Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

TYLER

I exited the Uber in front of my childhood home and stared absently at the two-story Craftsman farmhouse that had seen better days. This wasn’t where I expected to be or ever return to. Crazy how life always had a way of messing up the best plans. Should have sold the place eight years ago. As it stood, the gutters hung precariously from the eves. The tan paint chipped and missing from the facade. Dingy stains covered the windows. Only thing going for the residence was the lawn. I paid someone to do that at least. Couldn’t get fined every other month because summers in Clinton caused grass to grow out of control.

There was nothing left for me in the small town.

Seeing the condition of my parent’s house should’ve motivated me to leave and never come back. Instead, I stood there, rooted in my spot as the Uber drove away. Damn it.

The headache forming behind my left eye and at my temple was a reminder of the cheap shot I took on the ice, ending my career. I rubbed the back of my neck, desperate to release the tension there and hopefully stop the migraine I could feel coming on. Fuck... Going pro was all I ever thought about. I ate, slept, and dreamed of being on the ice, scoring the winning goal for an NHL championship.

Made it five years into my career before being wiped out and washed up. Yet I still had that dog in me to win, but after the incident with Chemek, because I stared at his sister a little too long, I was done. Waking up in the hospital with my doc hovering over me with a clipboard in hand—I knew. Not because of the frown on his face, or the three of him I tried to focus on. Not because of the room spinning as if I was on a tilt-a-whirl or the sensitivity to light. No, I figured it out the minute my head hit the board and Chemek’s knee collided with my temple.

The hit was on purpose.

He meant to disable me. Proving it, however, good luck.

So, I made the hardest decision ever. I medically retired at twenty-six with the help of my coach and the owner of the Portland Thrashers , then went to see a few specialists in Colorado who specifically treated people with head injuries. Spent a solid six weeks learning how to manage and recover from the concussion so I could have a somewhat normal life. If normal meant wearing a pair of prism glasses and going home, I’d do it.

Didn’t mean I was happy about it.

Didn’t mean I wanted to be in Clinton, North Carolina, either.

Guess that’d been what therapy’s for.

After grabbing my duffle off the sidewalk, I fished my house key out of my pocket to unlock the front door. I hadn’t set foot in the house in a long damn time. I had a home in Vancouver I stayed at most of the time, because returning to Clinton, didn’t hold any appeal to me. There were too many bad memories here. Too much loss. Too much heartache. The day I left for college, I told myself I’d never return, even for a visit.

I kept that promise for eight long years until everything changed.

I braced myself as I opened the door. Should have sold the place after my parents’ death. Should have sent all their stuff to charities and thrift stores. They didn’t need it. Nor did I. Instead, I shoved everything into boxes, pushed them to the corners of the rooms and left again, not wanting to deal with any of it.

I guess you could say I was a runner. I ran from my life in Clinton. Ran from the girl I was embarrassed to be seen around—even though she made life more bearable. Most of all, I ran from my parents. All because they had hopes and dreams for me, which didn’t include my love for hockey. I wasn’t like the other guys on the team who went to training camps or played during the off season. Didn’t have parents who’d take me three hours down the road to play in some junior league.

My talent was natural. My skills, self-taught. I had a net, rollerblades, and a small red ball. I spent hours in the summer perfecting my skills. In the fall, I joined the free team at the community center. Since hockey had blown up over the last several years, with many new teams joining the league, including the Hurricanes, that meant there’d been more interest within the state to get kids involved. Just so happened the NHL helped high schools around the state setup teams and schedules through their Learn to Play programs.

By the time I left Clinton, North Carolina had a Beer League team and two AHL and ECHL teams along with the Hurricanes .

What I wouldn’t have given to at least be able to join one of their teams. At least then I wouldn’t feel so damn sorry for myself.

Stepping inside the house, the smell of aged must and dust assailed me, along with the stacks of boxes I’d refused to get rid of. Now, I’d have to deal with them. I rubbed the back of my neck again where tension began to build and blew out a breath, trying to force my body to relax.

Guess tonight was all about keeping the damn migraine at bay and figuring out what came next.

I hadn’t been cleared to drive yet, which meant walking everywhere I went or delivery. First call would be for someone to move all the boxes out. Second, send for my stuff in Vancouver. Hadn’t wanted to deal with packing while I couldn’t stand upright without swaying like I was on boat in a storm. Also, bending forward made it feel like my head would explode. I could do without that, thanks.

A soft knock came at the door, drawing me from my thoughts. No one knew I was home, but if they’d been watching... Which, in this neighborhood was a given. In a smalltown, everyone knew everyone’s business. Someone, it appeared, was checking on me. The knock came again, and I answered it, surprised to see Mrs. Sherilee standing there with a casserole dish.

“As I live and breathe,” she murmured, staring up with me with the kindest blue eyes and wry smile. Her long silver hair, once gold, was pulled back in a low ponytail and she wore one of those ruffly gingham aprons. “Good thing I was making two.”

“Ma’am,” I replied, standing aside to allow her entrance. “Been a long time.”

“Oh, look at this place,” she said with a small gasp. “It’s been years, Tyler. Years.”

“I know Mrs. Sherilee.”

