Riggs, p.4
Riggs, page 4
I snort. “Let’s just say I’m exhausted, then.”
Bain shrugs and pivots on his heel to walk out of the lobby. The rest of my linemates are outside waiting, not one of them with a disappointed look that I’m not coming.
More like resolved.
I suppose the other inferred lie was that I don’t want a drink. In fact, I would love nothing more than a quiet beer while I shake off that lousy performance. So I make for the hotel bar.
“Hey, Riggs… wait up,” Baden calls. I scan the lobby to locate him amid the various players still standing around, finalizing plans as to where they want to go.
At first, it’s hard to see him. In his wheelchair, he gets lost in the towering Vengeance players. But he maneuvers around Bishop, who he playfully smacks on the ass as he wheels by, cutting a sharp left to avoid Bishop’s hand flying out to pop Baden in the back of the head in retaliation.
There’s no stopping the smile that comes to my face. The dude has become exceptional at steering that thing, and although he’s getting stronger with his walking every day, it’s still safer for him to be in the chair for now. Especially when he’s traveling with us and in places that aren’t known or overly safe for walking.
Baden and I have what I would consider a weird relationship. He’s the one person on this team who I’ve truly connected with, and it’s because he’s not out there with us day in and day out. After suffering a horrific spinal contusion injury, he’s been holed up in hospitals and rehabilitation facilities recovering. It’s like our friendship stands outside of the team for those reasons, which makes it a little easier to bear. Almost as if I don’t have that pressing obligation of camaraderie by virtue of being on the ice with my teammates. With Baden, there’s no mutual dependency for peak performance.
Another reason, if I’m brutally honest, is that I feel sorry for the dude. People say what they want about me not being a part of this team, but from the moment I stepped foot onto the ice as a Vengeance player, I took Baden’s injury and recovery seriously. Every single player on the team routinely visited him in the hospital and while he was undergoing inpatient rehab. I was new to the team and didn’t know Baden at all, but I made myself visit him.
The first time was over the summer once I got settled into Phoenix with Janelle. Baden was in between surgeries, and the visit could not have been more awkward. He didn’t know me, and I didn’t know him, and he was in a world of hurt both physically and mentally. After I introduced myself, we basically spent the rest of that first visit in silence while he pretended to doze and I pretended to be ready to talk if he wanted to. It may have been the longest half hour of my life.
But I kept going back. During many of the visits, to say I was not welcomed would be an understatement. I didn’t take it personally because he was doing that to everyone.
Slowly, though—and especially since his most recent surgery in October after which he regained partial feeling in his legs—he’s been absolutely fucking blossoming.
Baden has also become more involved with the team. A month ago, he started learning to walk again with the help of dedicated physical therapists. He’s since moved into a handicapped-accessible home that Dominik arranged for him and can now walk independently with braces and crutches, but not for very long and certainly not in crowded places like this. Baden attends all our games, home and away, and for the most part, he’s in the wheelchair for safety measures. Outside of his attending the games and continuing outpatient rehab, the man is in the gym sometimes for hours working to make his body as strong as possible.
I respect the shit out of that because his future is unknown. It’s a dark, murky slate, and he has the biggest uphill battle of anyone I’ve ever known if he ever wants to play sports again. And yet, he remains undeterred.
I wait for Baden to reach me. He comes to a skidding halt, popping a half wheelie with a grin. He’s sometimes a menace with that wheelchair, and I’ve more than once gotten dinged on my shinbone with the footrest as he does that patented move, causing curses to pour forth.
He’s completely unapologetic. “You’re a hockey player. Suck it up.”
More players head out of the lobby onto the street, and I move my eyes down to Baden in his chair.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
If it were anyone else, I would lie and say I was going to my room, but instead I nod toward the hotel bar. “Going to grab a beer.”
Baden looks over his shoulder at the lobby doors before bringing his gaze comes back to me. “You’re not going out with the guys?”
I cock my eyebrow. “Are you?”
Baden smirks. “I’m in a wheelchair. What’s your excuse?”
I smirk back at him. “Your wheelchair isn’t a fucking excuse, and you know it. If you wanted to go out with them, you would. You’re a hockey player… suck it up.”
That felt good. I’ve been wanting to throw that back at him for a long time.
Baden laughs and nods toward the bar again. “Mind if I join you?”
I shrug and pivot away from him as I say, “Suit yourself. But I’m shit company after that game.”
Baden doesn’t respond but quietly wheels along behind me. There’s no hostess, and it’s open seating. I immediately spy a table where I can pull a chair away for Baden to park. Once we’re settled, the waitress comes over. We both ask for a beer, and Baden orders a huge plate of chicken nachos.
When the waitress leaves, I give him a pointed look. “I’d say you better quit eating that shit or you’re going to get fat, but you must be burning twenty thousand calories a day with the way you work out.”
Baden tips his head back and laughs, the corded muscles in his neck tightening. The work he’s been doing on his chest and arms has him packed full of solid muscle. I bet the dude could bench press a tank.
