Page 2 of Something Like That

Nick could tell the kid wanted to say something by the way he loitered, wiping the same spot over and over again. He met the kid’s gaze and lifted his chin.

The kid tossed the towel underneath the bar. “Sorry about your knee.”

You and me both, kid. You and me both. But Nick just nodded.

“I hope you get back in the lineup soon.”

“Thanks.” He stood and fished a twenty out of his wallet. That was why he was here in Seattle. If everything went to plan, he’d be back on the ice before the playoffs started. And then there was nothing stopping him from finally winning it all. No matter what Trent and Mark thought.

Half an hour later, Nick’s Uber pulled up to the curb next to a small, nondescript building. He opened the car door and slid out. The icy rain pelted him. Jesus, did it ever not rain here? He’d been in the city for almost a week and had practically forgotten what the sun looked like.

He made a dash for the front of the building and the blue and white striped awning that should provide some cover.

If Alex Dumont—no, not if, when—when Alex Dumont took him on as a client, he would need to invest in a raincoat or something. Wandering around damp all the time was annoying as hell.

He shook the rain off his coat and took a deep breath. His insides were jumping around like a kid on a trampoline. Why the hell was he so nervous?

Maybe because this is your last chance?

Nope. He pushed that snarky thought aside. Not going there. Not right now.

But, if Alex refused to take him on, he wasn’t sure what his next step would be. He’d already been turned down by a bunch of the top strength and conditioning coaches in the country. And if he didn’t get back in the lineup soon…

The thought of retiring, without having won a championship, freaked him out. He tried to push the panic away, but it slipped through.

His chest tightened, and a weird tingling started in his fingers. The sensation of spiders skittering across his skin crept up his arms. His throat tightened and his breath came in pinched gasps.

He slapped his hand on the wall next to the door and leaned his face against it. The plaster scraped against his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted his heartbeats, trying to smooth the out-of-control rhythm through sheer force of will.

Shit. Not now. Not now. Not now.

He concentrated on pulling air into his burning lungs.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

It took too long, but his freak out finally ebbed, at least enough for him to function. He pushed off the wall and glanced around. Thankfully, there were no witnesses.

He tipped his head from side to side to loosen his neck muscles, and straightened his shoulders. His pulse still drummed a touch too fast, and sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, despite the cold.

His lungs ached like he’d just tried to blow up a stubborn balloon, but he forced himself to breathe. So, Alex it was. It was stupid to put all his eggs in one carton, or whatever the hell the saying was, but he didn’t have many shots left. He pushed open the clinic door.

A little bell chimed. While the outside of the building was nothing to look at, the inside was the exact opposite. Clean, clinical, and yet, still homey. Very professional.

He walked over to the reception desk. The receptionist looked up and smiled. No recognition lit her eyes. Obviously not a die-hard hockey fan.

“Hi, I’m Nick Sadler. I have a three o’clock appointment.”

She pressed a few keys on her computer and nodded. “Yes, Alex should be out in a minute or so. Please have a seat.” She turned back to whatever she’d been doing, virtually dismissing him. Okay then.

He headed over to the cluster of beige chairs. Because he’d been sitting a lot the last couple of days, his knee ached, so he lowered himself a little more cautiously than usual. Fuck, he just needed it to stop.

What would it be like to wake up and not be in any pain? Not have his muscles twinge if he moved the wrong way? Not have a sudden cramp that wouldn’t walk off? Not have it feel like every cell in his body just wanted to sleep?

Trying to distract himself, he grabbed a magazine off of the top of the pile on the low table. Hockey Monthly. Steve Fillion on the cover. That annoying smirk plastered on his smug face. He tossed the magazine aside and picked up another one. This one focused on mixed martial arts. Much better.

The bell jingled and he looked up. A girl, probably about fourteen or fifteen, struggled to get inside. She had a huge hockey bag on one shoulder, a pink backpack slung over the other, and a hockey stick clutched in her hand. A purple cast was wrapped around her other wrist and she was using that arm to hold the door open.

“Here, let me help you.” He stood, his knee giving another twinge. Trying not to wince, he stepped over to her.