First Chapter: Aftermath by L.A. Witt
Brent
“Dude, you’re turning into a hermit.”
I glared across my kitchen at Ethan, my best friend since forever. “I’m not turning into a hermit. I just don’t want to—”
“You don’t want to go out.” He cocked his head. “You don’t want to see anyone. You don’t want to do anything except stay here all by yourself. You’re not even on social media. Honey, that’s the literal definition of a hermit.”
Frowning, I looked away from him and out the window at the lake. That view usually relaxed me even when I was wound tight with frustration, and it usually helped to pull me from the dark pit of tar my mind seemed to like wandering into these days. Going out and peopling only stressed me out and depressed me more. Staying home and gazing out at Lake Champlain was a hell of a lot more appealing. The view was peaceful and calm, and everything here was way less taxing than anyone or anything in town.
Which…damn.
“Okay, maybe I am becoming a hermit.” I shifted a little, wincing at the relentless ache in my back and my left hip, and I faced him again. “But I’m just not ready to be social again.”
The concern in his expression deepened as he came closer. “I get it, hon. I do. It’s been a hell of a year, and I’m sure you still have a lot you need to work through.”
Now wasn’t that an understatement.
“Look,” Ethan went on, “I’m not suggesting we go clubbing or anything. But there’s a wine bar in town that’s low key, and maybe the change of scenery would do you some good, you know? Plus it’s attached to a bookstore, so if nothing else, you can wander over to that side and find something to read while you hermit.”
I had to admit, the bookstore sounded tempting. I’d done a lot of reading the past several months, especially when I couldn’t move enough to do much else, and I was itching for some new material. I could always download another ebook or order another paperback, but the idea of actually wandering a bookstore and thumbing through pages did have some appeal.
“Hmm. Maybe.”
Ethan reached across the space between us and squeezed my forearm. “I know you’ve been through hell, and I know you’re still recovering. But I’m worried about you. This isn’t healthy, and it isn’t like you.”
“What isn’t like me?” I asked with more annoyance than I usually directed at him. “Being in pain all the time?”
He tsked. “You know what I mean, Brent. Holing up. Avoiding everyone. Playing the recluse instead of the life of the party.”
Just thinking about being the life of any party made me tired. On the other hand, I remembered being the guy he was describing. And I’d loved it. My friends and I were always getting into mischief when we were kids, finding new and innovative ways to entertain ourselves, and I’d been one of the ring leaders. In college and in my pro career, same thing. One of the best parts about hockey had been the camaraderie with other guys who liked to play pranks, raise hell, and enjoy life.
The person I’d been up until that fateful night last spring? He was a stranger to me now. Could I learn how to be him again, though? Did I even have the energy for it? Because my body was never going to be the same. How could I expect my mind to be?
“Brent?”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t really feel like me anymore, you know?”
“Because this isn’t you. It never has been.” He squeezed my arm again. “Just come with me and give the wine bar a chance.” He paused. “One hour.”
I met his gaze. “What?”
“One hour.” Ethan put up his index finger. “If after an hour, you think it sucks and you’ve had enough and even the bookstore won’t keep you there, then we’ll bail. No questions asked.”
I quirked my lips. An hour didn’t sound like too much. It also kind of sounded like way too much—I still had to get dressed, and we had to get into town, and what if we had to walk from the car to the place? I was walking more comfortably than I’d been a few months ago, and I didn’t feel like I’d need my cane tonight, but parking five blocks away and hoofing it to the front door wasn’t something I could do as easily as I had in my past life. What if the bar was on a hill? Or the ground was uneven? Or there was a thick crowd? A goddamned headwind? Every walk had to be planned for. Strategized. Mentally calculated against whatever physical and psychological reserves I had during a given hour.
Christ, I felt like an old man.
I kind of wished Ethan had suggested we go clubbing. It would’ve been so much easier to shoot down the idea since the club scene meant not only people and noise, it meant dancing (which hurt), hooking up (which wasn’t happening), and drinking (which only depressed me more).
