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  Second Chance

  By Van Barrett

  Copyright 2017 Van Barrett

  All Rights Reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All characters are above 18 years old. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART TWO

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  PART THREE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  A Word From Van Barrett

  PART ONE:

  “The Sweetest Place on Earth.”

  Ten Years Ago,

  Spring 2007.

  1

  Best Friends

  – Rustin Kellar –

  Rustin and Clay arrived home late last night after a week-long road-trip through the Atlantic division. Today was the first day of a five-day lay-off between games for their minor league team, the Hershey Bears. It was a rare and much needed rest for two minor league athletes who were always on the move, always on the road, always waiting for their big break.

  And so the two roommates and defense partners slept in the comfort of their own beds. They slept in until noon—what a rare treat!—before they finally woke. They ate a big breakfast together, as they always did, whether they were at home or on the road.

  But time off can be a blessing and a curse for athletes who had such little time of their own. And it wasn't long before Rustin and Clay found themselves feeling lost and restless. Not knowing what else to do, besides play hockey, Clay suggested they pack up their roller gear and head for the park to train some more.

  It was a beautiful early Spring day, after all—they might as well work on their conditioning in the outdoors. Clay always swore up and down that an athlete had to get out of his comfort zone and break habits when he trained, so he'd be mentally prepared for anything to happen in real game situations.

  If you could corral and settle a bouncing puck on a cracked and broken pavement, Clay told Rustin, it only made you that much better at controlling a puck on the ice—especially late in the game, when the ice surface had worsened, and the puck had the tendency to wobble and flip and jump right off the blade of your stick.

  Rustin just chuckled and agreed. “Alright already, Clay! I'm sold, man, let's go.”

  And so they changed into their athletic shorts and tanks, packed up their roller blades, threw sticks into Clay's pickup with a noisy clatter, and raced off for the park.

  Clay, who had 27 to Rustin's 23 years, was full of quips and theories and ideas about how to train the body and mind for the game. Especially the mind. Clay didn't grow up under the private tutelage of his own personal training or power skating coaches like Rustin had. Clay hailed from a cattle ranch in North Texas—not exactly a hockey hot-spot—and everything he knew about hockey, he'd taught himself. A tireless worker who didn't just want to improve … he had to. It's what drove him.

  Clay was the definition of a rink rat who'd made it to this level, against all odds, running on sheer willpower and determination alone. And Rustin respected the hell out of his elder teammate for that. He'd never seen anyone work as hard as Clay to gain and master skills. Hockey came so easily to Rustin, thanks to his early start—turns out, growing up in western Ontario with a hockey fanatic for a father had certain advantages.

  Rustin had learned a lot from his coaches. But in the past three years, he felt he'd learned a lot more about what it meant to be a true professional from Clay. It was one of the reasons why Clay was the Bears' captain, too. His tireless attitude and approach to the game was infectious.

  Truth be told, the closer they grew, the more Rustin learned from Clay. Not just hockey. But about so much more.

  And so the two friends spent hours racing through the park's trails on their rollerblades, practicing their stick-handling and perfecting their passing. Soaked with sweat, their tank-tops came off in a hurry. Their cotton gym shorts, which went mid-way down their thick, muscled thighs, didn't leave much to the imagination.

  They passed an outdoor puck back-and-forth between each other as they raced through the park's trails, as if they were racing up-ice together, grunting and huffing for air, their skates pounding the pavement like the thunder of hooves.

  And Rustin had to chuckle every time they skated past a girl. All the women in that park, from the late teens to the young women to the middle-aged moms, couldn't help but crane their necks and check out the rock-hard, chiseled physiques as the two young men hustled by like a passing storm.

  Rustin guessed it probably wasn't too often the small-town ladies of Hershey, Pennsylvania got to see two young professional athletes without their shirts on. Rustin was fit, but Clay especially—with his penchant to go the extra mile in training, his body had hardened like a rock. Thick arms and jutting pecs. Broad shoulders, rounded with meaty muscle. Abs chiseled into human perfection.

  Hell, Clay's obliques were so thick and rippling, you just wanted to dig your nails into that hunk of flesh and hang on while he spread your legs, mounted you, set the tip of his big dick at your entry and slowly, deliberately, pushed his thickness in …

  At least, it was easy enough for Rustin to imagine the scene.

  It was hours later when the evening Sun had begun its arcing descent towards the horizon, and the spring air was quickly cooling. Soon, it'd be dark. It was time to pack up.

  The two returned to Clay's truck, both men dead-tired. Their shorts were now soaked too—Rustin had seen how some of the ladies they passed gave their bulging packages a healthy stare—and their toned upper-bodies were slick with oil and sweat, but gritty with dirt.

  They threw their sticks and gloves into the bed of the pickup.

  “Hell of a workout today, Rusty,” Clay said in his slight southern twang. His accent was endlessly amusing—and endearing—to Rustin.

