Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
I’m cleaning up the kitchen after making dinner when I hear the front door open and close. Freddie barks excitedly and rushes off to investigate.
Who the heck would be coming into the house? Ryan’s still out of town, and Ada doesn’t have a key. I locked the front door, right? I’m pretty sure I locked it.
Before I think it through, I grab a knife from the counter and press my back against the wall that separates the dining room from the kitchen.
My heart rate skyrockets, anxiety paralyzes me, then spurs me to action. Whoever the intruder is, they’ll have to come through this way to get to me. I should probably cut down on the true crime documentaries.
I try to slow my breathing and formulate a plan that doesn’t involve manslaughter. Even if it’s self-defense, I really do not want to kill anyone. Footsteps approach, and before I can think better of it, I call out, “I’m armed and dangerous!” Spinning away from the wall, knife raised and ready.
“AHHHHH—Hannah, it’s me! Dominic!”
I press a hand to my chest. “Holy crap, why don’t you ring the doorbell like a normal person?! And sneaking up when you know I’m here alone, is that really the best idea?”
“I’m not sure I’d call this sneaking, but fair point. Sorry,” Dom says, but I catch the snicker as I put the knife back on the counter. He bends down to give Freddie, who’s panting happily and proving what a poor guard dog he is, some love.
“What?” I scowl in his direction.
“I’m armed and dangerous,” he mocks, in a high pitch to mimic me. Then he breaks into a fit of laughter, clutching his stomach as he doubles over. “I think you need to work on your intimidation tactics. Maybe Volk can give you a lesson.”
I roll my eyes, feigning annoyance, but can’t help the laugh that escapes. He’s right, it was pitiful. “What’re you doing here?”
“I was bored, so I figured I’d see what you were up to.”
“Not used to being left behind when the team travels?”
He frowns. “This isn’t my first time on injured reserve, but being alone in that big house is… lonely.”
I nod in understanding, but I’m unable to ignore the elephant in the room any longer. “Uh, what’s that on your face?”
“Huh?”
“Ya know, this.” I gesture to my upper lip.
“Oh, it’s a mustache. You’ve never seen one?” he asks genuinely.
The last time I saw him, he had a full beard, but now it’s trimmed back to a couple of days’ stubble, leaving a thicker mustache. “I know what a mustache is, Dominic, but why do you have one? You kind of look like an 80s porn star.”
“You watch a lot of 80s porn, Hannah? Kinky.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Does Logan know?”
“Ugh, you’re impossible.” I shove his shoulder and then hide my face in my palms. Not because I’m watching lots of 80s porn.
“I’ve heard worse.” He shrugs.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re rocking a stache?” I ask again, returning to my task of wiping down the counters.
“We aren’t going to the playoffs, so I had to shave off the start of my playoff beard. I’ll admit, starting a playoff beard at all was probably overly ambitious.”
That answers absolutely nothing. “Okay…”
“So, I figured I’d try a mustache. Maybe it will bring good luck for next season, like a warm-up to the playoff beard. A… season stache.”
Hockey players and their flawed logic.
I eye him suspiciously, but nope, he’s serious. He walks over to the hall mirror, turning his head from side to side to check himself out from all angles. “I kind of like it. What do you think?” he muses.
I give him two thumbs-up, resisting the urge to tell him he looks absolutely ridiculous. Holding up the glass container of leftovers, I ask, “Did you eat? I made chicken marsala and have leftovers. Want some?”
“Yes.” He pumps an arm in the air. “Having girl friends has its perks. Lo never makes me dinner.”
“I didn’t make you dinner.”
He dismisses it with a wave. “Semantics.”
I prepare a plate for him and pop it into the microwave. Once it’s heated, I place it on the kitchen island, where he’s made himself comfortable. It doesn’t take long for him to scarf the whole thing down. “Thanks, that was good. Want to hang and watch something?”
This is unfamiliar territory for me; I’ve only been around Dom when Ryan is around, but I have nothing better to do. After watching the Saints’ pitiful loss last night, I’m glad they aren’t playing tonight. Hopefully, the day off will give them a chance to regroup for their second away game tomorrow. Honestly, though, I’m more interested in counting down the days until Ryan is home than in his hockey record.
