1. Cade

1

CADE

"This is your last year, Cade." Doc declares as he rubs an alcohol wipe across my hip.

With my jaw clenched tight and my eyes on the wall, I wait for the needle to plunge into my muscle. "I'm going to feel good as new in about five minutes, Doc. I've got a lot of years left to play."

Doc pulls the needle out, holding light pressure to the injection site. "Listen, I know this is hard for you to hear. Hockey has been your life. I get it. Just because you can't play professionally doesn't mean you must leave the game. The Colorado Frostwolves of Alpine Sports Entertainment Group, the largest sports franchise in the country, employ you. Did you know that ASEG owns multiple sports teams and hundreds of diverse companies? They'll always have a place for you." His voice softens. "You could coach."

"Coach?" I push his hand off my hip and jump off the table. "I'm not a coach. I'm a goalie. And a damn good one at that. I have 642 wins and 100 shutouts under my belt. My reaction time is on point, and my rebound control is stellar."

"Tell that to your body," Doc replies, picking up a clipboard and sighing. "Cade, over the past fifteen years, I've treated you for fractured ribs, a fractured right wrist, a concussion, and two ACL tears. Now you've got bilateral hip bursitis, bilateral hip tendonitis, and micro-tears in your hips and knees. You've hit your limit for Cortisone injections. Ultrasound therapy doesn't do a damn thing for you. Physical therapy, meh. Ice baths? Nothing but Band-Aids."

I pull my sweatpants up, trying to digest what Doc is saying. My professional hockey career is over? Impossible. I've been a Frostwolf for fifteen years. It's who I am. What I am. Without hockey…I swallow past the puck sitting in my throat…what will I do? "There has to be something else we can try."

Doc sits down on a stool. "There isn't. If there were, we'd be doing it, and you know that. I am not signing off on you, Cade. I can't. And I won't. I'm telling you now so that you have time to sort things out for yourself. You're on holiday break for what, three weeks?"

"Yeah," I say, sagging against the table.

"Take the time to think about things. Make a plan. Go out on the top of your game." Doc advises, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "Are you having Christmas with your family?"

"Yes." I lie. Every year, I tell the same lie. And every year, I spend Christmas alone. It's a lot easier this way. Telling people your brother, mother, and father are in prison for the possession, sale, and manufacturing of meth will only get me pity. And pity is the last thing on earth I ever want.

"Talk things over with your family," Doc suggests, setting his clipboard down. He stands up and puts his hand on my shoulder. "There is life after professional hockey, son. I promise. Have you ever thought about maybe settling in one place and starting your own family?"

"Definitely not. I came into the world single, and I'm going out the same way, Doc." I say, sticking out my hand. "Thank you for giving it to me straight."

Doc grabs my hand. "If you need anything, I'm here. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, too."

I snag my coat off the back of the door and walk out of the office with a ball of dread in my stomach. By the time I reach my Land Rover, I have a plan. Instead of spending Christmas in Denver, I'm going to head to my cabin in Thunder Ridge. It's a small mountain town just outside of Aspen, my favorite place on earth. Its snow-capped mountains, open skies, clean, crisp air, and quiet will help me sort things through.

With a faint glimmer of hope that I could find a future outside of professional hockey, I hit the ignition button and head home to pack.

The four-hour drive to Thunder Ridge is always something I enjoy. It's miles upon miles of open road with spectacular scenic views. But not today. To match the miserable start of my day, the afternoon is gifting me with an unexpected snowstorm dropping over two inches an hour. Winds are gusting between twenty to thirty miles, causing intermittent white-outs. And as if that isn't enough, the last weather update predicts two feet by morning, followed by another snowstorm tomorrow night.

I loosen the death grip on the steering wheel as soon as I pass the wooden sign, "Welcome to Thunder Ridge Population 987."

Grateful I've made it in one piece, I pull into Rhett's Speedy Pump. I zip up my down jacket, snag my knit cap off the passenger's seat, and stuff my hands into a pair of gloves. I climb out of the car and stretch my arms till my back cracks. Even though I've been sitting in one spot for a long time, my hips feel perfect. Maybe Doc's wrong. Maybe I should consider a second opinion. Then again, who am I kidding? Doc is a good man and one hell of a doctor. He's patched me up and put me back on the ice when others would have said no. So, I know if he says my hockey days are numbered… they're numbered.

I put the nozzle in the tank to autofill while I open the hood to check my windshield washer fluid. I'm happy to see that it's nearly full, so I top off the gas tank. I'm returning the nozzle on the pump when I see a black BMW sliding across the parking lot, headed straight for my new Land Rover.

What in the bloody hell?

"Stop!" I shout.

Crunch…

I jog to the front of my car, breathing a huge sigh of relief. There's not a dent in sight. Tomorrow, I'll call the dealer who talked me into adding customized large bumpers to thank him.

"I'm sorry. I slammed on the brake, which I know is the worst thing to do in the snow. Are you all right?"

I turn around and freeze.

Thick copper hair.

Plump, full lips.

Brilliant green eyes with flecks of gold.

And under that black winter down coat are lush, round curves.

"Maya Prescott," I mumble.

"Cade?" She flinches. Cade Wylie? What are you doing here?"

"I'm shocked you remember my name." I snip.

We met at a charity event three years ago. I was instantly drawn to her beauty, sense of humor, and killer body. It took me a while to get the courage to ask her out. When I did, she gave me a beautiful smile followed by a big, fat, "I don't date hockey players."

Later, I found out that she was the infamous Ice Princess, the granddaughter of the owner of the Frostwolves franchise. Evidently, hockey players were good enough to use to build up your bank account. But we aren't good enough to date.

Message received.

A strong gust of wind blows her long curls across her face. She's breathtaking. Her hair is dotted with snow, a bright pink flush to her cheeks.

I push that thought away, gather the memory of not being good enough for her, pour it into my gaze, and lock in on her gorgeous face. "Sheriff or insurance. Your call."