Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Troy

I sit behind the desk, forearms propped in front of me as I lean closer to the cluster of microphones. "I'd like to thank my teammates and fans for all their support throughout my career. I've lived a life that most men only dream of. But it's time for me to hang up my skates and make room for someone else to live this dream. At the end of this season, I'm retiring from hockey."

The press room erupts in a cacophony of questions while cameras flash, wanting to catch this moment so it can be posted across all the news media outlets as soon as we're done here.

The team's publicist, Molly, steps forward, tablet clutched to her chest, dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She's been with the team for a couple of years now, and she's fantastic at controlling the press room and helping all of us prep for press conferences. She's one of the best publicists I've worked with since I started playing out of college—warm with an air of competence that suffers no fools, and she makes sure we have answers ready for even the most unlikely questions. "We only have a few minutes for questions." She nods at Rod, one of the reporters for a leading sports channel.

The room quiets enough for him to be heard. "Does your recent injury play a role in your decision?"

Pressing my lips together grimly, I nod. I knew this would be the first question. Molly gave me a list of questions and answers last week to prepare for this after I let the team's management know my decision. She ran through them with me again this morning, but it still stings. "Yes," I answer, doing my best to keep the gruffness out of my voice. "Recovery hasn't gone as well as any of us wanted. I'm getting older. I've had a good career, and I've outlasted a lot of other players with a similar history of injuries. Right now, this is the best choice for me as well as the team."

The truth is more complicated than that, of course, and my mind swirls as I give the practiced answers to the expected questions.

I've spent nearly as much time on the injured list as off it the last few years—my knee problems started three years ago when I caught a stick to the side of the joint in a game against the Stingrays. It was a dirty jab that landed the guy in the penalty box at the end of a hard-fought game and guaranteed us the win after Katz hit every penalty shot, and we held them for the last few minutes on the clock.

My knee's never been as strong since then, always feeling a little unstable and like it might slip out of joint at the slightest provocation. I worked my physical therapy, strengthening all the little stabilizer muscles and the major muscle groups in my legs on top of wearing a soft brace every time I did anything.

That got me through last season, but a shoulder injury early on kept me off the ice for a couple of months. I rehabbed that faster and finished the season strong, but this year, I wasn't so lucky.

Fighting for the puck against the boards back in January, a player for the opposing team decided to join the fray, slamming into me and pushing me into someone else at just the right angle to make my knee crumble like a cookie held too long in a glass of milk.

I felt something tear and went down immediately, knowing that staying on my skates would only make it worse.

My teammate Dozer heard me yell and pulled everyone off me.

I haven't been back on the ice since. Until today. There's still another month left of the regular season, and I'll play until the Stanley Cup or we get knocked out in the postseason, crossing my fingers I don't fuck up my knee yet again.

The doctors say another blow like that, and I'll be in for a full replacement.

And while that's likely inevitable at some point in my life, I'd like to delay it as long as possible. Hence retiring.

"Any plans for your life after hockey?" asks Eddie, another well-known member of the press corps.

The question stops me short, even though Molly told me someone would ask. She even gave me a script to follow if I didn't have a good answer of my own.

I've been racking my brain for an answer to that question myself, actually. Hockey's the only thing I've ever known. I've been playing since I was a little kid, on skates almost before I could walk, the game the main point of connection between my father and me. He worked long hours at the paper mill, and when he was home, he was either doing chores or vegging on the couch, too tired to do much else. But he loved hockey. So I'd sit with him and watch games as a little kid, always willing to go out on the ice with him because it meant I'd get his attention, Mom tagging along and cheering us on. He missed as many of my games as he made it to growing up, but I always knew he was proud of me.

I'm not sure what I'll talk to him about now that I'm retiring since I have no idea what I'm going to do with myself. Not that I have to decide right away. My contracts have gotten fatter as my career's progressed, and I saved a lot, knowing eventually this day would come. But I have to answer soon, or the pause is going to be noticeable, which will leave me open for even more speculation than if I give the bland non-answer Molly provided me with.

"I'll take some time off to start with. That's what retirement's usually about, isn't it?" I chuckle along with everyone in the room, even though the thought of lying around doing nothing sounds terrible. I've done enough of that after surgery when they want you to move, yes, but take it easy and don't overdo it. I'm more or less back to normal—or at least as good as it's likely to get this time around—and a life of leisure doesn't sound appealing to me.

With the affable smile that the press expects from me still on my face, I shrug. "I have some opportunities I'm interested in exploring. And I'll have all the time in the world to do it." That's basically a lie, but it sounds better than the truth—I don't have any idea what to do without hockey.

Molly steps in. "That's all the time we have for questions today. Mr. Easton has to get ready for today's game."

I stand as she finishes fielding questions, making my way to where our head coach and two of my teammates, Dozer, one of the D-men, and Nick Abernathy, our captain, wait for me in the wings. They clap me on the shoulders, but wisely wait to say anything until we're out of the press room and in the hallway leading to the locker room where we're about to get ready for our morning skate.

"How're you feeling?" Nick asks as we walk.

I shrug. "Ready to play some hockey."

Dozer claps my shoulder. "That's the Easton we all know and love. Focused on the game. Sure, your days are numbered, but you'll figure that out later, amiright?"

I chuckle, hoping it doesn't sound as weak as it feels. "Exactly."

Nick opens the door to the locker room, holding it for Dozer and me to pass through. "We're taking a vacation," he announces.

Eyebrows raised, I glance back at him in surprise. "What—now?"

He laughs. "Nah, man. After the season. You, my family and me, and Dozer. We'll find somewhere cool where we'll be left alone. You can recover. And we can plan your next steps then. Sound good?"

I clap his proffered hand, sealing the deal. "Yeah, man. That sounds perfect."

It's not much of a plan, but it's enough of one that I can set aside the swirling thoughts about the future and focus on today's practice and our upcoming game.