Injured reserve, p.1
Injured Reserve, page 1
Injured Reserve
L.A. Witt
Contents
Artificial Intelligence
About Injured Reserve
Acknowledgments
1. Antonio
2. Stefan
3. Antonio
4. Stefan
5. Antonio
6. Stefan
7. Antonio
8. Antonio
9. Stefan
10. Antonio
11. Stefan
12. Antonio
13. Stefan
14. Antonio
15. Stefan
16. Antonio
17. Stefan
18. Antonio
19. Stefan
20. Antonio
21. Stefan
22. Antonio
23. Stefan
24. Antonio
25. Stefan
26. Antonio
27. Stefan
28. Antonio
29. Stefan
Epilogue
Also by L.A. Witt
Also by L.A. Witt
About the Author
Copyright Information
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Injured Reserve
First edition
Copyright © 2023 L.A. Witt
Cover Art by Lori Witt
Editor: Leta Blake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, record ing, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact L.A. Witt at gallagherwitt@gmail.com
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64230-157-1
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-85379-704-8
Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-85379-720-8
Created with Vellum
Artificial Intelligence
No artificial intelligence was used in the making of this book or any of my books. This includes writing, co-writing, cover artwork, translation, and audiobook narration.
I do not consent to any Artificial Intelligence (AI), generative AI, large language model, machine learning, chatbot, or other automated analysis, generative process, or replication program to reproduce, mimic, remix, summarize, train from, or otherwise replicate any part of this creative work, via any means: print, graphic, sculpture, multimedia, audio, or other medium. This applies to all existing AI technology and any that comes into existence in the future.
I support the right of humans to control their artistic works.
About Injured Reserve
Stefan Baronoski is on top of the world. He’s got an amazing husband. He’s killing it on the ice. He’s providing for his parents after they sacrificed so much to help him chase his dream. What else could he possibly want?
* * *
His husband, as it turns out, could think of a few things.
* * *
Antonio Pisano has always supported Stefan’s career, but he’s lonely and miserable. What good is the hockey spouse life or the stacked bank account when his husband is always either on the ice or on the road? What is there to love about starting over in a new place every time Stefan is traded? Their open marriage kept Antonio’s bed from getting cold for a while, but the only man he craves is the one who’s never there.
* * *
Maybe it’s time to let go.
* * *
Then an injury benches Stefan. With the two of them home together for weeks—possibly months—this just might be the chance they need to remember why they fell in love in the first place. Or a chance for Antonio to get his hopes up only to have his heart broken all over again when Stefan returns to the ice.
* * *
It’s now or never. If Stefan doesn’t figure out how much he has to lose, Antonio won’t be the one left in the cold this time.
* * *
Injured Reserve is a standalone contemporary gay romance novel with a guaranteed happy ending.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Leta Blake, for sticking with me through the endless attempts to get this story right, and to Anna Zabo, for figuring out why it wasn’t working in the first place.
Chapter 1
Antonio
Have fun tonight, Stefan’s text read. Tell me about it tomorrow. ;)
With a sigh, I put the phone down beside my untouched drink and stared disinterestedly at the flat screen above the bar. Some suited commentators were rambling on about football. I didn’t care about football, but at least it wasn’t hockey.
My phone buzzed again. This time it wasn’t my husband—it was my Tinder date.
Running late. Probably 8:30.
It was 7:45 now. Great.
No problem. Take your time. I’m at the bar.
Then I put the phone down again and took a deep swallow from my drink. I really didn’t want to be here. Not waiting for this guy. Not sitting in this bar feeling like trash. Not in goddamned Pittsburgh.
But where else would I be? What else did I have going on? Stefan was on day five of a road trip with the team and wouldn’t be back for another week or so. Then he’d be in town for…what? Three days? Four? At least one of which was a game, another involved some event or another for one of the brands he endorsed, and there would be a practice or three in there as well.
His life was hockey. Mine was a mix of waiting for him to come home and wishing he’d go back out on the road. Pining for him. Resenting his presence. Pining for him some more. Resenting him again.
I sighed, pressing my elbow into the bar and rubbing my forehead. Why was I even here? Not just waiting for this hookup I wasn’t in the mood for, but…here? I’d given up everything—my job, my social life, living close to my family—to spend the last eight years going wherever hockey took Stefan. San Jose. Tampa. Calgary. Most recently to Pittsburgh when Stefan had been sent to the Wildcats at the trade deadline last season. I’d always gone where hockey had taken him, and for what? So I could spend more time telling my husband about sex I had with hookups than I spent having sex with him?