We make small talk about his current workout regimen. He’s hoping within the next few weeks to graduate to forearm crutches, and from there a cane. Then he’ll ditch the leg braces, and hopefully, it’s just a matter of time before he puts the skates back on.
I honestly hope to God the guy achieves it, and I hope I’m there when he steps onto the ice for the first time. I bet there won’t be a dry eye in the house.
The waitress returns with our beers, promises Baden his nachos will be up soon, and leaves. He lifts his pint glass, takes a long pull, and sets it down before him. “I can only drink one of these or my driving gets dangerous.”
I snort as I lift my glass. “You’re already a menace in that thing.”
He spares a laugh while setting his beer down on the table, but when his eyes lift to mine, he says, “You played like shit tonight.”
My chin jerks inward, surprised at how bluntly he’s called me out. I don’t disagree with him, but he’s never criticized my play before. It’s not how our relationship has worked up until now, away from the ice and the game politics.
“I have a lot going on personally,” I mutter, taking a sip.
“Want to talk about it?” Baden asks.
Grimacing, I give him my most honest answer. “No fucking way.”
Baden slams his palm on the table, causing me to jump, and yells, “Aha!” He points an accusing finger at me. “That’s your problem. You don’t talk. You don’t have relationships with people. You don’t go out with the guys for drinks. You don’t know how to be part of this team.”
Well, the dude certainly has strong opinions. My tone is dry when I ask, “So you deduce my shitty play is because I’m not part of this team?”
Baden leans forward in his wheelchair and crosses his forearms on the table. His eyes lock with mine. “I know your career. I studied you before you came to this team because there wasn’t a hell of a lot to do in the hospital. I have also seen the way you’ve played over the years. You are a high-caliber player, and that is why the Vengeance wanted you. But you’re not playing up to the level you could be with this caliber of team. Sure, your play is as good as I suppose you would’ve played with the Renegades. But this team is a higher level, and you should’ve stepped up to it. And you haven’t. I believe it’s because you aren’t really part of this team. You haven’t connected with these guys in a way that lets you be your absolute best, that lets you trust them implicitly on the ice, because to do that, you have to trust them implicitly off the ice.”
His theory is a gut punch. Because I know it’s true. I know that if I can find common ground with these guys, we will gel and become more cohesive.
We’ll be infinitely better.
I know this to be true because a line is only as good as each guy’s ability to know inherently what the other linemates are going to do without a single word spoken. It’s the ability to anticipate what’s going to happen because you know them so well. And that doesn’t mean you know only their technical skills, but you know everything about them.
Still, I play it off because no one likes their shortcomings being spotlighted. “Sounds like a bunch of hocus-pocus.”
“Bullshit.” Baden shakes his head as if disappointed in me. “You were truly part of the team when you were with the Renegades. The entire league is close-knit. I have friends on the Renegades, just as you have friends on every other team as well. We all get to know each other over the years, and you were a leader on that team. People respected you. You had other people’s backs. And it showed in the fluidity of your play. Trust me when I tell you, you’re not going to last on this team unless you make a decision to be part of it one hundred percent.”
That hits hard. Because he’s not wrong. I don’t believe I’ve impressed the management with what I’ve been doing. I know I can play better.
It galls me to do this, but I admit something to Baden. “My life got very complicated this summer when Janelle came to live with me. Some bad shit has happened recently and in the past, and it’s resurfaced a lot of convoluted feelings. Janelle is vulnerable right now, and I felt the best way to protect her was to isolate her. And to keep her isolated, I’ve isolated myself too.”
There… Baden has my reasons for withholding. They are sound and legitimate. He can’t argue with them.
And yet, he says, “Also bullshit.”
Seems to be his favorite word to use with me.
“You’re a dick,” I growl.
Baden holds out a palm, as if to indicate I took that wrong. “I don’t doubt that your life and Janelle’s is complicated and there are some bad things in your past. But I’m calling bullshit on you keeping yourself isolated. You don’t have to share details with anybody you don’t want to. You can keep your complications and your history private and still be part of this team. You could be out right now having drinks with your linemates and not say a damn word about your personal life. You could sit there, laugh when appropriate, be present, and that’s enough to make a connection. Trust me when I say the answer is not to isolate.”
My gaze slides and focuses on one of the TVs behind the bar. It’s showing a rodeo, and I watch a man get bucked off a bull in less than two seconds. I know Baden is calling it like he sees it. For the most part, he’s not wrong. I think he makes a fair point that I could be more sociable and still keep my life private.
But I guess the fear is that if I open myself up an inch, my teammates will want to go in for a mile. And I don’t know how to handle that.
Almost as if he’s reading my thoughts, Baden adds, “Or you could actually be open and honest about what your bad history and complications are. You’d be surprised what solid friendships can do to ease burdens, and I think you know I speak from personal experience. You know that since you are a member of this team, your sister is a member of this team, and there is not any one of the guys or their family members who wouldn’t protect her at all costs. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re depriving Janelle of an extended family that can help her? Have you ever thought you’re depriving yourself?”
I glare at Baden but without any real malice. “How did you get to be so fucking zen with everything that’s happened to you?”