“Yeah, sure,” I tell Dom.
We head to the couch, taking up separate corners. Dom grabs the remote and stops on a channel playing this week’s episode of You’re The One .
“Pause it! We can’t watch this without Ryan,” I shout.
“What? Why not?”
“It’s like the first rule of relationships… Okay maybe not the first one, but pretty high on the list… You can’t watch the show you watch together, alone. It’s practically cheating.”
“Ahh, you said relationship. Logan hasn’t told me about this development. How dare he keep something like this from me after all I’ve done to help make this happen.”
I guess technically we aren’t in a relationship, at least not officially. I’m pretty sure we’re on the same page though, regarding cheating via TV shows and other people. But I’m not sure how Dominic plays into all that. So, I’m still not tracking his “after all I’ve done” comment. “Umm, excuse me? But what have you done?”
He brushes me off with a wave and chuckles. “Couples are weird, man.”
He’s saved from interrogation when my phone vibrates with an incoming FaceTime call, and I smile. “Hey, Ry.”
“Is it okay for her to cheat on you, Logan?” Dom yells in the background.
“What’s going on there?” Ryan’s brows pull together.
I flip the screen around to the television, where bachelor Matt’s smiling face is frozen. “He’s talking about watching it without you.”
“That wasn’t funny.” Ryan lets out a long exhale, and Dom cracks up.
“Sorry, he’s your friend… I told him it’s practically cheating if we watch it without you.”
“Damn straight.”
“Hey! We’re friends now, too,” Dom reminds me, lounging back on the couch.
“Why’s he there anyway?” Ryan asks.
“I love it when you talk about me like I’m not here,” Dom chirps.
“I don’t know, he just showed up. I nearly stabbed him with a kitchen knife.” I fill Ryan in on his friend’s lack of boundaries.
He scrubs his hand over his face, his hair and skin look wet with perspiration. “I’m going to have to take back his key.”
“You will not!” Dom shouts. God, he’s loud.
“What’re you up to?” I ask Ryan.
“I was cycling in the hotel gym, trying to flush out my sore legs, but heading back to my room now. I’ll call you back after I shower. I just wanted to see your face first.” He winks, much smoother than I’m ever able to accomplish.
“Okay, I…” I clear my throat, my eyes darting to Dominic, a reminder that I’m not alone. “Have a good shower. Bye!” I say in a rush.
I direct my attention back to the television, where Dom is playing the show I told him not to. “Hey!”
“Okay, okay.” He shuts it off and scrolls through apps for something else to watch.
“It’s kind of funny how dramatically your opinion of the show has changed,” I say.
“I admit, it is entertaining.”
“I should submit you for the season filming this summer. You’d be the perfect bachelor.”
“Pfft. Don’t you think the first step would be dating one woman? It seems a bit intimidating to go from no girlfriends to twenty-four.”
“I don’t know. It might be good for you, you know, being a commitment-phobe. Plus, I’m sure most of it is scripted. No one really falls in love on shows like this.”
His head tilts side to side as he considers. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
Dom eventually lands on another team’s hockey game, and I don’t complain. The sound of the commentators is punctuated by Dom’s occasional voiceover. I glance at him, sprawled out on the couch like he belongs here, and realize how much I appreciate the company. How much I’ve grown to love this little family of crazy hockey players and even crazier women, in the best possible way. The thought of Ryan playing somewhere else next season and losing this tugs at my chest. But then I think about the five days until he’s home and realize that, as much as I’d miss this, I could never handle missing him .
When Dominic shows up again the next day, I’m not even surprised. At least this time, he knocks.
“Come to watch the game?” I ask, letting him in.
“Don’t sound so excited, geez.”
He once again makes himself at home in our living room and puts on the Saints’ game.
“Did Lo ever give you that book?” he asks.
He sent a book home with Ryan after practice last week. We’ve bonded over our shared love of reading, but while I prefer a good psychological thriller, Dom ironically likes romance. “Yeah, I see why you like it. It’s practically porn.”
