The Game Changer : Indianapolis Eagles Series Book 8

  The Game Changer

  Indianapolis Eagles Series Book 8

  Samantha Lind

  samanthalind.com

  The Game Changer

  Indianapolis Eagles Series Book 8

  Copyright Samantha Lind 2020

  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, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this novel. These names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intentional infringement of the trademark owner’s trademark(s).

  The following story contains adult language and sexual situations and is intended for adult readers.

  Cover Design by Jersey Girl Design

  Cover Photograph by Sara Eirew Photography

  Cover Models Joey Berry and Sara

  Editing by Amy Briggs ~ Briggs Consulting LLC

  Proofreading by Proof Before You Publish

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Johnathan

  2. Jill

  3. Johnathan

  4. Jill

  5. Johnathan

  6. Jill

  7. Johnathan

  8. Jill

  9. Johnathan

  10. Jill

  11. Johnathan

  12. Jill

  13. Johnathan

  14. Jill

  15. Johnathan

  16. Jill

  17. Johnathan

  18. Jill

  19. Johnathan

  20. Jill

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Coming Soon

  Also by Samantha Lind

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Johnathan

  I flip through a magazine that is in a rack on the wall of this small exam room. I’ve spent way too many hours inside the four walls of one of these rooms in the past year. I’m used to the bad news the doctors usually have to share with me each time I’m here, and I don’t expect today to be any different.

  “Mr. Camps, nice to see you again,” my neurologist, Dr. David Price, states as he enters the room.

  “What do you have for me today, doc?” I ask as he takes a seat on the rolling stool.

  “Johnathan, I’m going to be straight with you, the scans show no improvement. It is still my professional opinion that you retire. Your brain has irreversible damage. Any further damage could cause permanent paralysis or even death.”

  I take in what he’s just dumped in my lap. I knew coming in here today that he was most likely going to give me this news. I’ve known now for over a year that the lasting effects from multiple concussions over the years were taking their toll on my body and, most importantly, my brain.

  “If I quit now, what kind of symptoms can I expect to have?” I ask. I’ve done the research. I’ve read the papers, so whatever he tells me won’t be a huge shock.

  “The sensitivity to light and sound may come and go for a while, as can the dizzy spells. We’ll watch you closely to make sure you don’t develop any new symptoms such as depression, memory loss, or slurring of your speech. If you stop now and don’t suffer any further damage, I truly believe that you’ll go on to live a full life, just one not playing hockey for a living,” he tells me straight up.

  “And if I push it and play for another season?”

  “I can’t guarantee that you’ll live to see the end of it.”

  Fuck.

  “Okay,” I tell him as I blow out a huge breath.

  “I know this wasn’t the news you wanted to hear, but I think it is in your best interest to retire. Do it now when you still have a life to live. The risks aren’t worth it, in my professional opinion.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” I say as I toss the magazine back in the rack on the wall before opening the exam room door.

  “Johnathan,” Dr. Price says my name from the doorway of the exam room I just left, “I’m sure it feels like the carpet has been pulled out from under your feet right now, but you’ll find a new normal.”

  I turn back around and head out of the office. I step outside, the bright sun hitting my face, and I can feel the sensitivity to light hit me like a Mack truck. I quickly slide my sunglasses on and close my eyes as I swallow down the bile that burns the back of my throat. It never fails when I walk outside into the bright light; my body reminds me of the damage I’ve subjected it to over the last twenty-plus years of playing hockey. The nauseating feeling always hits me within seconds. I can sometimes ward it off if I’m quick enough on the reflexes getting my sunglasses on. I stagger the few steps until I can sink against the brick wall of the building where Dr. Price’s office is located. With my ass against the wall, I lean over and rest my hands on my knees, which allows my head to fall towards my chest. I focus on taking deep, controlled breaths as I do my best to breathe through the symptoms that plague me. I can only hope that the breathing works, and I don’t lose my lunch as has happened countless times. This is my new normal. What I’ve been dealing with for months—years, if I’m honest with myself.

  “Johnathan, is that you?” I realize someone is talking to me, and I look up to find Jill, one of my teammates' wife’s best friends, a few feet away as she closes the distance between the two of us. “I thought that was you, are you okay?” she asks, now standing in front of me, concern written all over her face. I stand, still leaning against the building, allowing my head to rest against the brick.

  “Yeah, just feeling a little queasy,” I tell her. I probably look green as can be, so there's no reason to lie to her about it.

  “Anything I can do to help?” she offers.

  “I should be fine, just need to make it to my truck and down some water,” I tell her, trying to brush off what I’m feeling and the seriousness of it.

