Page 3 of One Wild Chance

“Mom never told me you were using the land,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow. “You weren’t here to tell.”

It’s clear she’s judging me for that, even though I had contract obligations that didn’t pause for holidays, or basically anything else. That’s the price you pay as a pro hockey player. Home is wherever your suitcase is parked for the night.

“So, is this your new hobby?” I ask.

“Not a hobby,” she says in a cool tone. “I started a flower business. Which means you’re taking my best sunflowers.”

I think of the huge, golden blooms on the truck’s front seat and how they’d look on my parents’ gravestone. I haven’t seen Summer since Mom’s funeral, when she slipped out the back.

“Your mom said that plot was going to waste.” She squares her shoulders, towering over me like royalty on her mare. “That’s why she offered it.”

“You rent it?”

“No.” The horse shifts under her. “We had an understanding.”

“An understanding,” I mutter under my breath. Sounds like Mom.

Dad always put things in writing like a real business, while Mom would donate the shirt off her back if someone needed it.

I make a mental note to bring it up with our lawyer later. We can’t just let other people use our land for free. This is a business operation, not a charity, even if there are understandings involved.

“I have some questions about whatever you and Mom discussed, but I need to go into town for a meeting first.” I wave her off the road. “So, if you could move.”

“I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk,” she says. “Let’s go, Sally.” Then she turns her horse.

I look over my shoulder as she nudges the mare into a trot. She still looks like a natural in the saddle. So why do I feel like I just got kicked by a horse watching her leave? Must be today’s meeting with the lawyer. Can’t possibly be the proud set of her mouth, or the way her blue eyes nearly left me speechless. The sooner I get through this reading of the will, the sooner I can leave Golden Springs and forget all about her. Even though I’ve been trying to do that for fourteen years.

I slow down when the farmhouse comes into view. The traditional white farmhouse isn’t fancy, but it’s clean and cared for, with its big porch and swing. The grass has been mowed in neat diagonal lines, and the lush hanging baskets look like someone’s been watering them.

Who’s taking care of the place now?

I creep slow enough to let the memories catch up with me. Mom in the mare barn behind the house every morning. Wyatt on the fence of the boarding barn, talking horses with half the county. The foaling barn, Mom’s favorite place every spring.

Further back, barely visible from here, the stallion barn and breeding shed are just like I remember. Those were Dad’s territory because no one knew stallions like he did.

Closer to the house is the original barn, mostly a relic now, with its tired red and white paint and the Lucky Chance horseshoe logo on the side. It’s the one my great-grandfather built with men from town the year he established this place. Dad could never bring himself to take it down, saying the barn deserved to outlast all of us since it was part of Lucky Chance’s history.

The whole place looks like a freaking postcard for Kentucky. Folks in these parts might be stuck in the past, but the slower pace has its own sort of appeal, unlike the constant rush of hustling after a puck. Not that I had any control over when my career ended, only how it went out.

I knew it was all over the moment I took that hit to my bad knee. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it again. My sacrifice gave my teammate the chance to score the game-winning goal that landed us in the playoffs.

But it’s funny what your mind does when you’re in pain. Lying on the ice afterward, my thoughts went immediately to Summer—wondering whether she ever thought of me, whether she would even care that I was hurt. A memory of her on horseback rolled through my mind, the sunlight catching her cheekbones, her smile when she beat me across the back pasture again. I hadn’t let myself remember that day in years. It was better that way, especially when I had my pick of women after every game. I didn’t need to think of Summer Daniels, or what came next after hockey. My sport was the perfect distraction, until I lost that too.

I should’ve known that the news about my knee wasn’t good when the doctor walked into the exam room. He sat across from me, brow pinched. “Jaxon, I can see from these scans that you’ve suffered another torn ACL. Surgery won’t be able to repair enough for you to return.”

I stared at him, not understanding. “Doc, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get better by next season.”

He folded his hands. “There won’t be a next season, Jaxon.”

Not coming back wasn’t an option.

“What else can we do? Rehab…physical therapy? How about some fancy robotic knee?”

He exhaled slowly. “You’ll never be the athlete you were.”

I gripped the side of the exam table. No. That was an answer I refused to accept. “I have to play again.”