Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 101758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
CHAPTER ONE
XANDER
Tucker: I’m asking Darby to marry me tomorrow night.
Ava: Holy shit! Are you going to be romantic? Be romantic, Tuck. Also, can we be there?
Easton: I don’t want to be there if things are going to get . . . naked.
Ismirk, watching the messages roll in from my siblings one after the other. I knew that my older brother would be proposing to his girl soon. He’s been itching to for a couple of months, but he didn’t want to scare her off.
As if Darby’s going anywhere. She’s too in love with him.
And I miss them all so much that it fucking hurts.
Dad: About time. What do you need from us?
The family group chat continues for another thirty minutes while plans are firmed up, and I hate that they’re all going to be together tomorrow night for this important moment and I’m stuck here in Denver.
I want to be at home with my family. I want to be in my mountain house with my views and the fresh air.
Fuck it.
I tap the screen of my phone and call my surgeon, Dr. Rutherford, and he answers on the third ring.
“Hendrix,” he says. “I trust all is well?”
“No, it’s not. I want a meeting with my medical team today. As soon as possible.”
“I, uh, I’m not sure what everyone’s schedule—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about everyone’s schedule. I want a meeting at one o’clock at the team offices.”
I hang up, blow out a breath, and drag my hand down my face. I’m not usually this guy. I keep my cool. I’m lighthearted. It takes a lot to piss me off.
But being trapped in Denver while I hobble around my penthouse near Union Station when I want to be in Silver Springs is irritating the fuck out of me. This is a waste of time. I can do training and therapy at home just as easily as I can here.
And I’ll be fucking damned if I’ll stay here for the next six to nine months to heal. I want to see my brother get engaged and meet my niece. I want to spend time with my dad. I need to tell the asshole who proposed to Ava that he’s not good enough for her.
I have shit to do that doesn’t involve wasting away in Colorado.
“I need to go home.” I stare across the table at my team of doctors and therapists, and all of them look . . . concerned.
“Listen, I know you usually go home in the offseason, but if we’re going to get the knee ready in time for—”
I hold up a hand, interrupting Dr. Rutherford.
“I know. But I’m telling you that I need to go home. To Montana. With my family. I leave tonight.”
“For the weekend?” Steve, the physical therapist, asks.
“No.” I shake my head and lean back in the chair. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. When I get close enough to playing, I guess, but we’ve already established that I’m out for the next season. I can hire a physical therapist in Montana that can consult with you. I’ll do the same for doctors.”
The room goes quiet.
“I wish you’d reconsider,” Dr. Rutherford says, but I shake my head.
“I won’t.”
“Perhaps you can come to Denver for monthly check-ins?” Steve suggests.
“I’ll consider it, but I won’t promise. I’m telling you, this is what I need. I’ll heal faster there.”
I don’t waver as the medical team for the Denver Flurry share looks, and then I stand and walk out of the room, pulling my phone out of my pocket as I stride down the hallway toward the elevator that’ll take me down to the parking garage.
I haven’t been this optimistic and excited about anything since the injury three months ago. I can walk without a crutch, but I still limp when I’m tired, and I’m wearing the fucking brace to keep my knee stable.
The dizziness has gone away, thank fuck, and I only have occasional headaches these days. Mostly I still have issues with sleep and memory, which I might just be stuck with forever.
And that fucking sucks.
It’s not like I don’t remember anything at all, but there are little pockets of time that I can’t recall. Sometimes, I stumble over remembering simple words. And I hate it.
Once I’m in the car and out of earshot from anyone else, I dial Tucker’s number. My brother answers right away.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”
“I’m coming home,” I reply, and just those three words make me feel better. “I’m flying in tonight. Can you grab me from the airport?”
“Of course. How long will you be home this time?”
“Until I can play again. Probably toward the end of next season.”
He’s quiet for a second, but he knows as well as I do that I need this. I haven’t kept the loneliness I’ve been feeling a secret from my brother.