But a low-key wine bar and bookstore…
Oh hell. How bad could it be? At least it probably wouldn’t have sports on the screens, which meant no hockey to rub salt in my wounds. Plus wine bars were usually fairly quiet, so I wouldn’t have to deal with sensory overload on top of pain and body image issues before I told Ethan, “I was right. This sucks. I’m out.” I could just have a single glass of wine, stay long enough to make it seem like I was giving it the old college try, and then I told you so right out the door without feeling like I’d been through the wringer.
With a heavy sigh, I turned to Ethan. “Fine. Fine. Let’s go check out the wine bar.”
His face instantly lit up. “Sweet! Oh honey, you’ll love this place.”
I smiled weakly. As much as I enjoyed seeing him this excited, his enthusiasm only emphasized my lack thereof. Gesturing down the hall, I said, “Let me go change clothes.” I didn’t imagine this place expected club attire, but they might look askance at gym shorts and an old ratty T-shirt.
So, while Ethan waited in the kitchen, I changed into some comfortable jeans and a plain black shirt. Just for good measure, since I wasn’t sure what the vibe of this place would be, I threw on a blazer I hadn’t worn in I didn’t know how long.
Then I looked at myself in the full-length mirror, and that was a mistake. A year of surgery, recovery, physical therapy, and muscle atrophy had left me with a body I barely recognized. Some of the muscle tone had started coming back in recent months, and my upper body hadn’t lost quite as much as my legs had. The jacket and jeans masked a lot of it, though it was painfully obvious I’d lost the hockey physique I’d been so proud of.
As the weather had slowly shifted from a bitter New England winter to a milder spring, I’d been spending enough time out on my back deck to add a touch of color to my skin. I wasn’t pale and emaciated like I’d been after the last surgery, but I still didn’t look like me. Not even close. Especially not with the pair of jagged scars on the left side of my face. They weren’t as obvious as they’d been a few months ago, having finally faded from angry red to a silvery shade that didn’t contrast as much with my skin tone, and I doubted many people noticed them anymore.
I noticed them.
My heart sank. People sometimes recognized me in this town. It took them a minute these days because I was a gaunt shadow of the hockey player featured on their posters. I’d had a high profile. I’d loved that spotlight. I’d basked in it.
Now I just wished people would forget they’d ever seen a jersey with WEYLAND across the shoulders. Then they wouldn’t get all excited when they realized it was me, only to suddenly look concerned and even a little alarmed at what I’d become. No wonder there was speculation I’d turned to drugs after losing my career.
This is why I don’t leave the house, Ethan. Because everyone knows the man I’m trying to forget I ever was.
The thought made a familiar lump rise in my throat. No, Ethan was right. I needed to start getting out again. No matter how much I wanted to just hole up here and turn into the washed-up famous guy the town’s kids whispered about and bragged about catching glimpses of, I needed to start living again. I’d never be who I was before, but I had to find my way to something better than this.
Step one—get dressed. Check.
Step two—swallow a couple of anti-inflammatories.
Step three—go to the wine bar with Ethan.
Step four?
Hopefully I’d figure that out.
* * *
There must have been something going on at one of the churches or the university or at some business or another. That, or Burlington was just busier than it’d been when I’d lived here years ago. Whatever the case, by the time we got to the Church Street Marketplace, parking was a nightmare. The garages in the area were full. On-street parking wasn’t happening. Every nearby lot was jam-packed.
“Ugh.” Ethan huffed as he glared at yet another LOT FULL sandwich board beside a parking lot. “You know what? Fuck it.” I had about two seconds to enjoy the glimmer of hope that we’d just go back home, but then he said, “I’ll drop you off as close as I can get to the wine bar, and I’ll go park in New Hampshire or some shit. You can wait out front or grab us a place at the bar.”
I wanted—really, really wanted—to tell him I could handle the walk from the car. Even if he had to park clear down by the waterfront or Battery Park, I could handle it.
But I couldn’t. So I didn’t. I just mumbled, “I’ll wait. Thanks,” and when he pulled up to the bustling row of shops and restaurants, I got out.
Ethan drove away, and I stepped as far out of the path of foot traffic as I could get. Partly so I wasn’t in people’s way, and partly because I couldn’t risk someone crashing into me. I was in enough pain already today.