My throat tightened. No, I really didn’t want to be here. Literally the only thing stopping me from canceling on my date was that I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. I hated sleeping alone, but that came with the territory of being married to a hockey player, and if we hadn’t had an open marriage, I probably would’ve left a long time ago.
Which probably meant I should’ve left a long time ago.
Playing with the edge of a condensation-soaked napkin, I wondered if leaving would’ve been so bad. We’d never been particularly monogamous, not even before Stefan was signed and hockey took over our lives. Maybe if we had been, I’d have figured out how unhappy I was sooner, and I’d have bailed instead of using sex with other men to avoid facing reality.
Exhaling, I picked up my drink. Did it matter? What might’ve been hadn’t been, and I’d stuck around for twelve years, and now I was sitting here waiting for a guy I didn’t want to sleep with. And yeah, if Stefan called tomorrow, I’d tell him all about it, and he’d get off on it, and it would be hot for a few minutes. If he called. Either way, I’d be sleeping alone in our giant bed. Again.
The fact was, I loved my husband to hell and back, but I did not love our marriage these days. Sooner or later, something was going to give, and more and more, I was resigning myself to the inevitable.
Some movement pulled my attention away from my drink, and I looked up to see the bartender changing the channel.
And fuck me, but he went right to the Wildcats game, which had just started. I suppressed a groan. I wanted to ask him to change it to anything else, but a quick glance around the room said I’d be outvoted in a hurry. There were several people watching, some wearing Wildcats jerseys.
One even had #43 on his sleeve. Stefan’s number. Another had a T-shirt with his nickname, Baron, across the front. Stefan had only been with the team since last season’s trade deadline, but the fans loved him.
So did I. But…
I pulled my gaze away and took another drink. I didn’t want to think about this right now, and I didn’t want to be here. Goddammit. Did my date have to pick this place?
I checked the time. He was running late, so I could get away with suggesting somewhere else, right? I could say this bar was too loud and crowded or something. There had to be a decent lounge or restaurant nearby. Hell, I’d be down with a McDonald’s parking lot as long as there wasn’t a hockey game playing.
But I didn’t move, and because I was a damn masochist, I let my gaze drift over the rim of my drink to the game.
They were a couple of minutes into the first period, and the action was as fast and furious as ever. Black and gold jerseys blurred across the screen, players chasing after the puck and fighting it away from their opponents in red and white.
Naturally, my eyes went straight to Stefan whenever he was in the frame, and my heart fluttered even as my throat constricted. Despite everything, I’d always loved watching him play. I’d come to as many games as I could while we were in college, even though I hadn’t really understood the intricacies of the sport back then. I’d just known how much I loved watching Stefan.
Back then, he’d been young and feisty. I still remembered viv
These days, he had less of a baby face. His hair was shorter, and he had a prominent scar across his right cheek that hadn’t been there when we’d met, but he was still every inch the man I’d drooled over and fallen for back then. He also wasn’t quite such a hothead. Oh, he still fought, and he was still fierce on the ice, but his temper had a longer fuse, and he was more likely to channel his fury into scoring against the other team than he was to land himself in the penalty box.
The camera zoomed in on him as he skated toward one of the faceoff dots in Minneapolis’s defensive zone. Their goalie must’ve made a save. Or maybe they’d iced the puck. Or the puck had gone out of play. Whatever. I was too busy enjoying the long look at Stefan as he brushed away some sweat, messing up his short, sandy blond hair in the process, before he put his helmet back on and joined his line for the face-off.
The camera panned away, and I had to grit my teeth against a sudden rush of emotion as I drained my drink. I hadn’t even swallowed it before I was flagging down the bartender for a refill. Two drinks was my absolute max when I was meeting someone for a hookup, and I needed that second one right now.
Maybe I should’ve ordered something top shelf.
That thought immediately made me feel guilty. For all Stefan was paid by the league, money still made him sweat like it had when we were broke college kids. Early in his career, I’d thought it was cute and even a little endearing, seeing him grimace over prices on a restaurant menu while our bank account was in the six figures. These days…
These days it just made me tired.
I let my gaze drift to the screen again as the players battled in a corner for the puck. Stefan wasn’t in the thick of it, so his shift must’ve been over. Probably just as well. It hurt to watch him right now. As hot as it was to watch Stefan play, it hurt because I swore the camera saw more of him than I did. He was barely home, which was par for the course in his line of work, but when he was home, he was exhausted and distracted. Always focused on the next game. On practice. On working out. We still slept together, but sometimes he just didn’t have it in him. I tried not to think about how much sex I had with other men compared to how little I had with my husband. That thought was way too depressing, and it made tonight even less appealing.