“Nah, I’m in it for the romance… Carly and Drew, swoon.”
His deadpan face makes me clutch my stomach as I dissolve into laughter. “You’re an anomaly, Dominic Fox.”
I flinch as he slaps his hands down on his thighs, drawing my attention back to the television. “Fuck, that was a sloppy pass,” Dom mutters.
It’s true, they’re looking just as off their game as they did the other night. The second period has just started, and by the looks of it, they’re going to add another loss to their record playing against Colorado. “Yeah, this is kinda painful to watch.”
When the buzzer sounds at the end of the second period, the Saints are down by two. When the new line comes out at the start of the third, I’m surprised to see Ryan playing on Jace’s wing. I guess in their desperation to turn this game around, they’re switching up the lines.
“Oh boy, I’m sure Lo loves this,” Dominic says, voicing my thoughts. “What was Coach even thinking? This is a recipe for disaster.”
I nod, then scoot to the edge of the couch, my feet bouncing restlessly, watching as Ryan, Jace, and Helm, the other winger, attempt to break into the offensive zone.
Like all the other bad luck that’s followed Ryan since I moved here, it’s hard not to feel like this is somehow my fault. I’m the reason Jace even came to Chicago, why Ryan’s contract might not get extended, and now they’re changing his normal center forward position to a right winger? And on Jace’s wing of all people. Just when I think the dominoes are done falling, another one is knocked down.
They get through their first shift together without issue, but it’s clear it’s not a great match. “Think they’ll change the lines back?” I ask.
“Fuck, I hope so. It’s clear there’s no chemistry there.”
“I need a glass of wine. Want anything?”
I don’t bother waiting for his response and only catch his “No thanks” as I twist off the cap of pinot grigio, too worked up to deal with opening one of the nicer bottles.
“Fuck!” Dom’s shout startles me as I’m putting the wine back in the fridge. I quicken my steps, assuming Colorado must have scored again, but when I glance at the huge flat screen, the play is paused, and Ryan is down on his knees, head resting on the ice, cradling his elbow as if trying to hold his arm in place. I can’t make out his number or see his face, but I know it’s him.
“What happened?” My voice is shaky even to my own ears.
“They collided center ice. Didn’t see each other coming. Both went down, but Ryan’s not getting up.”
“Who did he run into?”
“Knolls.”
Because of course he did. I know Dom is watching me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Ryan on the ice.
“What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he getting up?”
“Don’t know. I’m sure he’s fine. Come sit down.” Dom pats the cushion next to him.
I sink into the couch, but my gaze is still fixed on the screen, willing Ryan to get up. Any second now. He’ll get up. “Can you rewind it? I want to see what happened,” I mutter.
Freddie’s wet nose nudges my hand, accompanied by a low whine. I run my fingers through his shaggy fur, trying to ground myself.
Dom eyes me skeptically. “I don’t think you need to see that. It probably looks worse than it actually is.”
He’s right. My thoughts are already racing faster than a NASCAR stock car. What’s wrong with him? Is it just his arm or is it something worse? Did he hit his head when he went down? Why isn’t he getting up? Seeing the hit would only make it worse.
But it’s that last question I can’t shake. I’ve seen him go down countless times over the years, but he’s always gotten back up.
I stand, place my untouched glass of wine on the coffee table, and pace in front of the television. “You’re right, it’s better to stick with the live feed so we don’t miss anything.”
There are two people in Saints polos kneeling by Ryan’s side, talking in his ear. “Are they doctors?” I ask, even though I already know they’re the team’s athletic trainers.
I don’t hear Dom’s response past the buzzing in my ears. What if he is seriously hurt? How long has he been down? It feels like an hour, but I know it can’t be more than a few minutes. My spiraling worry doesn’t stop. “Why isn’t he getting up?” I mutter again to myself.
“Hannah, come sit. It’s all right,” Dom tries again, but this time, I can’t stay still. His uncharacteristic somberness only heightens my anxiety. “Look, he’s getting up.”
