Dax (Arizona Vengeance 4)

But I also take heed of the serious undercurrent within Bishop’s tone, so I say, “No plans. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go to Tacker’s place and talk to him.”It takes us about twenty-five minutes to make it to Tacker’s crappy apartment. We can’t tell if he’s home because he hasn’t responded to the text Bishop sent him inquiring as to his whereabouts before we left the arena. Of course, there is no telltale sign of his truck in one of the parking spots since he totaled it. I imagine Tacker is going to be one of Uber’s best customers for a while. While none of us have been given details, nor would I ask for such, I’m going to assume he’s going to lose his license for that little stunt he pulled.

Since I have been here before, I lead the way up to Tacker’s apartment, not hesitating to pound on the door once I get there. I glance over my shoulder at Bishop, who is rocking on the balls of his feet. No clue if this is going to be confrontational or not, so there might be a little anxiety involved.

We hear the snick of the door unlocking from the other side, then Tacker has the door open, staring out at us. He keeps one hand on the doorknob and the other up on the door casing, with no invitation to invite us in.

That’s really not going to work for what Bishop and I intend to talk to him about, so I say point blank, “We’d like to come in and talk.”

Tacker sighs long and heavy, appearing incredibly put out as he turns to the side to grant us entrance. I enter his living room, completely stunned by what I see.

He’s such a recluse and doesn’t give a shit about anything, I expected his home to be an utter mess. I glance into his pristine kitchen. I thought there would be a mountain of dirty dishes with flies buzzing around them. His garbage can is empty, and I expected it to be filled with empty liquor bottles. I sniff hesitantly at the air, but only find it clean and lemony.

What actually doesn’t surprise me is how minimalist everything is. It’s a low-budget apartment with worn and threadbare carpet. It’s clear to see this because he has no furniture except for a single reclining chair in the corner with a floor lamp beside it. There’s no TV, no couch, no coffee table. In the kitchen, there’s not even a table to sit at to eat, nor are there any appliances out on the counter. In fact, as far as I can see, his apartment consists of only the chair and the lamp I had first laid eyes on. I’m going to go out on a limb and say his bedroom probably consists of a single air mattress on the floor.

Tacker moves past us, deeper into the living room, then turns to face us, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look angry to see us, but he doesn’t look friendly either. “So what’s up?”

“Dominik Carlson called a team meeting. He told us you’re going to be coming back to the team,” Bishop says.

Tacker doesn’t respond, but that is hardly surprising. He isn’t the most engaging person I’ve ever met in my life. The only exception to that is when he is out on the ice. Then he is like a different person who has no problem communicating with his teammates or providing critique or encouragement. If there was ever any reason why this man needed to come back to the team, it’s because of that. It’s the only place he truly seems to have any life left in him.

“We want to know how we can best support you,” I say, taking over the efforts to get a conversation going. “While they didn’t tell us any details, the only thing they did make sure to reiterate is you are not allowed to have any alcohol. What can we do to help you with that?”

There’s no anger or offense from him. But there is a slight annoyance in his tone. “I’m not a goddamn alcoholic, and I don’t need an intervention. I got drunk one lousy time and made a stupid decision to drive.”

“Technically,” Bishop drawls. “That’s still an abuse of alcohol.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Tacker mutters before taking in a breath. “But I don’t need any supportive help if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t crave alcohol. I’ve never been a big drinker to begin with. I certainly don’t need the rest of the team to forgo alcohol in some form of stupid-ass solidarity with me. I just want everyone to be normal around me when I come back.”

“But everything isn’t normal,” I point out quietly. “Going to be a lot of people walking around on eggshells with you, brother. People aren’t going to know how to act around you.”