Baden has been through hell since last summer when he valiantly tried to stop a mugging in progress and got seriously injured. Beaten with a crowbar and stabbed multiple times, he ended up with a spinal contusion that paralyzed him from the waist down. His battle back to where he is now has been nothing short of miraculous.
His smile is mischievous, eyes sparkling. “When you face death, and then face life with the possibility of never walking again, you reprioritize things. I remember you coming into my hospital room when you moved to Phoenix, and you didn’t know me from Adam. And yet you came and sat by me in silence because I didn’t want to talk. You came back again and again and again until I finally talked. You made yourself my friend. You took on my problems just by being there. Made all the difference. Every one of my teammates who did that changed my focus, my outlook, and knocked my pessimism on its ass, replacing it with optimism. I’m pointing out the value of friendship and that you should never discount it, no matter what’s in your past.”
I pick up my beer and take another long drink. He’s giving me some food for thought. I had a natural camaraderie with my Renegade teammates. I missed them immediately upon leaving. But when Janelle came to live with me, everything changed, and I didn’t keep up with them, despite their attempts.
Baden is right. I’ve closed myself off completely, and I never used to be that guy.
But even before I was that guy who loved the friendships with my teammates, I was a very different person, one that if they knew the things I’d done, they might not want to be friends with me at all.
CHAPTER 5
Veronica
Clarke is probably in the most enviable position an independent bookstore owner could be. She doesn’t have to keep her store open crazy hours just to make money. While she may have started that way, it’s certainly not how things are now.
Much of it has to do with her brilliance and ingenuity—tailoring her retail space and services to heighten customer satisfaction. While she has no control over whether a book she sells is any good and will satisfy a reader, she makes the entire experience of buying that book something customers want to come back for, regardless if they liked what they chose. She obviously buys and sells what she believes will appeal, but that doesn’t always hit the mark.
Instead, she makes the shopping experience inspiring, joyful, and seamless. She goes above and beyond what her customers expect. It might be setting up book readings, signings, or special merchandise, and even sometimes reaching out directly to a famous author to get an autographed book for one of her customers. No doubt, Clarke has built her business based around exceptional customer service.
It didn’t hurt when she started dating Aaron Wylde of the Arizona Vengeance. Through Aaron, she met Legend’s wife, Pepper, a famous children’s book author. It took only one visit from Pepper to do a signing, and Clarke’s customer base almost quadrupled. Since then, she’s dedicated about a quarter of the store to children’s books.
The benefit to Clarke’s success over the past year is that she can set her own hours. She opens from 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. Monday through Friday, and 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. on Saturday. She closes the doors Sunday and on any other day she feels like it, though mostly when she has the opportunity to travel to an away game with Aaron. She’ll simply put a closed sign on the door with an apology that she’s gone to see him play in Toronto or San Diego or Florida or elsewhere, and her customers think it’s pretty freaking cool, so they forgive her.
Still, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t work her ass off. As a sole proprietor, everything falls on her shoulders. She has me and one other girl working part time. Clarke handles everything else, which is why it’s going to cause some turmoil when I leave. Or rather, when I start taking classes so I can finish my undergraduate degree. I’ll still be around when time allows.
Of course, it was Clarke’s idea that I finish my degree. “You’re floundering around like… well, a piece of flounder.”
She’s not wrong. Ever since the divorce, I’ve been wandering through life aimlessly and without purpose. It’s sad that my entire existence focuses around helping Clarke in the bookstore twenty hours a week. It would be forty, but she doesn’t need someone that amount of time with her other part-time worker, Marie, who’s been here longer, and she doesn’t pay me, anyway, since I don’t need the money. If I had my way, I’d come and hang out with her all day, every day, but she won’t let me. She says I need to get out in the world and expand my horizons.
Clarke is making me go figure out my shit, so to speak.
Sighing, I scribble notes on the pad before me. I do this several times a week, searching for clarity. I’m currently sitting in Clarke’s office while she teaches Janelle how to work the cash register. It’s almost closing time, so she’s giving her a general overview, and tomorrow she’ll handle actual customers—with me by her side, of course.
Looking up, I glance through the open door at Clarke. Her head is tipped in close to Janelle’s, listening to a question from the girl and pointing something out in response on the register keypad.
I smile. This is the end of only Janelle’s third day here, and she’s been an absolute joy to have around. Today she seemed vibrantly happy, and no matter what we threw at her, she took it and completed tasks with pride and efficiency. She even lamented that when school started back, she’d only be able to work a few hours a day.
She further lamented, which cracked me up, that the shop was going to be closed tomorrow for Christmas Eve and then for Christmas Day. Clarke assured her we’d be back up and running on the twenty-sixth, and she’d be glad to put her to work all day if that’s what she wanted.
Janelle responded, “Awesome.”
I glance back down at my pad. Across the top I’ve written “Short-Term Goals.” Halfway down the page, I’ve written “Long-Term Goals.”
I have nothing listed under the short term, but number one on long-term’s list is the same as it ever was.
