A Dash of Spice

The first couple of times his head had nearly exploded when he was on the ice had brought the games to a standstill. He’d been on his knees, holding it all in. Forcing himself not to yell from the pain or spew from the vertigo. Twice was all it’d taken for his coach to demand the truth—and that had resulted in a second surgery. Which had sent his career into a tailspin, because there’d been complications that made operating on him tricky, but they would have been exacerbated had he not been forced into surgery again. In the end, Scout had been delivered the ultimate in bad news for a guy like him. In addition to the residual headaches, he now had a blind spot in his peripheral vision. Not so bad that it kept him from passing a driver’s license eye test. But for a hockey player… It was significant enough to end his whole goddamn, fucking career.

In a heartbeat.

Scout would have done anything to keep playing. But he’d had no choice than to lay it all on the line for his coach and the team’s doctor. Because he couldn’t afford to fake a hockey-related injury in the middle of every single game.

And Scout didn’t fuck around with coaches. He’d had one of the best in the world as a private instructor. Sully Tollison had retired after numerous Stanley Cup wins and a long run as the coach of two of the best hockey teams in history. He’d eventually been the coach of the Olympic team Scout had made it on to. Sully had been the one to travel with Scout as a kid. The inter-leagues were crucial to developing hockey skills, as were all the training stints. Sully, just like everything related to improving upon a kid’s natural talent, hadn’t come cheap.

Scout had deeply appreciated from an early age the extent his mother and grandfather willingly went in order to ensure Scout got the best guidance possible. That meant he traveled nonstop and was away from home more than he was there. While growing up, Scout hadn’t minded so much. Now, he felt the strain of estrangement from his brothers and his mother, even though he dutifully called her once a month. No, that wasn’t a great stat to brag about. But it was what it was…

At any rate, Sully had not only helped him to hone his skills and be the greatest damn player he could be, Coach S. had also taught him all about loyalty and respect—to the team, to the organization, to the sport. And though Scout knew when to downplay an injury or suck it up entirely, the TBI was one thing Sully never would have allowed Scout to hide. God rest his soul.

So Scout had ‘fessed up. Because, in the end, his severe injury could not only get worse, even end his life, with the checking or high-sticking or God forbid a puck to the head, but because he could also adversely affect the team’s performance and maybe even get another player hurt.

Completely unacceptable.

No matter how much it gutted Scout to leave the ice.

He’d confronted one demon—admitting his vulnerability and shortcoming to his coach. Now it was time to do the same with his family. And the love of his life.

Which made his gut clench and his heart twist. The simple fact was, Scout felt like a failure. It might not be a sensible response to the end of his career. But he’d had many more good years in him. Until that damn elk. So ironic that was what took him out of the game—when he’d gotten his nickname from scouting the beasts for his grandfather and his hunting pals. Some sort of weird, poetic, cosmic justice, even though Scout had never actually pulled a trigger?

He didn’t know.

Maybe what really rubbed him raw was that his brothers were their own forces of nature in their respective fields, as was their mother. Having been revered—still being revered—made it even worse for Scout to tell them he no longer possessed any sort of reason to be revered going forward.

He was just a guy now. Not a giant among giants.

Just a guy.

A guy who currently had no job.

A guy who currently had no future.

Just a guy.

With a heavy heart, he showered and dressed in his best suit. Armani for special occasions. All black with a crisp white shirt Constance had sent out for dry cleaning and starching when Scout had arrived yesterday. He wore his lucky deep-crimson silk tie with thin diagonal silver stripes. Conservative and nothing out of the ordinary, except that Ciara had given it to him ages ago. When they were ten and he’d had to get all formal for his first meeting with Sully. Coach S. had had a long list of other potential—hopeful—pro and Olympic hockey greats that he could have taken on. He’d chosen Scout.

And Scout had always considered that Ciara’s unwavering faith, devotion and hero-worship had lent to the success of that initial meeting.

She’d also proven to a have a hint of foreseeing of the future in her, because she’d bought him an adult’s tie. He’d had to tuck the ends into his pants and couldn’t unbutton his jacket so that Coach S. wouldn’t see that below Scout’s chest, the tie was ill-fitting. But Ciara had made it work and Scout had pulled it off and now… Well, he wore her gift when he needed that extra surge of confidence, familiarity… He didn’t really know the right word. Sometimes he just needed her close to him and this was the best he could manage.

He left the B&B and drove to the edge of town, near the base of the mountain. There was already a large gathering at the Winchester Ice Rink. There were some outdoor activities, mostly for kids, and the large sign in the front lawn was covered in canvas. The unveiling of Scout’s name added to the signage was supposed to take place here, but the vast majority of the dedication festivities had been moved inside due to the inclement weather. It was snowing pretty damn hard.

Scout’s agent, along with his high school coach, Emerson Holland—Coach E. to Scout—and the mayor greeted him as he made his way along the shoveled sidewalk. He shook hands with the men and they congratulated him for, well, everything. Scout didn’t get a word in edgewise before he was swarmed by kids in his team’s jersey, bearing his name and number. They all demanded autographs and asked advice from their hero, Winger—that nickname Ciara had given him early on, which had stuck when Coach S. had heard it.

Sure, it wasn’t as catchy as “The Great One” Gretzky or “The Golden Jet” Hull, but just like the tie, it held sentimental value.

He caught sight of his younger brother Hamilton passing by, not stopping to talk to anyone, including Scout. Just making his presence briefly known before disappearing into the crowd. JT swooped in at one point to give a quick, manly hug, but that was really the extent of the exchange. The brothers showed their respect, their acknowledgement, of what Scout had achieved, and he was grateful for that. But he had no idea if they’d actually stick around for the dedication or the exhibition games Scout was guest-coaching today, given they had their own agendas while in town.

His mother arrived and gave him a long hug. Scout didn’t cut her off by any means. Let her take as long as she needed. When she eventually pulled away, her eyes were misty. She busied herself straightening his tie.

“You look so handsome,” she mused. “So professional. And well, really, Scout. Everyone’s just so proud of you. Especially me.”

“Mom, it’s just an ice rink.” He tried to downplay all the emotions that had gripped him from the moment he’d driven into Plymouth Rock yesterday. Time with Ciara and now his mother tugged the heartstrings the hardest.

She made a soft tsking sound and added, “You devoted yourself to this sport, Scout. From the very earliest of ages. I always did admire that about you. Even when it was so difficult to have you away from us, I just knew…” Tears flooded her eyes now. “I just knew you were going to be a legend.”

“In my own mind,” he quipped. What else was he to do? She was killing him here. In a really great way, but still…