He is getting up, but not on his own. The medical staff assists him off the ice, and the cameras zoom in on his face, capturing the grimace that reveals just how much pain he’s in. He’s too pale, a bead of sweat dripping from his brow. It’s probably from the exertion of playing, not because of the injury , I try to assure myself.
“When will he have his phone? Can you call someone on staff to check in?” I ask Dom, my voice still shaking.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry , I repeat in my head as I watch Ryan disappear down the tunnel. You’d think seeing him get up would ease some of the fear, but not knowing what’s happening, makes it worse.
I don’t know why I’m so emotional. Hockey is a physical game, and years of dating a player should’ve made me immune to butterfly bandages and bruises. But with Ryan, I hate every mark, and every time they litter his skin. Now, not knowing how bad it is, the tight leash I keep on my feelings slips.
“I’m not sure when he’ll have his phone. They’ll check him out. Depending on what they think the injury is, they’ll either handle it on staff or take him to the hospital for further tests,” Dom says as he pulls out his phone. I hear his call go straight to voicemail.
I frantically search the cushions of the couch for my phone, my hands shaking. Dom picks it up from the coffee table and hands it to me with a sympathetic look.
I count the rings as they go unanswered. As soon as it kicks me to Ryan’s voicemail, I hang up and redial.
One.
Two.
Three.
Before I can finish the count, a notification for an incoming call interrupts me. It’s an unknown number, but I answer it immediately, and the sound of Ryan’s voice, familiar and steady, makes my heart stop racing momentarily. “Hannah. It’s me. I borrowed one of the trainers’ phones.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, baby.” The sharp breath hissing through his teeth betrays the lie, and I know it’s worse than he’s letting on.
“What’s going on, Ry? Do they know what’s wrong?”
“Shoulder dislocation. They’re bringing me to the hospital to check for a torn lab—” There’s muffled talk, and then Ryan repeats the word into the phone, “labrum. They’re saying it’s cartilage that surrounds the socket.”
“So, do they just pop it back in or what?” The words rush out.
“Shh, take a breath,” he prompts, sounding much too calm. But I guess calm is relative to my state. I inhale deeply through my nose, and exhale audibly through my mouth.
“I’m not sure. I’ll know more once we get to the hospital,” he says, finally answering my question.
“If you plan to keep playing hockey, you’re going to need surgery,” I hear someone in the background say.
“Surgery? Oh God,” I gasp.
I hear Ryan’s muffled voice as if he’s buried the phone in his shirt, but I can still make out his sharp tone. “She’s already freaked out. Shut the fuck up.”
“Me? What about you?” The lump in my throat grows. I know how much hockey means to him. I can’t bear to think how he’ll feel if he can’t play.
“I don’t want you to worry. That’s why I called, but I can see it’s having the opposite effect—” He can’t hold back the groan of pain that cuts off his words or the heavy breaths that follow. “I’m going to call you once I have more info, okay?”
“What hospital are they taking you to?”
I hear him ask away from the phone before coming back to tell me, “Intermountain Health Denver.”
“Okay.” I steady myself and focus on what needs to be done. “I’ll see you soon.”
“They’ll probably fly me home early so I don’t have to follow the guys to San Jose. Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No, I mean I’ll see you tonight.” I check the time on my phone. “Or tomorrow morning. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get a flight.”
“Huh? Hannah, you don’t have to do that. I’m okay, I promise.”
I knew he’d object to my plan before I even formed it. He’s the first person to drop everything for others but feels undeserving of the same care in return. Always too concerned with not being a burden, not being difficult, not being hard to love. But he’s out of his mind if he thinks there’s anything he can say or do to stop me from going to him.
“I know you’re going to be okay, but I’m coming. It’s not up for discussion. I won’t hear any of your ‘you don’t have to’s,’ or your ‘don’t worry about me’s.’ Let me be there for you, like you’re always there for me.”
There’s a long pause before he speaks. “Okay. I’d like that. I love you.”
“I lo—” I start, but he disconnects the call, not giving me a chance to finish.
Stubborn man.