While I waited for my friend to come back, I leaned against the wall between a couple of storefronts and looked around. Along the sides of the brick road, there were occasional boulders and people sat on them to check their phones or drink their coffee. A couple of little kids were climbing on one while their parents kept an eye on them. As I watched, I was envious. At their age, I’d have been turning my mom’s hair gray by scrambling up and balancing on the tip top, probably on one foot or something. I could hear my mom gasping whenever she thought I was about to fall, and my dad bellowing, “Get down from there before you hurt yourself bad enough you can’t play hockey!” Of course I’d have kept right on doing it too, because I was young, tough, and immortal.
Now, whenever one of the little ones playing on it so much as wobbled, my breath hitched, and I envisioned them falling and getting hurt. Except kids tended to bounce—my nieces and nephews were evidence of that—and while they might scrape a knee, and they might cry because they’d scared themselves, they probably weren’t going to wind up with a broken pelvis and a hip replacement. Hell, at twenty-eight, I shouldn’t have ended up with a broken pelvis and a hip replacement, but here I was. Thanks to some complications and stubborn soft tissue injuries, a year later I was still dealing with more pain and mobility issues than my doctors had predicted. Amazing how much a person’s life could change with some squealing tires, shattering glass, the punch of an airbag, and—
I realized one of the rock-climbers’ moms had noticed me watching, and she was shooting daggers out her eyes.
I quickly looked away, which probably made me look guilty as sin. She and her friends gathered their kids and moved on, glaring at me as they passed by. Honestly, I didn’t blame her. My sister was super protective of her kids out in public too, and even I’d gotten suspicious whenever someone seemed too interested in them. And how long had I been staring while my mind had been wandering?
Ugh. Maybe this meant I really wasn’t ready to rejoin society.
The jingle of tags turned my head, and my attention went straight to an Irish Setter strolling beside a good-looking guy. The dog’s gaze swung around, taking in his surroundings, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.
As they came closer to me, I cleared my throat. “Do you mind if I pet your dog?”
The guy broke into a smile and halted. “Sure! She’s friendly, but she’ll probably lick you.”
“I can live with that.” I carefully leaned down and offered my hand. Sure enough, she slurped all over it, and her tail went even wilder as I laughed and petted her.
A moment later, they continued on their walk, and I couldn’t help smiling. Maybe I wasn’t so sure about getting out of the house and rejoining society, but I got to pet a dog, so it wasn’t all bad.
“Oh my God.” Ethan appeared beside me, out of breath and faintly flushed. “I swear, if I’d had to drive for one more minute, I’d have offered to blow someone for their parking space.”
I laughed, which was a nice break from my usual funk. As we started walking, I asked, “How far away did you park?”
He made an unhappy noise and gestured in the general direction of the water. “Far enough that I will definitely be going to get the car and not making you walk.”
That soured me again. I appreciated the consideration, but I hated that I needed it.
Is it too much to ask to feel like me and not like I body-swapped with an old man?
But I’d promised Ethan an hour, so I followed him up the street toward the wine bar. The bricks were slightly uneven beneath our feet, so I had to walk slower than I would have liked. God bless him, Ethan adapted to my speed without saying a word. I still had to remind my mom, who habitually walked fast and sometimes forgot that the hip replacement hadn’t magically fixed everything like we’d hoped. I always had to struggle with my dad, who didn’t get why I couldn’t keep up. Ethan never said a word.
Mercifully, we didn’t have to walk far before he gestured at a sign. “This is the place.”
I looked up. In neon letters, the sign declared we had arrived at Vino and Veritas.
Another sign by the door almost drove a groan out of me: Live Music Tonight – 8pm!
So much for low key and quiet.
One hour. That gave me forty minutes before the music started, and I’d only have to grit my teeth through twenty minutes of it before I called time and retreated to my house.
One. Hour. I could do this.
I followed him inside, and we found a table that was far enough back from the stage that we’d theoretically still be able to hear each other once the musician started. Hopefully he wouldn’t be the type to crank up his amp to fifty-thousand-seat-arena level and drown out any conversation within a five-block radius.
The chairs were comfortable, which was a godsend. There’d been a time when chairs were a challenge because playing hockey meant my ass and thighs didn’t fit into things like pants off the rack or narrow seats. These days, I’d lost that physique, but I still regarded chairs warily because it didn’t take much to mess with the various muscles and joints that were still recovering. That was temporary, according to my doctors. A lot of the pain I had these days was muscle atrophy and slow-healing soft tissue, plus old injuries coming back to haunt me now that said muscle atrophy had destabilized everything.
