If someone told me ten years ago that I would go from being the number three draft pick in the NHL to a glorified blade sharpener, I would have laughed in their face. Hockey is my life. It’s always been my life. But playing the game, not sitting on the sidelines.
Growing up in Minnesota, I was skating almost as soon as I could walk. I skated my way through high school into a coveted spot as a starting forward for the University of Michigan. My nickname was The Lightning because I was so damn fast. I was the great hope for the Sanford family to make it to the NHL.
And I did…for seven minutes.
Seven minutes and thirteen seconds to be exact. That’s how long I was on the ice. One bad check into the boards, one brutally broken knee, one career ended before it even began.
Pittsburgh kept me on their injured list for over a year before it was clear my rehab was only going to restore so much function. I just had too many setbacks—unexpected inflammation, nasty infection, a third surgery. I’ve still got three screws in there holding it all together.
In my life before the injury, everything made sense. I knew exactly what I wanted. I had the drive and the natural talent. I hardly studied in school and still got good grades. If I wanted girls, all I had to do was curl my finger. Parties, drinking, friends—I had it all in the before.
But now I live in the after. The after is a place where I wake up every single day with my knee hurting. The after is a dark place where I’m in my head more than I’m out of it. The after is where the risk of spiraling is always just within reach. Within the span of two years, I went from starting in the NHL with a two-year, multi-million-dollar contract, to waiting tables at a sports bar in Duluth, Minnesota.
It was Jake who saved my life. We grew up playing in the same junior league. Eventually, we both earned starting spots at Michigan. I was the third draft pick our year to join the NHL, he was the thirteenth. We both went to the Penguins.
After the injury, I shut him out like I did everyone else. But he’s not the type to let anything or anyone go. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he showed up one night during my shift at the bar with a one-way plane ticket in his hand. He’d just been traded to the LA Kings, and he was anxious about moving across the country all alone. He gave me the plane ticket, ordered a burger with fries, and left me a ten-thousand-dollar tip with a note at the bottom of the receipt that said, ‘You’ll have your own room. Oh, and I signed you up for surfing lessons. You start Monday.’
I didn’t think. I just left the bar, packed my life into two bags, and moved across the country into the spare room in his downtown LA apartment. We’ve never looked back.
Here we are, six years later, and Jake is one of the top-ranked defensemen in the League, notorious for his ability to grind men into the boards. He was one of the first trades Jacksonville made. And he doesn’t keep anything from me. I know he’s got a five-year contract worth over seven million a year. There was a handsome signing bonus too. Nice enough that he bought a beach house. A gorgeous place one block off the water with great views of the ocean.
More importantly, I know he was responsible for getting me this job as Assistant Equipment Manager. He hasn’t said anything, and he won’t, but I know. This is the first job I’ve had in the hockey world in six years. It was time to come home. He knew it and so did I.
So here I stand in the narrow hallway outside the practice arena, sharpening Jake’s blades—my best friend, my guide through the crazy, confusing world of the after.
I kill the sharpener, giving the blade a closer look. A few of the guys come shuffling behind me in their brand-new practice uniforms. “Hey guys, lookin’ good,” I call out.
They both grin. They’re young guys, both new recruits. Sully follows close behind them, giving me a pat on the shoulder with his gloved hand. No. 19, Josh O’Sullivan, is a twelve-year veteran of the NHL. I fully expect coach to give him the captaincy. He’s a great pick—grounded family man, keeps his nose clean with the press, and apparently, he knows his way around a grill.
“Hey, dinner tonight at Rip’s,” he says as he passes me. “We’re celebrating the end of the preseason. Be there!”
I wave him off, moving in the opposite direction towards the equipment manager’s room. Jake’s was the last set of blades I needed to sharpen this morning. I bring a load of fresh laundry through into the locker room.
“Hey, Sanny,” Morrow calls. He’s a defenseman too. “Did you hear about Rip’s tonight?”
“Yeah, Sully just told me.”
“Cool. You comin’?”
“Probably.” I toss him his jersey. “A man’s gotta eat.”
He stuffs his head into the jersey. “Cool. You bringing the DLP?”
