Damn. It’s more serious than I expected. But I did blindside Raduloff, and he could have been seriously injured. He’s on concussion protocol now. Because of me.

“And before you can return, we require that you speak to someone.”

“Speak to someone?” I glance over at the lady the league sent over.

Distractedly, he nods. “Yes. we requiring you to work with a therapist and they will sign off on your suitability to return once they’re satisfied that you have your anger, frustrations, or whatever it is sorted out. Because what happened yesterday can’t happen again.”

Fuck.

Talking about feelings isn’t my strong point. I certainly don’t need anger management, or any kind of therapy. I just need a second to fucking breathe.

I haven’t even begun to process the gaping hole my father’s sudden death has left in my life. He died just as the season started, so I couldn’t fall apart then. I told myself I’d deal with it, just not yet.

Not only am I trying to come to terms with losing my dad, but I also feel guilty that my mother and brothers need me back home in Colorado. But Mom insisted that I stay in Boston, playing hockey like my dad would have wanted.

I look up, realizing Coach is still waiting for my response.

My mouth is dry, but I don’t dare ask him for a bottle of water. I’m not exactly in a position to be asking for favors right now, no matter how small.

“Okay,” I hear myself say, because what other choice do I have?

Wilder hands me a sheet of paper. “These are the approved sports therapists. Pick one and set up the appointment. Sooner rather than later.”

“Sure,” I manage to say.

“The league doesn’t tolerate this kind of shit, kid. Not anymore. The ice isn’t the place for some frat-party brawl. It’s your workplace, and you’re not getting the job done. When you don’t get the job done, we have to make tough decisions. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

I take a deep breath, trying to get my breathing under control. I understand exactly what he’s saying. They’re close to ripping up my multimillion-dollar contract if I don’t get my shit sorted out.

“Yes, sir.” I swallow and hold out my hand. “I understand what you’re saying.”

2

SUMMER

I step out onto the tarmac where the plane waits in the distance. Shouldering my bag, I get in line, shivering in the cold air. It looks like it’s going to snow, and I’m not really dressed for it. It’s only October. Instead of snow boots and a thick coat, I’m wearing high-heeled ankle boots and a too-thin jacket, but at least I thought to bring mittens.