“So how do I know what’s atrophy and what I’m stuck with?” I’d asked my physical therapist a month or so ago.
“When we recondition your muscles and see what still hurts.”
Great. Because that sounded awesome and promising, especially when I’d been warned time and again that, thanks in part to all the damage and deterioration that had been there before the catastrophic injury, that whole reconditioning thing was going to take a while.
So. About that wine…
I followed Ethan’s lead and ordered a glass of something that he could pronounce and I couldn’t. Despite my pessimistic brain wanting to stubbornly insist that everything was terrible, the wine was good. And the ambiance was nice, too. Plus I couldn’t complain about the company. Ethan and I had been tight since kindergarten, and one of the few silver linings of returning home was that we got to see each other more often.
He was also one of the rare people in my life who still treated me the same. My mom handled me with kid gloves, as if a strong wind would undo everything the surgeons had done. Old friends kept me at arm’s length, like they weren’t sure how to interact with me anymore. My dad… Well, he never wasted an opportunity to remind me that other professional players had come back after worse injuries, and maybe if I just put my head back in the game and started training instead of babying myself, I could play again.
“I don’t care what your dad says,” one of the surgeons had said to me. “When someone your age has this much damage already and then has a serious injury like this? Whether we replace your hip or not, hockey is out of the question. Period.”
That had been heartbreaking, but also validating. Even if I would never in a million years convince my dad that maybe hockey was a bad idea when my body was so fucked up that I needed a hip replacement before thirty, at least I knew I wasn’t just a weakling or a failure. I sometimes forgot that, especially after I’d been at my parents’ house, but I knew it.
“Oh, I’ve heard him play before!” Ethan snapped me out of my thoughts as he gestured at the stage. “He’s good.”
Sure he was. Because musicians in places like this were always top notch.
But I’d promised my friend an hour, and the clock still had twenty minutes on it, so I turned in my chair toward the stage and—
Whoa.
The last time I’d been with a man had been maybe a week before I’d gotten hurt, and I hadn’t even considered hooking up since my injury. My libido had vanished the same night my career had ended.
But unlike my hockey career, apparently my libido wasn’t dead and gone after all. Just dormant.
And dear Lord, it was waking up now, thanks to the broad-shouldered silver fox onstage tuning an acoustic guitar and wearing jeans, a pair of hiking boots, and a black button-up shirt. He wasn’t someone who’d have landed on the cover of a magazine, but holy fuck, he had my attention.
Watching his long fingers move on the guitar strings… Watching his mouth when he took a quick sip from his water bottle… Watching those dark eyes glance around the room and exchange something unspoken with someone I couldn’t see…
“Is it just me?” I murmured to Ethan. “Or is he hot?”
“Girl, he is ridiculously hot.”
“Uh-huh.”
As the singer started his set, his faintly gravelly voice did nothing to help me find my breath. He had a bit of a country vibe. Not the stereotypical whiny lyrics and twangy style, but definitely country. I had no idea if these were original songs or covers, mostly because I couldn’t concentrate on the lyrics when I was too busy focusing on him. His voice, his face, his eyes…
Yeah, no joke—this guy was ridiculously hot.
He was white with mostly gray hair cut short and neat, and he was starting to get that widow’s peak some guys got in their thirties or forties, right around the time they started sweating about losing their hair. I had no way of knowing since I didn’t know this guy from Adam, but something about his laidback vibe made me think he’d be the type who would just shave his head if he decided his hairline had receded too far for his taste. And I kind of wanted to see him like that. He was hot like this, he’d be hot with a shaved head, and was it getting hot in here? Why was my wineglass empty?
He finished a song and as the room applauded politely, he smiled and glanced around. And I swear to God, he locked his eyes on me. Only for a couple of seconds, but long enough to make my heart go wild.
Then he broke that eye contact and took a swig of water before continuing into his next song, leaving me wondering how I hadn’t evaporated during those few seconds of being on his radar.
Maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe he’d been looking past me or at someone else for a cue about how much time he had or whatever. I didn’t know.
I just knew I was absolutely looking at him.