“When we heard the news.” She pursed her lips, patting my arm before placing the casserole on the sideboard in the kitchen. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted. Your parents would be so upset for you.”

Once they saw me play in college, they got behind me. Then before I could really get that life-long support and momentum I’d craved, behind me, they passed in a tragic series of events. The ache in my chest never went away. Some days, I felt as though I ran away from home like a petulant child, abandoning my parents when they hadn’t done anything wrong. Other days, I understood why I had to leave. Figured they did too.

Today, neither reason mattered.

“Well, if you need anything, you call me,” she said. “Number’s still the same and we’re only two houses down.”

I remembered.

“Also,” Mrs. Sherilee added, “heard Coach Brown needed an assistant. Might want to go talk to him.”

I chuckled to myself. I thought he’d have retired by now. “I need a few days. But I appreciate the word and the food.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” she said while pointing at the dish. “Paper plate and utensils are in the top.”

Mrs. Sherilee thought of everything. Especially since I didn’t have a lick of utensils or dinnerware. “Thank you. Saves me from having to figure out what was for dinner.”

She winked before she exited the house. “Call Barry, he’ll come get your parents stuff.”

Barry... Mrs. Sherilee’s son. Went to school with him, too. One more thing checked off the list of what needed to be done. Since I’d had all the utilities turned back on before I left Colorado, I could at least catch a game on my laptop. Tomorrow I’d order a flat screen from one of the big box stores have it delivered.

My phone chimed and I glanced at the screen. My pay deposit was in, and I was grateful to the team for continuing to pay out my contract until the team and my agent could figure out the right compensation for me. That was the one thing about Beau Kocur and the owners of the Thrashers , they took the health and wellbeing of their players seriously. I had a sneaky suspicion they didn’t believe for a minute the hit I took was an accident. Proving it... I don’t think anyone in the league would believe me. Though, stranger things had happened.

After grabbing dinner and watching two games, without my head feeling like it would fall off my neck, I hit my room. The last time I was here, I used an air mattress refusing to sleep in my childhood twin bed. Today wouldn’t be any different. I grabbed the box where I put the mattress then went back downstairs.

There was something about sleeping in the house. It didn’t feel like mine anymore. Too many unhappy memories. Too much time passed before we reconciled. Maybe I deserved a swift kick in my ass, but the one to my head would have to suffice. For now, though, I’d sleep in the living room. Once I had a better grasp of things, I’d figure out my next move.

One thing about Clinton I forgot while living in Vancouver...how quiet it got at night. And how dark. Going from the noise of the city to crickets, nocturnal birds, and frogs had an unnerving effect. Meaning, it was too quiet to sleep. Give me horns and sirens. Trains and planes. Give me the occasional, “I’m walking here...”

Still, I must have passed out at some point because when I opened my eyes again, it was morning, and someone was knocking on my door again. By the time I got to it, they were gone and, in their place, a box of takeout and a cup of coffee. I had two guesses at who it could be, and the first two didn’t count.

I brought everything inside and sat on the threadbare couch that once belonged to my parents. I’d used to perch myself there every Saturday morning to watch cartoons. Usually, I had a jug of orange juice and a plate of scrambled eyes and bacon. Those were the good old days. I missed doing that. As I tucked into the omelet and home style potatoes, I silently thanked Mrs. Sherilee for feeding me once again. Woman would fatten me up, if I didn’t pay attention.

Once I finished my breakfast, I hopped in the shower, then got dressed. If Mrs. Sherilee was right and Coach needed an assistant, it was one way to get me on the ice while also protecting my brain. The community center was only a mile away, and since Clinton didn’t have buses or an Uber service locally, I’d walk. Until I could get the clearance to drive, my feet would have to do.

By ten I was out the door, on my way. The smell of fresh cut alfalfa and hardwood permeated the air. Someone was cutting and cleaning the land. Every few years, someone bought parts of the forest to build their dream home. The first sign of that was the smell of cut wood and cut grass. Pretty soon tilled earth, then the scent of diesel. For a second, I wondered who, then I shook the thought off.

I didn’t care.

Probably wouldn’t stick around long enough to figure it out either. Sleeping on whether to keep the house or sell it didn’t get far, especially with the migraine had I building last night. I stressed myself out, coming home. As much as I was trying to give myself time and a chance and find my place back home, everything seemed foreign to me. Like I was an outsider in my backyard. I didn’t know if it would get better. If the out-of-body sensation would go away.

Something else to discuss with my therapist.

Either way, it sucked.

I didn’t like the feeling.

Crossing over Elk to Forest, I shoved my hands into my pockets. I’d made this trek more than a thousand times for countless years. I chalked up a ton of my strength to carrying my equipment bag everywhere I went, in case I needed it. Even in high school. At least there I could put it in my PE locker and not drag it to class. So, making this journey without it, seemed to add to that uneasiness.

Along the way, I counted the empty storefronts. I knew what each of them had been. A bakery in one. A comic book store in the other. A small coffee house, and a parts store. I did happen to see the two new Dollar Generals within three miles of each other on the main highway leading into and out of town. Guess that helped some. There was a new Pig , too. Maybe that’s what bothered me.

Everything that made Clinton feel like home all those years ago, no longer existed.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t like it.