  “Always is, Tex,” Rustin replied, in his own slight Canadian drawl.

  Both men rolled around to the back of the truck. Rustin rolled lightly, careful not to put any extra weight on his feet. All that hard skating had taken a small toll. He glanced down and saw the copper-colored splotches that stained his white socks. With every strong stride, his skate laces had chafed against his ankle until the skin rubbed raw.

  But the pain was easy enough to ignore when you were out having fun. And hanging out with Clay was always fun. They did everything together, and it was one big reason why they had so much chemistry on and off the ice.

  Clay pulled a latch and gently lowered the truck's tailgate. With tired but satisfied groans,
both Rustin and Clay settled their rears onto the open tailgate. Under the weight of the two athletes, the old truck lowered and let out a tired creak of its own.

  Rustin hunched over to loosen his laces. As soon as the pressure let off his ankle, he inhaled as if sucking through a straw.

  “Whew.”

  Rustin tossed the skate aside and carefully worked his socks over his chafed and chewed-up skin.

  Clay peered down at his defense partner's raw flesh.

  “You got some pretty bad lace-bite there, Rusty. You want something for that?”

  Hockey was a sport whose players were notoriously tough. For a hockey player to make a big deal out of a little lace bite, you might as well be a toddler screaming bloody-murder over a boo-boo.

  So it was only natural for Rustin to stubbornly decline. “Nah, I'm fine, bud.”

  Besides, lace bite was more annoying than it was painful. It wasn't nearly as bad as, say, getting seventeen stitches right below his eye—which was exactly what had happened to him the other week in Bridgeport. And even that wasn't that bad. Rustin only missed one shift while he was getting sewn up; he was back out on the ice a minute later. (And once they were back at the hotel room, Clay asked if there was anything he could do to ease the pain. But Rustin demurred.)

  “Look at you, tough guy,” Clay teased. He turned and reached into the cooler he kept in the truck's bed anyway, his hand digging through a swill of half-melted ice and water. He pulled a bottle of water from the cooler, twisted off the cap, and gently poured the water over his partner's raw skin.

  “Sorry I don't have any rubbing alcohol or anything like that. Figure water's better than nothing.”

  Rustin hid his small, slightly embarrassed smile.

  “Thanks Clay.”

  Sometimes it was nice to be fussed over—and ever since they started to become close friends, Clay had done plenty of fussing over him.

  Clay didn't show that side of himself to the others on the team. Only to Rustin. Rustin appreciated that fact—it was like being let in on a very private and tender secret. That the big, gruff, tough guy that policed the blue line on the ice … was actually a big softy once he skated off the ice.

  Sometimes, thanks to Clay's caring nature, Rustin liked to picture Clay as a doctor in some alternate universe. Imagine that: the handsome young doctor with the dimples, the thick locks of chestnut brown hair. And the muscles that discreetly bulged under his button-down shirt and trousers. And the southern charm that had you trying to think up any random question to ask, just so you could hear him answer in his twangy accent.

  Girls would really go crazy for him then. Not that he needed anymore help in that department …

  Clay grabbed two cans of Bud Light from his cooler. “I don't have alcohol, but I do have some Bud. Think you can disinfect a wound with beer?”

  Rustin laughed. “I don't know. Doesn't sound like a good idea.”

  Clay inspected the beer can in his hand. “Yeah. Might get a yeast infection or something. Who knows.”

  Rustin bumped his bare shoulder against Clay's, leaned in closer, and whispered. “I think I'd rather head to our spot and drink them.”

  Clay nodded. “Good idea. Game's probably on by now, you think?”

  “I'd bet, yeah.”

  “Sweet. Let's go.”

  The two men threw their beers back into the cooler. They stepped into their sandals, hopped into Clay's truck, and sped off in a hurry. A cloud of dust raised in their wake.

  2

  Window of Opportunity

  – Rustin –

  Clay turned on the radio, but they couldn't pick up the signal from Washington. That wasn't much of a surprise—what was a surprise was that they could pick up the signal at all. That required driving up to Sand Beach, through some twisting-turning back-country roads, and parking at their usual spot atop the highest hill around.

  There, looking over the lush, rolling green hills of Pennsylvania, they'd sit, drink a couple beers, and listen to the Washington Capitals game on the radio. The signal was always bad—it crackled, whined, and phased in and out. Other signals, usually fiery church sermons, often bled over and hijacked the transmission.

  But it's what Rustin and Clay always did; it was tradition. It was fun to sit and listen to the game and imagine that someday soon, the announcers would be broadcasting their names—Grayson and Kellar—over the airwaves.

  Clay pulled the truck off to the side of the road. In all the times they'd spent parked at this very spot, they'd never seen a single car go past. They wondered if anyone else even traveled these roads. Either way, it gave them the sense that this spot belonged to them.

