Page 4 of One Wild Chance

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Jaxon, my job is to help athletes stay in the game for as long as possible. But the extent of this injury, along with past damage, means there is no coming back. The best I can offer is a normal life off the ice. You’ll be able to do the things you need to do.”

“Except hockey.”

He looked down at his hands. “Retire the jersey while you’re still a hero, Jaxon. Get married, have some kids, and be glad you can still chase them around. Not everyone gets a second chance.”

I shook my head. “Doc, I don’t want to go home to the farm. I don’t know how to take on something like that.”

He moved to the door, stopping to address me one last time. “Then maybe it’s time to learn.”

I shake off that memory as I pull past the house and drive down the lane until I reach the limestone pillars at the entrance with the words LUCKY CHANCE RANCH—EST. 1920 in wrought-iron letters arching overhead. Elijah Chance named it a ranch because he liked being different. Every other place in the area was a farm, and he wanted our name to stand out. All these years later, people still call it that, even though it’s a thoroughbred farm like every other place around here. The Chance family prides itself on being contrary.

The unpaved lane stretches out behind me, lined with oak trees and four-board fencing, the bluegrass growing thick and green around it. Even though most horse farms in the state use black paint for their fencing now, Dad kept the classic white fences. Four generations of Chances have lived here, and my father’s fingerprints are on every building.

A few horses graze in the pasture nearby, not bothering to look up as I pass. Across the pasture, a dark brown thoroughbred trots toward me, her coat glossy in the light. She stops on the other side of the fence and studies me before lifting her tail and giving me her own version of a welcome-home present.

Good to see you too.

I wave and pull out onto the country road toward town, and it takes me almost a mile to stop thinking about the look on Summer’s face.

The gas light comes on just outside of Golden Springs, which means I have to stop at Frank’s Fill and Go, the only gas station within a fifteen-mile radius. The place looks the same: two pumps under a faded green awning, a hand-painted sign in the window advertising sweet tea and live bait, and a screen door that bangs shut behind every customer. The air smells like gasoline, and cut hay, and the end of summer. The pump doesn’t take cards outside, because nothing in this town has been updated since the Carter administration.

I top off the tank and head inside. The woman behind the counter looks up from her newspaper, then pushes her reading glasses onto her head. Next to her is a half-eaten slice of blueberry pie that I’d bet money is from Minnie’s Diner.

“Wait just a minute. You’re one of the Chance boys.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re…hold on.” She squints at me. “The one in the NHL.”

“That’s Rhett.” It’s not the first time I’ve said this, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. “I’m Jaxon. Played for the Carolina Crushers.”

“Jaxon.” She nods slowly. “That’s right.”

People have been mixing us up my whole life. Rhett’s the one people recognize, the NHL darling who’s always in the news. I’ve always been the other hockey brother—well-known around Sully’s Beach and with Crushers’ fans, but outside of that, I’m pretty much invisible. I made it to the NHL but only stayed a season, then played in the AHL for most of my career. Nobody thinks of me first when they hear the words Chance and hockey together. It’s always Rhett.

People ask what it’s like to be eclipsed by my younger brother, and publicly, I always say the same thing. I’m proud of him. But brothers don’t stop being competitive now that we’re older. We just learn to keep our mouths shut about it, even if it still stings.

“I’m Wanda Roy,” the cashier says in a Southern drawl. “Been running this station going on twenty-two years now.” She leans both elbows on the counter. “Your mama used to come in here every Friday afternoon to listen to me and Colleen Cromwell shoot the breeze.”

I smile at the image of my mother gossiping with Colleen and Wanda at the end of a long week. “Sounds like she enjoyed it.”

“She did. She’d have her slice of pie from Minnie’s. Said it was her one guilty pleasure.” She dips her head. “Don’t tell nobody.”

“She always was a big fan of Minnie’s peach cream pie.”

“Best around,” she says before her smile fades. “We’re all real sorry about Miriam. Miss her dearly every day.” Wanda lays a hand over mine on the counter. “And before that, your daddy too. Goodness, this town’s lost a lot in a short time.”

I look down at the counter instead of answering, my throat thick.

She straightens, changing the subject when I don’t respond. “Glad you’re back, hon. You here to take over the farm?”

“Just here to sort out the family affairs and meet with the lawyer,” I say, glad she’s not bringing up the question of what’s next for my career. Truth is, I don’t have a clue.

I slide a bottle of water onto the counter, and she punches something into the register. “Colleen Cromwell was in here this morning and figured one of you boys would step up.”

“Did she now? Well, you can tell Colleen that it won’t be me.”

“You’d look good on a horse, regardless, Jaxon Chance. I can tell you that much. Half the women in this town would drive out to that farm just to watch.”