Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he’d jizz hard from that verbal jerk off.”
Durand’s eyes darken. “I’ll pick you up from Austin if you agree to my terms. And if you do, that’ll be the last time you speak to me that way.”
“Terms?”
“You’ve got a choice, Alexei. You can go to the Beckett Recovery Center outside of Chicago and complete their rehab program, and then once you’re medically released to play again, you can play for the Blaze. Or you can play for the Hustlers.”
“Or I can retire.”
“Can you afford to?”
I cut a harsh glare his way. “Yeah, I drink a lot but it’s not like I’ve got an expensive drug habit. I’ve saved most of what I’ve made.”
I’ve got more than $20 million in the bank, but that’s none of his business. Besides, it probably wouldn’t sound like much to a billionaire like Durand.
Durand shrugs. “Okay then. You can retire.”
I exhale hard, looking up at the ceiling. “No. I’m not going out like this.”
“You’ve got a long road ahead of you if you accept my offer.” Durand’s tone is softer now. “Beckett’s program is tough, and you must complete it to be on my team. Even then, you may never be the same after dislocating your hip and if you complete Beckett, you’ll still have to earn your spot on the team.”
“I get it,” I say bitterly. “I’m sure my brother would get a kick out of seeing me on the third line of his team.”
Durand stands. “If that’s what you think, you really don’t know your brother at all.” He heads over to the door. “I hope to see you clean and sober in Chicago, Alexei. I truly do. But this is a one-time offer. If you quit Beckett or have any more public relations disasters, it’s off the table.”
My jaw tightens as I stare up at the ceiling. “Is Anton coming by, or is he too busy?”
“He said he can’t see you right now, that he’s too angry. But he asked me to tell you he wants you to man the fuck up and take this chance I’m offering.”
“Noted,” I say flatly.
Durand leaves the room and I lean back against my hospital bed, not even hearing Judge Judy yelling from the TV anymore.
There’s no fucking way I’m playing in the minors, so I guess my choice is made.
Rehab. What a load of shit. I don’t think rehab fixes a damn thing, and there’s nothing about me that needs fixing, anyway. I overdid it on the vodka one night and got behind the wheel when I shouldn’t have—it happens.
But if crying about my feelings is the way back to hockey, I’ll do it. I can bullshit with the best of them.
I don’t care what injuries I have, I already know I won’t just get back to playing hockey—I’ll be back better than ever. Because of all the shit pressing on me right now, the one thing I won’t tolerate is being Anton’s charity case.
2
Graysen
“You didn’t get coffee.” I glare at my roommate Amelia. “Are you trying to make me kill you?”
She looks up from the turkey sandwich she’s making, grimacing. “Sorry. I knew I was forgetting something when I went to the store last night.”
I sigh at the empty cannister, leaning down to get a whiff of the few grounds left at the bottom. It smells like heaven. If I was alone, I’d probably stick my finger in the cannister and dig out what’s left.
“You need to quit staying up so late,” Amelia tells me as she cuts her sandwich in half.
What I need is some coffee. But Amelia and I have been roommates since our sophomore year in college—eight years now—so I don’t say that because I know she always has to have the last word.
Instead, I open a bottle of iced tea and start making my own lunch. It’s Intake Day, which means I won’t have much time for a break after mid-morning. I decide on a turkey sandwich and some pretzels.
I’m packing my food, and another bottled iced tea, into my bag when Amelia says, “I’m making scrambled eggs, want some?”
“No, but thanks.”
“Toast? I’ve got time to make it while I wait for the eggs to cook.”
This is her peace offering for forgetting the coffee. I nod and say, “Sure, that would be good.”
“It’s Intake Day, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“So this means you’re done with the rock star?”
I nod. “Finally.”
“You did your best,” she says absently.
That’s the kind of thing we always say to each other, so it just comes out like second nature. We met in a summer class after our freshman year at Northwestern, both of us sociology majors hoping to change the world.
And maybe we haven’t remade the world, but we both like to think we’ve at least changed some lives. The two of us took different paths—Amelia put her bachelor’s degree right to work as a counselor at a private practice and I went on to grad school and then started working at the Beckett Recovery Center.