Tacker (Arizona Vengeance 5)

Feeling some fucking nostalgia for sure and not surprisingly, also excitement to get back on the ice. It’s been two weeks since I’ve skated.

We walk in, finding the guys already out there. They’ve apparently rented out the entire place, and it’s quiet inside. Aaron and I give them a short wave before heading into the locker room to get dressed.

It feels good… the ritual of putting on my gear. Like slipping into a favorite pair of worn jeans or the softest t-shirt.

When I step out onto the ice, there’s not even a wobble or stutter. It feels like I’m a fish that’s been out of water and I’m now getting my first gill-full of oxygen-rich water.

My first glide of blade to ice, I actually sigh in contentment. An overwhelming rush of gratitude overtakes me, and I swear if Dominik Carlson were here, I’d probably fucking hug him in thanks, which would cause a major freak-out in my teammates for sure.

“Wylde,” Erik exclaims, and I watch as the other men congregate around Aaron. Like I said, everyone calls him that but me. While he was always the big partier and ladies’ man on the Mustangs, he was always just my best friend who often enjoyed a quiet evening playing board games with MJ and me.

“Let’s quit wasting time,” Bishop barks, then proclaims. “Three on three. Let’s go.”

I can’t help but smile. When the season started, I was stunned Coach Perron had named me as captain of the team. While I had years of solid play under my belt, I’d never been much of an actual leader. Coming off a prior bad year due to the crash, it was even more shocking he’d hand that role over to me.

That’s all gone now. With my first suspension at the end of November, the title of captain was removed from me and given to Bishop, who had been co-captain along with Legend. I never begrudged that since the guy deserved it.

Still does for that matter.

Bishop runs us through drills, and the sweat starts to pour. There’s a lot of bumping and joking going on, but there’s a lot of work as well. The guys take it easy on me, since I’m still playing with a fractured left wrist. As such, my stick handling is tentative and slow, so they don’t defend me too strictly.

We skate for an hour, which is probably half an hour longer than the guys should since there’s a game tonight. I know they’re pushing forward because they like seeing me back on the ice. More importantly, they can see I like it, too.

Finally, Bishop calls an end to the work—fun—and we move over to the bench we’d put our gear under. We grab water bottles and chug. Erik rips into a power bar as the dude is always eating.

“How’d that feel?” Bishop asks as he wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.

“Fucking amazing,” I answer truthfully. Because he’s the one who specifically called me out a few days ago about what an ass I’ve been and how I need to give back to my teammates, I decide I need to give him something. “Thanks for this. Means a lot.”

He’s not expecting it. Bishop actually flushes, his eyes darting to the side a moment before he recovers. “Yeah… not a problem. We’re all anxious for that fracture to fully heal so you can get back in the lineup.”

“I’m anxious to get there, too,” I say. After this past hour on the ice, I’m ready to go there now. Fuck the broken wrist and cast.

“You coming to the game tonight?” Dax asks.

Until this moment, I hadn’t thought about it. In the back of my mind, I’d just assumed I’d watch it from a bar or restaurant, since I don’t even own a TV. But I’ve got season tickets, which is something each player gets, so there’s no reason I shouldn’t go. I mean… sure, I’m still suffering under the crushing weight of guilt and self-recrimination, which doesn’t make me an overly social guy, but these are my fucking guys.

I’m back on the team, and I need to support them. “Yeah… I’ll be there.”

“Want Regan to pick you up?” Dax asks. “She’s going, and she wouldn’t mind swinging by to get you.”

Whoa, shit. I wasn’t wanting to socialize or anything. I start proverbially backpedaling in my brain, trying to come up with a valid excuse to decline. The thought of potentially having to make small talk with someone for several hours is intolerable.

Except… Regan’s not hard to talk to. Granted, I only met her a week ago at Billy’s birthday party, but, within a matter of moments, she actually had me blabbing a bit. She did this merely by sharing a huge secret with me—that she and Dax had secretly married because she had a life-threatening illness and needed health insurance. To be told the information out of the blue by a complete stranger had caught me off guard.