Alexei (Chicago Blaze 5)

But here I am hobbling on crutches, the possibility of arthritis in my hip hitting home about forty years too early. Not to mention that I’m seriously concerned about whether I’ll ever be able to properly fuck a woman again.

“Hey, man. You’re blue two, too.” A guy who looks about my age is pointing at the nametag on my chest as we wait in line to get out of the auditorium. He laughs and says, “That sounded like blue tutu, didn’t it?”

I look at the nametag on his chest, which has the same Blue Two small group name as mine.

“I’m Joe Randolph,” he says, offering me his hand to shake but immediately withdrawing it. “Sorry, guess you can’t shake with the crutches.”

I nod at him instead. “Hey, Joe. I’m Alexei Petrov. Nice to meet you.”

He blows out a breath, looking nervous as the line to depart the auditorium slowly moves. “So…ever been to rehab before?”

“Nope. You?”

He shakes his head. “But man, I really hope this sticks because I straight up thought I was gonna die from the withdrawal symptoms. Did you get the DTs?”

“The what?”

“Delirium tremens. They kicked in when I was in the medical wing of this place going through withdrawal. I had the craziest hallucinations. Thought giant bear ninjas were trying to kill me.”

“That’s fucked up, man.”

Joe nods as we make it to the auditorium door. “I never want to see another bear again.”

“How much were you drinking?” I ask incredulously.

He shrugs. “I don’t even remember, to be honest. A lot, obviously.”

“Damn.”

“We’re supposed to go to room 117,” he says, pointing to a sign. “It’s this way.”

“If I went through any withdrawal symptoms, I was probably in a coma at the time,” I admit.

“You’re lucky, then.”

I quirk a brow at Joe. “You think?”

With a sheepish grin, he says, “I guess not…you get a DUI?”

“Technically, no. But I had to pay the guy whose barn I wasted about double the cost of the actual damage I did and come here to avoid it.”

“I guess you were kinda lucky, then. Could have been a lot worse. I mean, you’ll heal and get off the crutches.”

“Yeah,” I concede. “It could’ve been worse.”

Joe runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair as he holds the door to room 117 open for me. He seems like a nice guy. If all I have to do to get back to hockey is spend a couple weeks with people like him, I can handle that.

The room we walk into is plain in comparison to the rest of the Beckett Recovery Center, which is designed like an upscale lodge, but in here, there are white walls, dark wood floors and a bunch of overstuffed chairs set up in a circle.

Other than that, there’s a glass water pitcher in the corner with little paper cups stacked next to it on a table that also holds two boxes of tissues, and nothing else.

Tissues—in case we cry? I scoff inwardly. I don’t like talking about feelings with people I know, let alone total strangers. And feelings are overrated anyway. I’ve got a handful of emotional zones—chill, pissed off, horny and game face—and that’s about it.

“Come on in and have a seat,” a woman says from one of the chairs. “Everyone’s here now, so we can get started.”

Wow. When they said small groups, they meant small. There’s the woman in charge, two other women, Joe and me.

I use my crutches to get over to an open chair, then lean them against the side of it and ease myself into a sitting position. And then, I take stock.

The woman leading the group has long, blond curly hair. She’s got a nice, curvy body, but I can tell from the dark-rimmed glasses and blouse that she’s a buttoned-up type. No wedding ring, though. Perfect. She should be totally charmable. I found out in the big meeting I just sat through that I get to leave this place when she decides I’ve made enough progress to graduate. I plan to tell her whatever it takes to finish this program as fast as possible.

Then there’s a gray-haired woman, also buttoned up, who doesn’t strike me as your typical alcoholic. She looks like a grandma—one who would try to take you out to the Waldorf Astoria for lunch. She’s draped in jewels and well-dressed, but her expression doesn’t match the confidence of her attire.

And then…hell yeah. There’s a hot little piece across from me with jet-black, chin-length hair, red lipstick, a septum ring and tight leather pants. She looks angry as fuck, which I don’t mind one bit. Hotheads are usually wildcats in bed.

Not that I can use my hips at the moment. But there are lots of other things we can do.

“Okay,” the blond woman says. “I’m Dr. Graysen Wells, and I’m your group leader. In this session, the four of you are my only patients. Six days a week, you’ll do individual and group sessions with me. We’ll start our one on one sessions tomorrow. Today we’re going to just get to know each other a little bit.”