  “You don’t look great, how about I help you get to your truck,” she says, turning to look out in the parking lot for it.

  “You don’t have to,” I tell her as another wave of nausea hits me. I suck in a breath, my mouth filling with saliva in that tell-tale sign that I’m not going to win the battle today.

  “I know I don’t have to,” she starts to tell me, but the sound of blood rushing in my ears drowns out all outside noise. My eyes fly open as I look around for a trash can, or somewhere not right here in front of the main doors of this medical building for me to let loose the contents of my stomach. I take a few wobbly steps to the trash can, ripping the cover off just in time to empty the contents of my lunch into it. Once satisfied I’ve completely emptied my stomach, I stand back up, feeling surprisingly much better than I was just moments before.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I hear Jill ask once more. “Here, have this,” she says, tapping my arm with a bottle of water. I don’t have to be told twice, so I take the bottle from her hands, quickly twisting the cap off and chugging it down in three gulps. I can feel the water hit my stomach, and I am thankful when the cool liquid doesn’t cause it to flop.

  “Thanks,” I tell her once I’ve finished the water off and chucked the empty container into the trash. I replace the cover
I ripped off and step away from the container.

  “Concussion issues?” she asks a moment later.

  “Yeah,” I tell her—no reason to try and hide it. The hit I took a few months ago during the last game I played isn’t a secret. It was the talk of the NHL for a while after it happened. Everyone that follows the sport knows that I was placed on the long-term injured reserve list, and by the looks of it, I’ll never come off of that list. “Just left another appointment with my neurologist.”

  “I take it that the appointment didn’t go well?”

  “Nope. Told me that if I want to live longer than the end of the next season that I need to hang up the skates. Any further damage to my brain could be fatal.”

  “Oh, Johnathan. I’m so sorry,” Jill gushes, her hand coming to land on my forearm as she rubs it up and down. The brush of her skin against mine has my dick perking up, even if it is the wrong fucking moment.

  “Thanks. It's still sinking in. He hasn’t benched me completely, but his professional opinion is I quit now while I still get to make that choice.”

  “That makes sense. You’ve had a good career, right? Won the cup a few times?” she questions.

  “That I have,” I confirm. I’m one of the few players to have been with the team through all five of the championship years. One ring for each finger on one hand. “Still doesn’t make hearing that I need to hang up my skates before I was mentally ready to any easier. I wanted to play for another few seasons.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find something else to fill your days. And it's better to be alive than six feet under.”

  “You’ve got me there,” I tell her. My body has finally adjusted to the brightness of the day. My vision has returned to normal, and my stomach has calmed down. With the distraction of talking to Jill, I realize that my body never went through some of the other stages that it does when I have one of these episodes. I never got the jittery feeling or the tiredness that almost always hits me right after. “Thanks for the water,” I tell her, “I think I’m going to head home. I’ve got some serious thinking to do and some phone calls to make.”

  “Of course. Are you good enough to drive? I can take you home and then Uber it back here,” she offers.

  “I’m good. Feeling almost one hundred percent back to normal. Thank you, though.”

  “If you insist. Don’t be a stranger, call me if you need someone, even if it's just to bitch about your situation.”

  “Thanks, Jill, have a good rest of your day,” I tell her before stepping off the sidewalk and heading across the parking lot for my truck.

  Chapter Two

  Jill

  I walk into my office, drop my bag, keys, and phone on my office chair before I turn to head into the little break room. I pop a pod into the Keurig and place a clean mug under it. Thank God for quick brew settings, as I need the caffeine boost this afternoon. I spent the morning running ragged between a late patient, a last-minute add on, and a baby that didn’t want to cooperate with how I needed it to move so we could get the images and measurements that we needed for an ultrasound.

  “How was lunch?” my receptionist, Cassie, asks as she joins me in the break room. She sits down at the little two-person table that is pushed against the wall and pulls out her to-go container. The aromas from her food start to fill the small room, and I swear my stomach growls even after stuffing myself not even thirty minutes ago with my lunch.

  “Eh, not as good as that!” I tell her, looking over at the Chinese food she’s just opened up.

  “Ethan dropped it off to me on his way into work,” she says, taking a bite of her food. “Oh, before I forget, we got another add-on for this afternoon at two.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. I’m going to go catch up on some paperwork before our next patient arrives,” I tell her as I grab my cup of coffee from the Keurig.

