Bitter Edge : A Hero Club Novel Read online

  A Cocky Hero Club Novel

  Ariana Rose

  Bitter Edge

  A Cocky Hero Club Novel

  by

  Copyright © 2020 by Ariana Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, story lines, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental. This book is for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work by not contributing to piracy and purchasing a copy for those you wish to share it with.

  Editing: Karen Hrdlicka – Barren Acres Editing

  Cover Design: Passion Creations by Mary Ruth

  Cover Photo: Adobe Stock

  Formatting: Emma Nichole Literary Graphic Design

  Table of Contents

  Playlist

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other Works by Ariana

  About the Author

  To S.L.D.

  For the love of the ice,

  For the love of love

  Love IS infinite.

  Bitter Edge is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Cocky Bastard. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  Playlist

  Rock & Roll Part 1 & 2 – Gary Glitter

  Enter Sandman – Metallica

  She Will Be Loved – Maroon 5

  Let Her Cry – Hootie & The Blowfish

  The Whiskey Ain’t Working – Travis Tritt & Marty Stuart

  What A Man Gotta Do – Jonas Brothers

  Nocturne Opus 9 No. 2 -Chopin

  Purple Rain – Prince

  Versace On The Floor – Bruno Mars

  Not Afraid Anymore – Halsey

  Bella’s Lullaby – Carter Burwell

  I Wanna Know – Joe cover by Allison Vela

  Love Me Anyway – P!nk with Chris Stapleton

  Helium – Sia

  Die A Happy Man – Thomas Rhett

  Carmen Suite No. 2: III. Nocturne - Bizet

  Love Me Like You Do – Ellie Goulding

  Chapter 1

  Spencer

  Mom and Dad will be all smiles when they pick me up at baggage claim at Sea-Tac. If I know Dad, they will be illegally parked in the driving lane next to the curb, with a traffic officer yelling at them to move, when I emerge with my suitcase and gear duffel at the terminal.

  I’d been living in Australia for over two years. The flight was long as fuck and I was happy to be back home, back in Seattle. I hope it doesn’t stir too much of the past. I left home to chase the last grasp at my dream. Dreaming is all I did on the flight. It always starts the same.

  Home game day.

  Everything involves a superstition. I have to do everything in the same order. Every game day I wake up early, get my gear bag by the door, and give silent knuckles to the picture of my dad from his last game.

  Fuck, I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Before I could walk, I had a hockey stick in my hand. As my mother would tell you, I have broken as many dishes, vases, picture frames, and windows in my lifetime as I have goals scored or assists counted. I knew I wanted to play in the NHL since the age of eight. I’ve had my eye on the prize since then.

  I can remember sitting on the boards for Dad’s last game, with my hands pressed against the glass, watching him. He entered the ice for warm-ups and the crowd was already nuts. They were chanting his name. That was it for me. That was the moment I knew I wanted that.

  After my first fist bump with Dad’s picture, I hit my recumbent bike and get in three miles as a warm-up. I need to get the juices flowing and get my head in that space. My list of hype songs has changed over the years, but Metallica is always the mainstay. S&M blasts my mood into the stratosphere. The deep beat from Lars or the shredding from Kirk sends me where I need to be. In the zone.

  After that, it’s the carb load. All the pancakes. Mari knows this is quite possibly the biggest game of my life. She also has her rituals. We worked out my nerves in the bedroom the night before then we part ways until after the game. She’s been right there. Always there.

  The shower starts as hot as I can stand to warm all my muscles, then I cool it off to jump-start my body for the greatest chill on earth. The rink.

  I’ve never been able to find another sound that quite rivals the place in my soul like blade to ice. The only thing that comes close to it is Mari’s laugh. That slow sexy giggle she has as she flips her hair back while she straddles my body.

  Concentrate, asshole. Game face.

  Even the lacing of my skates is a ritual. It’s always right before left. One time I fucked up and did the left first and I broke two sticks, got a five-minute major for boarding, and we lost the game because of it. Like I said superstition. Trust me that never happened again.

  Pull the laces tight but not too tight. It’s a subtle dance that you have to get right. You can’t be fucking with them during the game. Perfection at the start is the only way. Taping my chin guards in place. Breezers tied and retied. Pads. Jersey.

  Helmet with the cage. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t wear the cage, but my mother won’t have it. I believe the nonargument went, “We did not pay all that money to give you the most beautiful smile on the planet to have your teeth busted to the back of your mouth. You will wear it.” I never go against my mother so the only option, even at my age, was to say yes ma’am and wear the damn cage.

