Bound

Ryke

March 2011 – 21 months earlier – Ryke

My skin had stopped feeling the heat of the steaming shower water pounding my back. The numbness was blissful. I swore Montreal had the best locker rooms of any team in the NHL. I loved it when we played here.

I rubbed my face, fatigue setting in. After a long night of travel, I'd slept like shit in the hotel room with kids running up and down the hallways all morning. Tonight the guys would want me to go out, but all I wanted to do was go back to my room, talk to Maggie, and get some sleep.

"Hurry up, asshole," my teammate Caleb said. I was the last one in the shower, and they all wanted to go eat dinner. But the water was soaking away the pain of the hard punches to my side during the game. Fucking Lee Waggoner was the biggest show boater in the league. I planned to repay him the next time they came to Chicago.

I switched off the water and the pain returned instantly. I'd need some major ibuprofen before bed tonight. It would also help with the headache I'd inevitably get from talking to Mag. She hated it when I was on the road.

I exhaled loudly as I approached my locker. It was adorned with a large color poster of the ad I'd just done. I shot my middle finger in the air as guys snickered and laughed around the room. They were never letting me live this underwear ad down. The poster was me in a tight pair of boxer briefs, part of the black tattoo on my hip visible above the waistband. I had my hands low on my hips and was giving the "wicked grin" the photographer had gotten out of me.

"And you made the paper here," said Tom LaRouche, another forward on the team. He jumped on a bench and waved it in the air, reading from it. "Hockey heartthrob Jason Ryker will be available after tonight's game to sign photos from his new ad campaign. The tall, dark and sculpted Ryker has attracted a substantial female fan base."

I drowned out the obnoxious comments and gestures. Acknowledging them would only make it worse, and I was in no mood.

Right after I ripped down the poster, I dug through my bag for my phone. 21 missed calls. What the hell? Was Maggie freaking out about something? I was about to scroll through the calls when a voice interrupted my train of thought.

"Ryke, coach wants to see you," another teammate, Paul Brown said. I only had a towel around my waist, but I knew Jack Renner didn't like to be kept waiting, so I pulled on boxers and jeans without drying off. I shook the water out of my hair and headed for the locker room's small office.

Jack was alone, hunched over a laptop, squinting at the screen. Why the fuck he didn't get glasses was beyond me. We all knew he needed them.

"Hey, what's up?" I asked, holding the wood door open. His face dropped when he looked at me, and I got a bad vibe. There was no way I was being traded ... was there? He wouldn't tell me on a road trip. Besides, I was the second highest paid player on the team. But maybe they wanted to cut payroll. Maggie wouldn't want to move, she loved Chicago.

"Ryke, come in and sit down. Close the door."

"Is something wrong?" My stomach clenched as I sank into a folding chair. I'd been good with money, but I was only 25 and I planned on playing and banking a lot more for several years. I'd left college for this job; and while I wasn't sorry, I had a lot riding on it.

The rolling leather chair behind the empty visiting coaches' desk squealed as Jack got up and walked to the other side of the room. The creases around his eyes grew deeper and he pressed his lips together. I knew that look; he was thinking. He pretended he was reading a poster on the wall as he ran a hand through his short salt and pepper hair.

Jack sighed and sat down on the corner of the beat-up wood desk. "There's no easy way to say this, son. I wish like hell it wasn't true. But the team's corporate office got several calls during the game and I saw when I got back to my phone that I did, too. I'm afraid it's about your wife."

"Maggie?" I could suddenly hear the sound of my heart beating in my ears, and it was loud.

"Yeah. Ryke . . ." He looked at his hands and sighed deeply before meeting my gaze. "There was an accident this evening in Chicago. She was hit by a drunk driver and killed instantly."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "No, she'd already be home by now. She wouldn't have been out at this hour."

"It happened several hours ago. The hospital tried to reach you, but with the game ..."

Tears burned my eyes and blurred the dilapidated desk. My lips dried as my mouth hung open limply. I wanted to speak, but nothing would come out.

"Listen, we've arranged a flight home for you tonight," Jack said. "Calvin's gonna go with you."

Why would I need the assistant coach to go with me? I could fly home alone.

"That's okay," I said, rising from the chair. An image of Maggie's smiling face filled my head, her glossy black hair blowing in the breeze as we walked on Michigan Avenue. Maggie. My best friend. My biggest supporter. My wife. Dead. Her hair would never blow in the breeze again.

I tried to stand up, but a wave of nausea hit me like a fist to the gut. I sank back into the chair and felt Jack's hand squeezing my shoulder.

I was a 25-year-old widower. Suddenly I wished more than anything that Jack had called me in here to say I was being traded instead.