
