Page 10 of Full Body Hit, Part 1

Maybe that was true—the coaches’ opinions were what should matter, but Chase couldn’t ignore the animosity Auston obviously felt for him.

Maybe Auston had seen something in Chase others hadn’t quite caught up to yet. That there was something off about him. Something worthless. Something Chase just couldn’t seem to fix.

Now he just had to wait until the rest of the team saw it, too.

Chapter Two

AUSTON

Auston collapsed onto his couch, a hand automatically going to his hip, fingers digging soothingly, searching for an ache that wasn’t there. Even two years after his operation, the phantom pain lingered, but he was fine now.

Or as fine as he was going to get, considering the sport he played.

He turned on the TV. Went through the channels. Lowered the volume. Everything was so fucking irritating lately, grating on hypersensitive nerves.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache creeping up on him, probably because he’d been clenching his teeth since the start of camp.

The talk he’d had with management was still ringing in his ears.

This was his last year playing in the NHL. There was no doubt about that. Sure, his hips were fine now, but they couldn’t take much more. His goddamn knee clicked ominously every time he stood up. His neck was a mess of knots from being tense all the time, and it wasn’t lost on him that he was acting like a complete asshole in the locker room.

He had to face the fact that he was too old and too broken to continue doing the thing he loved. His body had reached its limit, and Auston simply couldn’t push past it. Every fucking expert he’d talked to had advised him not to play this year, to escape before he did irrevocable damage to his muscles and bones. But Auston hadn’t been capable of listening.

He needed this goodbye, grasping the hand of a loved one on their deathbed, pleading with them not to go. Not to leave him alone. Because he didn’t fucking know what he’d do without the love of his life—without being able to skate, to compete, to be part of a team.

But death was inevitable, and so was this.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t had time to prepare for it. He was thirty-seven years old. At the very least, he should be attempting to handle the situation with an ounce of maturity instead of soaking in self-pity and growling at anyone who got in his way.

Being part of a team was one of his favourite things about hockey. He should be looking forward to bonding with them, to playing cards on the plane and having dinners when they were on the road.

Instead, he was just…exhausted. He was a dusty, walking husk, empty and rattling and old.

His sister kept reminding him that he wasn’t actually old in human years. But Auston wasn’t human. He was a hockey player. So she could fuck right off.

He didn’t want to pass the baton to the younger generation. He resented the kids in the locker room, their bright eyes and hopes and dreams. They had their whole careers in front of them, and it coated his tongue in a bitter paste.

He wanted to keep this life for himself. Wanted to grip it between his teeth and shake his head until it was limp and his to have. He’d worked so fucking hard and sacrificed so much, and now he was supposed to just…give it up?

Nah. Not without a fight, at least.

Auston was fully aware that he didn’t exist without hockey. He didn’t have a partner. Didn’t have kids. Didn’t have a fucking hobby. He honestly wasn’t sure if he could still read—the last book he’d gotten through was in high school. He watched hockey, and he trained, and he played.

Who the fuck was he supposed to hang out with after his career ended? He didn’t have a single friend outside of hockey. Hadn’t kept in touch with a single person from his town except his family.

He’d sacrificed it all, and in exchange, he was one of the greats. No one doubted he’d be in the Hall of Fame one day. He had everything a forward could win, except the Lady Byng, but who the hell wanted a trophy dedicated to being a good sport?

Hockey was about hitting hard and not saying sorry afterwards.

Or it used to be, anyway. He had no idea what was going on with the kids these days. Like Sammy, slim and pretty and smelling so much like Noah he’d done a double take when he was informed they were ‘just friends.’

Sure. And the last time he’d stuck his dick in an Omega, they were just shaking hands.

Sammy was all right, though. Had a certain grace about him that demanded respect, as if he were completely comfortable in his skin, in his scent and designation and position in the world, which was a lot to ask from a twentysomething-year-old.

And then there was Chase.

Auston prided himself on being a good leader to rookies. When he’d first made it to the NHL, the veterans of the Baltimore Beasts had been the ones to make him feel at home. Their patience, their advice—those were things he’d never forget.