  I settle in at my desk, waking up my computer as I sip on my hot coffee while I wait for it to load up completely. I’ve got reports to run, notes to document, and then send to the ordering doctors’ offices, followed by a stack of bills to approve to be paid, supplies to order, schedules to finalize. The laundry list of things on my plate is never-ending, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I love owning my own little practice, even if it does come with an endless supply of stress and more hours than I’d like to admit to having to work each week.

  I look over the schedule quickly and realize that I’ve got about forty-five minutes until my next patient is scheduled. I verify all the bills my accountant sent me, and I give her the go-ahead to pay all of them. I start in on the notes and documentation required for the patients I saw this morning. There isn’t usually much I have to change on the final report after the ultrasound is finished, and our machines automatically fill out the required data that is collected for both the ordering physician and any information that the insurance company might need.

  Just as I’m finishing my now cold coffee, Cassie pokes her head into my office to let me know our first patient of the afternoon has arrived. I close out of my computer and grab the intake paperwork along with the doctors' orders. I look over everything on my way to the exam room. This is a pretty routine twenty-week pregnancy ultrasound where we check all sorts of the baby’s measurements, and many parents find out what sex the baby is. These are some of the funniest appointments I get to do in my line of work.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Jill,” I greet the patient, and I’m assuming her husband, sitting next to her.

  “Hi! I’m Hillary, and this is my husband, Zach,” Hillary introduces the two of them. I take a seat on my stool, tapping a few buttons on the machine to wake it up.

  “Nice to meet the two of you. If you’re ready to get started, go ahead and lay back and lift your shirt for me. Did you want to find out the baby’s gender today?” I always ask before I start with the scan so I can avoid spoiling the surprise if they don’t want to know.

  “Can you possibly put the information in an envelope for us? My sister is going to take the envelope to the baker, who’s going to use either pink or blue frosting in the middle of the cake so that we’re all surprised and find out at the same time.”

  “Absolutely! How long will you have to wait to find out?” I ask as I squirt some warmed gel on her stomach.

  “Tomorrow, and I’m going to go nuts in the meantime. I don’t know what I was thinking, keeping it a secret a day longer.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do just great,” I reassure Hillary. “I’m going to start with some of the measurements that your OB needs. Your baby is nice and awake. He or she is actively sucking its thumb right now,” I tell Hillary and Zach as I point it out on the screen. Our rooms are set up with a large TV screen mounted to the wall so that the patient and their family members can watch what we’re looking at. I quickly take the measurements, printing out pictures of the baby as I go on explaining each step of the process.

  I get to what I like to call the money shot and quickly realize that they’re having a boy. “All right, close your eyes for a few seconds. I’ve got to move, and it will be quite obvious what sex the baby is,” I warn the two of them and wait for a second as I watch them look away from the screen. I move the probe and get the shot I need, adding, “I’m a boy!” to the image. “All right, you can look again,” I tell them once I’ve moved on to measuring the baby’s kidneys.

  “Thank you so much!” Hillary thanks me once we’ve finished, and she’s cleaned her belly off.

  “Here are your pictures, video, and the all-important envelope with the gender,” I tell the two of them as I hand everything over. I put the images that give away the gender in a separate envelope and put it inside the DVD case.”

  “Thanks, Jill,” Zach states as he snags the case from his wife’s hands. “I’ll hold on to that envelope until after tomorrow. Don’t want you cheating after we hand over the other envelope,” he tells his wife as he kisses her. I smile at their excitement and easiness. I long for the day I have that kind of con
nection with someone.

  “Have a great day.” I wave as they leave the exam room. I start my cleaning procedures, making sure the room is ready for the next patient who hopefully is waiting on me to come to get them from the waiting room.

  Chapter Three

  Johnathan

  I make it home from my appointment and run-in with Jill. The episode I experienced in the parking lot just pisses me off, especially after the appointment I had. I collapse on the couch in my condo. I’ve lived here since I came to Indy damn near ten years ago. I never needed anything fancy, but boy have I had a slew of different teammates come through as some of my roommates over the years. They’ve all moved on as they’ve settled down and found girlfriends, then turning them into wives. None have been puck bunnies and after them for the fame and fortune that they come with. Hell, one of them even married one of the biggest names in country music.

  My phone starts buzzing on the cushion next to me. I flip it over and see my sister Cindi’s face filling the screen.

  “Hey, sis,” I greet her as I answer the call. I hit the speakerphone button and drop my phone onto my chest as I kick back on the couch.

  “How was the appointment?” she asks, not one to beat around the bush.

  “It fucking sucked,” I tell her, blowing out a huge breath. “Crap, is Mason within earshot?” I ask, knowing that my nephew likes to repeat almost everything he hears these days.