I don’t want them. I want you.
The bartender arrived with my drink, and after I’d thanked him, I took a deep swallow as I avoided the screen. Maybe I could at least find a table in the restaurant or something instead of sitting in the bar. Then I wouldn’t be able to see the game. I wouldn’t be able to see Stefan.
Except I want to see him.
Goddammit. I did. I so did. I wanted to sit here all night and watch Stefan play because this was as close to him as I could get right now. Letting my gaze drift to the screen again, I swallowed the lump in my throat and chased it with some more not-top-shelf bourbon for good measure.
Stefan was back on the ice now, and he had the puck. My pulse raced as he broke away and sped toward the goal, and I mentally cheered him on as the people around me shouted “Go! Go!” Then, “Shoot! Come on, Baron! Shoot!”
My heart swelled with pride even as it ached, and I silently joined in.
Come on, baby. Shoot it. Shoot it!
He shot. The camera followed the puck toward the goal, and the puck just squeaked past the goaltender’s leg to land in the back of the net. The glass behind the net lit up red, and everyone around me in the bar cheered. I grinned into my drink.
Nice one, Stefan. Way to—
The camera suddenly jerked back to where several players were gathered around someone who’d gone down. One was waving frantically to flag down the officials.
My heart jumped into my throat. The bar was suddenly dead silent.
The bartender grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, which caught the commentator saying, “…looks like Baranoski is down. I’m not sure exactly what happened here, Jim, but he’s down, and he is not getting back up.”
Oh no…
The screen changed again, this time to a slowed-down replay of Stefan taking the shot. Just before the camera started to follow the shot’s trajectory, the player who’d been trying to take the puck from him flailed like he’d lost an edge. Then they were both out of the frame.
A second later, a different camera angle appeared, also dramatically slowed down. Stefan shot. The other player indeed lost his edge, and he fell… completely clear of Stefan.
Then another player came out of nowhere and slammed into Stefan from behind. Hard. Not only did Stefan not see him coming, he was still off-balance from taking his shot and avoiding the first player. Before he could even try to react, his face and chest hit the glass, which flexed from the impact.
His stick went flying, and I watched in nauseated horror as he crumpled to the ice. My stomach went to my feet as Stefan landed on his left arm, which seemed to collapse unnaturally beneath him. As if his elbow or wrist had given under his weight.
And then his head hit the ice hard enough to make everyone in the bar gasp. He still had on his helmet, but that impact… that bounce…
Oh my God.
The video rewound, slowed down even more with circles helpfully appearing to emphasize the various points of impact—the other player’s shoulder going hard into the number on the back of Stefan’s sweater. Stefan’s face against the glass. The glass flexing in slow motion as horrified fans gasped on the other side. Stefan going down. His arm beneath him. His head hitting the ice.
“Come on,” I muttered. “Enough with the replays. Is he okay or not?”
There was a brief shot of the other player coming out of the penalty box and leaving the ice, having been duly ejected for boarding with intent to injure. His face was bloody, too; I suspected there’d been some fists thrown off-camera before he’d been shoved into the box to cool his heels while the refs figured out the situation. Good. I hoped one of Stefan’s teammates had fucked him up.
I couldn’t tell if the booing was the crowd expressing displeasure over their guy’s ejection, our guys beating the snot out of him, or him committing such a dirty fucking check to begin with. Boarding was so damn dangerous—Stefan could play as dirty as anyone else, but that was a line he didn’t cross. He’d once taken a major penalty for doing it accidentally, and he’d felt terrible about it for a long time after. He’d even made a point of connecting with the other player to apologize and make sure he was all right (he was—it had left him with a stiff neck and a bloody nose, but nothing serious).
This guy, though. Motherfucker. Good riddance, and I hoped they suspended his ass and fined him within an inch of his life.
But can we please see Stefan? Is Stefan all right? Come on, guys…
The camera finally switched to the live feed. Stefan was still down, surrounded by officials and team staff. It looked like he was moving, though, if only a little. His arm. Then his foot. Okay, that was promising. Alive and conscious with the ability to move his extremities—always a good start, even if it was the miserable writhe of someone who was in a lot of pain.
My heart pounded and my stomach turned. Stefan had taken some hard hits in his career, and he’d tried to skate off at least two head injuries before being told he was going into concussion protocol whether he liked it or not. This was not a man who fell to the ground over a minor injury. And he wasn’t just down because he’d been told to stay down. He’d be arguing and trying to get up if he could. That was how Stefan rolled.