  I’m like a caged tiger those last ten seconds before the board’s door opens for warm-ups. I can’t wait to get out there. The first hop step and it’s off to my second home. I own that sheet when I’m on it from the first scramble of strokes up the ice. I lap behind the net and open up the race down the long side, weaving in and out of my teammates and starting shit with one of my opponents.

  We’ve been taki
ng shots at each other since college. We both went early in the second round of the draft. He was drafted by the Hornets and there he stayed. I was drafted by the Tacoma Thunder and never left. Twelve years. Twelve of the best years of my life. Our expansion team was one to take notice of our second year out. We were a contender every year but one. That was last year. This year we are picking up our rivalry in the Stanley Cup finals.

  My favorite part of the game is the national anthem. The reason is twofold. One, standing up and honoring my country in that way is the most sobering and peaceful experience. Two, the minute the brave is finished it means it’s time to win.

  I get the honor of standing center circle for the puck drop. In this moment it’s the culmination of everything I’d ever dreamed. Game One of the Cup Finals. As I lean in anticipation over my stick, everything goes into focus. I can feel the beat of my heart in my throat. Christ! Drop the puck already. It’s mine.

  Our sticks jar with each other. The roar of the crowd cuts as loud as Prince does over the PA, but the only sound I hear is my stick gaining control. I take three strides up ice and fire a wrist shot that blazes off the post. The collective groan of the arena can’t drown my primal scream of “Fuck!”

  My rival trails me around the net then digs in for the puck. I reach in and he gives the best performance by a center in a supporting role and takes the dive. I take the penalty. Now I wait.

  Waiting. Goddamn, fucking waiting.

  That’s the hardest thing for me to do. I’m not a patient person. I need immediacy in everything I do. Pull me off the line and it’s all I can do to sit there until I get to jump over the boards and race for that next shift and point.

  My leg vibrates the entire time I’m caged in this penalty box. If the zebra thinks that was a hook, I’d like to show him a real one. Every second I’m in here is strategy time. If my opponent is in front of me, he’d better get used to not being able to get the shot off. If I’m hit with a breakaway, that goalie better be ready to hear the horn because I’m going top shelf.

  Ten. Nine. Eight…

  My stick goes from handle down to handle up.

  Seven. Six. Five…

  My weight shifts back and forth from left to right.

  Four. Three. Two…

  My glove starts tapping on the glass.

  Come on! Fuck’s sake! Open!

  One.

  The cage door swings open and all I see is the puck in a lightning pass from my teammate, Garrett. Fuck yes! Here we go!

  I race up ice. Top shelf isn’t open. Be patient. Be patient.

  I hear my line mates yelling from out front, “Behind! Behind!”

  Circling the back of the net, I take a breath and lock eyes with the goalie. It happens in an instant, but I narrow my eyes and decide he’s fucked. Two quick crosses to the right to change direction. As I lay my weight to the inside for the third to wrist shot the corner, I’m blasted from my blind side.

  Even with the roar of the crowd, the yelling from the bench, and the grind of the skates on the ice, I can hear the pop. I collapse to a pile and slide away from the action. The horn blows and I can’t move. I try to crawl to a stand, but my right leg feels like it’s in two independent parts instead of the unit it’s supposed to be. The Kid got the goal; I got the assist and a searing pain that has me on the point of passing out.

  I can only form one thought between groans and feeling like I’m going to puke. No.

  No.

  No, you’re not all right.

  No, surgery won’t fully repair the damage.

  I feel a hand shoving my shoulder, trying to bring me back to reality. “Sir? Sir, we’ll be landing in about twenty minutes. I didn’t want you to miss your connecting flight.”

  My body jerks and my eyes open. It’s not the roar of the crowd I hear anymore. It’s the roar of the jet engines out my window. I teeter in that space for about a second, where I’m not quite awake but I know I’m not asleep. “Thank you. This is my final stop.”

  Fuck. That same nightmare again. Usually when you wake, the nightmare stops. This time it didn’t. It was my reality. Only it didn’t happen once. It happened twice. I did hear the word no. It was the worst no. You’ll never play again.

  The fuck I won’t! Telling me no is akin to setting a fire mixed with gas. When I was going into surgery I said, “I’ll be back.” Even when I was in the first stages of rehab I said, “I’ll be back.” After I was as fully healed as I was going to be from my ACL surgery, I went calling on every team to beg for a tryout. I knew I could still compete. I knew it as sure as I was breathing.

  Every meeting went the same. “Spencer, we’ve seen your medical file, the advice from your team of physicians, while we’d love to give you the opportunity, for your safety and ours, we have to say no.”

