Black Queen for the Hockey Hottie

Chapter 1

Brandon

“Olson, Olson, Olson!”

The fans’ chants roar throughout the arena. Pure adrenaline fills my veins at the sound of my name. So raw, so loud, so expectant. As usual, I want to make them proud.

“Shoot that puck!” The audience continues even louder this time.

That’s exactly what I intend to do.

My team, the Milwaukee Blizzard Kings, is on the attack against the visiting Fire Hawks.

Cal Saunders, a right wing, passes me the puck. I cruise toward the goalie before any defense arrives. My eyes are laser-focused on the puck and on him. Everything else becomes a blur.

Everything, except the sounds of encouragement that let me know all the endless drills and training are paying off.

I near the net. The internal monologue I always have before a shot begins, in tandem with the now manic crowd.

He skates.

“Olson, Olson, Olson!”

He shoots.

“Olson, Olson, Olson!”

He-

“Olson—”

A brick-hard body rams into me from the side. Those damn Fire Hawks are notorious for their ultra-defensive gameplay.

I feel myself launch into the air, and I hit the edge of the rink hard, as the skater continues with nothing to stop him except the joint of my leg. My hand releases the stick. It probably clanks to the ice but I don’t hear it. Then my limbs go into motion. 

They flail about, hoping to find the best position to break my fall. But gravity has its own plans, and the other player T-bones my lower limbs, pinning my knee in a way that shouldn’t exist in nature.

I plummet back to the ground faster than I can think. My knee feels sliced in two, and I feel the cool ice of the rink receding, the screams from the stands fading.

Soon there’s a flurry of activity around me and I’m pulled back to consciousness.

The announcer comes over the speaker. “Oh no, folks. Looks like the Blizzard’s star center is down. That looks like it could be a nasty injury with Jones. Even with the padding. We can see a stretcher making its way over to him, and uh, looks like they’re taking him out. Coach Baxter can’t be happy about this.”

My knee is on fire. I’m lifted onto a stretcher and someone pulls off my helmet. My eyes are shut tight, sealed by the pain.

I hear my coach, Adam Baxter, shouting into my ear and panting. Is he running alongside the stretcher?

His hot breath sprays all over the side of my face as he talks. “Listen, kid. Don’t sweat it. I know how much pressure you put on yourself about the team’s performance. You’ll be fine. The team will be fine”

He squeezes my shoulder. The fact that he’s reassuring me so intensely unsettles me more than if he were angry. Then I’m hustled into an ambulance. I hear the doors shut, and the vehicle jerks to life.

This better not be serious, I think to myself. But the first responder’s announcement that my knee is swelling shatters any hope of it being just a minor tear. It’s my damn ACL, and I know those three awful letters can spell a career-ending injury.

My heart beats so fast that I have to place a hand over my chest. I’ve worked too hard for too long to let it end like this. I’ve sacrificed too much.

 I shut my eyes tighter and hope my career isn’t over.

I’m rushed to the intensive care unit, and I don’t remember anything until the team arrives in my room. I’m in bed, my leg propped up with a cold compress, and I’m sure from the floating feeling that there’s something more than ibuprofen in this drip.

It’s a full house. All my teammates, the team doctor, even the owner, and of course our tough-as-nails general manager, Reginald “Reg” Terry, are crammed in like sardines.

Reg and I have both been with the Blizzards for two years, but somewhere along the way, he must have bumped his head real hard because he always prances around like he runs the show.

He doesn’t even give the team’s owner a chance to get a word in. He walks in suited up as usual like an extra from a legal drama, barking orders and making proclamations.

“I’ve arranged for the best surgeon in the Midwest to take care of you, Brandy.”

I fucking hate that name and he knows it. But everyone understands that’s just how he is. His abrasiveness is part of what makes him the best in the business. He knows how to get under your skin, and he’s damn proud of it.

“Thanks, Reg. When’s the surgery?” I ask.

“Doc says right away. Get it over and done with. I need my number one player back ASAP. And if all else fails, your sandy hair and blue eyes will be right at home in Hollywood.” He whacks two of my teammates behind their heads. “I bet you boys can’t relate to Mr. Pretty Boy.”

The owner, Max Krakowski, shifts uncomfortably. Coach Baxter winces. I grind my teeth silently. There’s a general air of awkwardness in the room. The GM feigns oblivion.

Asshole.

“Okay. Enough with you fans hogging Brandy’s air. I think that’s it for today.”

He is ‘kind’ enough to let them wish me luck with my surgery before he herds them all out like stray cattle. Not long after, two nurses come in and wheel me out to the operating theater.

Everything is prepped. The anesthesia kicks in. The op begins, and my future hangs in the balance.

***

Two weeks later Reg lets himself into my condo as he’s done every other day since I left the hospital. I’m tempted to change the locks.

I’m by the bedroom window staring at the shadows playing on the nearby buildings. My frame is held up by two crutches. My fingers curl tightly around the handgrip as I hear him make his way to find me.

“Good news,” he says.

I don’t turn around, don’t respond. His reflection in the window walks in and sits on my bed.

“Brandon?”

Would you look at that? My actual name.

“Get that scowl off your face,” he barks. “I’m tired of it. I’ve arranged for the best physical therapist in the tristate area.”

The crutches creak as I turn around to face him.

“You start today,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows. The team doctor has been in to see me twice every week, so I don’t understand why that arrangement can’t continue. “I thought Doc would do my PT.”

“Doc isn’t your personal caregiver. He has a duty to the rest of the team.”

“Where are we going?”

“Place is called Taurus Physio, real nice too. You’ll like it. I’m sure you can dress yourself, right?”

I give a non-committal nod.

Reg gets up and tells me I’ll find him outside in his car. He is such a complex character. Easy to hate but undeniably good at his job. A complete ass who has also visited me more than anyone else since I got back home.

I drag myself to my walk-in closet. I put on the knee brace I’ve used for the light physio I’ve had with Doc. Then I throw on some sweatpants and a T-shirt and hobble out the door.

It hasn’t even been a month and I’ve already lost some muscle. I need to get back in shape, and I hope this Taurus place is half as good as Reg says.

Reg yammers on the whole way about some new college prospects he wants to sign. I sit there silent and in pain because I forgot to take my meds. Finally, we’re outside an unassuming, three-story brownstone.

The inside of the building is modern and chic. The front desk receptionist, whose name tag says Karen Anderson, is bright and professional.

“You’re right on time. Ms. Mills will see you now. First door to your left.”

Reg hangs back while I approach the door. I push it wide enough for my crutches to get through and hobble into the therapy room. But my eyes nearly pop out of my head when I see who is inside.