DLP. Domestic life partner. One of the first things the players did once they got traded to the Rays was start a group chat. Not all the guys are on it. In fact, it’s a sore subject for some of the more eager rookies that they aren’t considered ‘in’ enough to be added.
When a couple of the guys found out I was added, they lost their shit. The joke spread like wildfire that I had to be added because I’m Compton’s domestic life partner. We don’t even live together anymore, but the nickname stuck, and now one or both of us use the DLP excuse all the time to get out of plans.
“No idea,” I reply. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him all morning. “Where is he?”
Morrow just shrugs. “Don’t know. He wasn’t at morning meeting.”
He shuffles past me as I slip my phone from my pocket and shoot off a text.
CALEB (10:45AM): Where the fuck are you? Exhibition game starts at 11.
Immediately there are dots at the bottom of my screen.
JAKE (10:45AM): Aww, you miss me, baby? Need something pretty to look at?
I snort, shaking my head. But then my mind flashes to images of a face much prettier than his…a face with dark eyes, long, dark lashes, and pouty lips. A face framed by walnut brown hair and accented with a little gold septum ring. She took it out this morning. It was the first thing I noticed when she opened the door.
Conjuring up the image of Rachel does more. Now it’s like I can feel her all over again, pressed up against me so close we were practically sharing one skin. I feel her heartbeat thumping against my own ribs, feel the smoothness of her skin against my hands—her sides, her bare ass.
Fuck, I almost lost it when I realized she was wearing nothing but a thong, climbing over the balcony like a damn monkey. She’s fearless. Crazy. A total hurricane.
I’m not gonna lie, for a moment there I thought she might kiss me. That would have been a huge fucking mistake. After six years of dealing with all my physical and emotional bullshit, I’m still a goddamn mess. I’d be no good for anyone, least of all a coworker with whom I now share a wall.
I raise my phone and snap a picture of J-Lo while he’s still got his shirt off. His chest of curly black hair is on full display.
CALEB (10:48AM): Nah, I’ve got this cuddly bear to keep me warm.
Jake immediately dislikes the message. Moments later my phone pings.
JAKE (10:49AM): If you leave me for J-Lo, I swear I’m gonna walk into oncoming traffic
My phone pings with a photo. It’s a closeup of him, hat pulled low over his face. He’s scowling. In the background above his head, I can just make out the words on a sign.
CALEB (10:50AM): Why the hell are you at the DMV?
My phone rings and I answer, tucking it under my ear as I start the process of organizing the locker room. It always looks like a tornado blasted through whenever the guys use it.
“Man, don’t get me started,” Jake mutters.
“What happened?” I nod at Jerry, the other assistant equipment manager. We both get to work straightening things up.
Jake groans. “Apparently, whichever genius helped me the last time messed up my fuckin’ ID. Flipped my birthdate around.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, I think Vicki was ready to cancel my contract if I didn’t come get it fixed. She’s been hounding me for like two weeks. I just kept forgetting.”
“Are you missing this game then?”
“Yeah, we all gotta keep Vic happy, right?”
“Totally,” I reply, tossing a used banana peel in the trash.
He groans again. “There’s still like a thousand people ahead of me in this line. And hey, you never told me what happened with this new doc. What’s her name again?”
The group chat has been blowing up for the last hour as news of Rachel’s presence spread. Novy was the first in the chat with a ‘whoa, hot doc alert.’ Since then, the guys have been playing ‘hot doc spotted.’ I think based on the last ping she’s somewhere over in the PT suite.
“Uhhh…nothing else happened,” I say, lying through my teeth.
I told him about the dildo. I don’t know why I’m not telling him about the balcony. There was just something about it…her vulnerability at the end. It was funny until it wasn’t. I feel protective over her.
“Oh, shit—hey, they just called my number. Gotta go.”
“K—hey, are you comin’ here today?”
But he hangs up before I even finish the sentence. Asshole. He’s always doing that.
“Hey,” says Jerry. “What’s this I hear about a hot new doc on the block?”
I groan. We’re only two hours in to her first day and already the team is buzzing like a hive of damn bees. This can only end in disaster. My plan is to just sit back, grab the popcorn, and watch as she eats them all alive.