  After every rejection from thirty-one NHL teams, begging for a shot to prove I could still cut it, I said, “I’ll be back.”

  No.

  There’s that fucking word again. Okay, motherfuckers. Just you watch!

  My mother cried when I told her I was moving to Australia for a chance to play in their AIHL. My parents understood my passion for this and after much convincing were on my side. It wasn’t the NHL, but at least I’d still be on the ice. When I sat down with my girlfriend of three years, Mari, she thought I was proposing, not proposing moving to the other side of the world.

  She cried. I cried.

  She left. I left for Australia alone.

  My comeback lasted about two months. I was on the ice in Melbourne and blew my other knee. Game over. I knew the minute it happened there was no coming back for me. I was going to rehab down under. I wasn’t ready to go home and face what I felt was absolute failure.

  I rehabbed in a facility that cared for many elite athletes. For a while I was paired up with a former soccer player, Chance Bateman. Part of the psychological piece was to get you thinking about life outside of being an athlete.

  Chance had a lot of wisdom and waxed philosophical about our similar injuries. Even for being my junior, which was what I nicknamed him—and boy did he hate it—he always challenged me to get off my ass and get home to start living instead of hiding. He said it in way more colorful terms with that accent. I’d laugh at him quite often, which gained a punch or two. I’d never want to mess with him. Those who would chose wrong.

  We’d talk a lot about the dreams. They happened even back then.

  Chance was leaving. I wasn’t physically or emotionally ready to go with him. This was our last pub run for a while. I pulled my Tacoma Thunder ball cap off my head and rubbed my face, raking my hair before putting the cap back on with the brim a bit lower.

  “You look like shit,” Chance said.

  “We can’t all be as beautiful as you.”

  “Same dream keeping you up?” he asked.

  “When’s it been anything else? Just mix it with that dream, for extra measure, where you’re screaming at the top of your lungs and everyone walks by you like you’re silent? That’s me. That’s been me. Rinse. Repeat.”

  “You need to get past it. Your agenda of shit to deal with will get heaps longer if you don’t.”

  “I’m not ready. How is going home while I’m still fucked over everything a good idea?”

  “You’re not the only one who’s fucked, Spence. Don’t forget that.”

  He was right. I wasn’t. His path back began as soon as we left. Mine was still at least in my control, to an extent. His wasn’t. At all.

  “Take my advice, get everything done and over so you have choices. You won’t have any until your mind is right.”

  “What am I going to do without you kicking my ass?”

  “Trust me. I’ll still be kicking it from wherever I land. I’m not easy to forget.”

  He was right. Chance’s goodbye caught me off guard. It felt like a hard goodbye rather than his usual, “Piss off I’ll see you later.” I wanted to ask about it, but one thing I’d learned over our friendship was not t
o ask too many questions. He’d been a great sounding board, and it was nice not to have to explain every detail of how not being able to play again impacted me. He’d been radio silent, save an oddly postmarked, handwritten letter now and again. Then when I needed to hear from him, he seemed to know.

  After I was physically healed, I stayed a while. I didn’t have any concrete plans back in the States and this seemed logical. I got certified as a personal trainer. I spent a lot of time at the facility where I rehabbed trying to pay it forward to other athletes, like Chance did for me. I purposefully didn’t work with skaters. Felt too close. Too hard.

  After a while, I don’t know if it was because of the time of year, the pleading of my mom, or simply finally taking Junior’s advice. I transitioned all my clients and said my goodbyes. It was time to go home.

  Chapter 2

  Spencer

  True to form, there is my father yelling my name and waving, pulled against the curb like I thought. My mom is hopping up and down like a three-year-old girl happy to see a puppy. God, I’ve missed them. I roll up, drop my gear, and give in to feeling like a little boy wanting to be consoled by Mom. She wraps me up in her arms and decides she wants to be in the back seat with me instead of having to let go. Dad and I simply roll with it.

  One of the best things about going back home is my mother’s cooking. I swear, even peanut butter and jelly always tastes better when she makes it. She goes above and beyond for my first night home. Sirloins and baked potatoes are the menu of choice, along with her special lemon meringue pie. The recipe was her mother’s and her mother’s before that. It’s a well-guarded secret I hope to have imparted on me one day.

  They turned my mother’s sewing room back into a bedroom for me. Her machine is tucked neatly away in the huge closet on a rolling cart she can pull out to use as she needs to, otherwise this is my crash point.

  “Mom, you didn’t have to give up your space for me. All I need is a bed and ESPN, you know that.”