  It was their spot.

  Both men smiled when the signal came in stronger, clearer, like it always magically did when they parked at this one destined spot.

  Clay and Rustin popped their beers open, mashed their cans together with a clunk, and each took a sip of the crisp brew—sweet reward after a long day of training.

  “Ahhh.”

  “Yup. That's good.”

  The radio announcer informed that the game was in the second period, and the Capitals were trailing by a pair.

  The Washington Capitals were the NHL parent club of the Hershey Bears—the team that Rustin and Clay played for. The Bears were the Capitals' farm team, where young prospects go to toil in hopes of rounding out their game and making a name for themselves.

  … Although, some cynical part of Rustin thought, calling Clay 'young' might be a bit of a stretch. Young for a man, absolutely. Young for a hockey player? Not so much—Clay was already a couple years past that point.

  Clay was quickly approaching a fork in the road: did he have an NHL future or not?

  Yes, Clay was the Bears' captain. Yes, he was a solid, hard-nosed defenseman. But in his seven years as a Hershey Bear, Clay had only a precious few call-ups to play for Washington, and all were fill-ins due to injuries.

  He had played twenty-two NHL games, to be exact. In limited ice time, Clay had recorded zero goals, seven assists, and a career minus-three rating. Those stats weren't great, but they weren't a tire fire, either. He was a defenseman like Rustin, after all. Their job was to stop the other team from scoring. Clay could retire tomorrow and still be proud of the fact that he'd played more than a handful of games in the god-damned NHL.

  But Rustin knew Clay would never be satisfied with that. He was a hockey player and he'd set his sights on the NHL. And Rustin didn't dare say it, but he knew as well as Clay did that the clock was ticking on the captain's hopes and dreams of being a full-time NHL player.

  Because surely Clay had read the quotes from Washington's anonymous team officials. They always seemed to compliment Clay in one breath—and then trash him with the next:

  Clay was 'hard-working' but 'had very limited upside.'

  Clay was a 'strong player' who 'didn't have NHL quality skating.'

  Clay was a 'dependable leader' who 'is probably best suited to using that leadership to help develop Washington's other prospects in Hershey.'

  It was a scary thing for Rustin—to watch Clay's window of opportunity slam shut, in real time.

  As far as Rustin was concerned, Clay had to get to the NHL. Because he and Clay were such good friends that got along so well. They had mind-blowing chemistry—in more than one sense. And they knew in their hearts that they were going to be a defensive pairing someday in the NHL, just as they had been in Hershey.

  All they had to do was get their chance and prove it. They had to prove that the sum was greater than its parts.

  Rustin and Clay crumpled up their empty beer cans, stuck their arms out the window, and tossed the cans backward into the truck's bed. They had just popped a second round of beers open when the play-by-play's voice suddenly went high-pitched and urgent.

  “Johnson gets the puck at the point. He winds up! Big shot and oh! Blocked by the Capitals defenseman, Bergman! Bergman goes down! Oh, he's hurt, he's thrashing around, face-down on th
e ice! The officials blow the play dead, as Johnson's slapshot hits Bergman in the throat. The trainer is now rushing over to help him. Scary moment here in Washington as Bergman goes down, and the crowd falls silent …”

  Rustin and Clay fell silent, too. They looked at each other, both with heavy expressions, and both let out a deep, guilty sigh, as they waited for the announcer to give some kind of update.

  You never wished injury on a guy. Especially Bergman, one of their former Bears teammates, and a guy who was the epitome of a class act.

  So they hoped like hell he was okay. But, at the same time, Rustin felt a snag in his heart. A bittersweet feeling of excited torment. Because an injury call-up was one of the few ways a minor league player could prove himself.

  Sadly, realistically, an injury was exactly what it took for a minor leaguer to get a mid-season look in the 'big show.'

  Someone had to get hurt.

  It sucked, it sucked like hell, but it was an all-too common story and a fact of the business. If you wanted to make it to the pros, you had to have some amazingly good luck. Right place, right time, all the stars align perfectly. And for the other guy, who was almost always some guy you had played with in the past, and you knew and respected—he had to have his stars align in the most catastrophic way before you got your shot.

  One career goes up, another goes down. It wasn't anything personal, it was just business. A cold, heartless business, maybe—but business just the same.

  “Fuck,” Rustin snarled at last. “A slapshot to the fucking throat? Ugh. Hope he's okay. Bergie's a great guy.”

  Clay nodded. “Yeah. Jesus. Can't even imagine.”

  A burst of applause popped over the radio as the crowd cheered. That was at least a good sign that Bergman wasn't hurt too bad.

  “And the trainer helps Bergman off the ice and down the tunnel to be examined.”

  The two men listened to the rest of the period, quietly drinking their beers and anxiously awaiting an update. Towards the end of the second period, it came.