4. Thomas
CHAPTER FOUR
Thomas
Bruno’s been brooding ever since Rowan got hurt—and by brooding, I mean he’s descended into a level of gloom and doom that feels almost palpable.
He tends to be on the serious side, but this is something else altogether.
He’s slumped on the couch in our home, arms crossed tightly over his chest like some kind of medieval warlord surveying a battlefield with a stern and unyielding gaze. Only this battlefield is merely our cozy living room, and the war he’s fighting is entirely within the confines of his own mind.
I can practically see the storm of his thoughts swirling around him like a dark cloud. Rowan’s out of commission. We’re down a goalie.
The entire season teeters on the brink of disaster.
But it’s more than just hockey that weighs on him. Rowan is like a brother to him—to all of us, really—but Bruno cherishes those bonds deeply. He’s not one to let people in easily, but once he does, they’re bound to him for life.
He lets out a heavy, world-weary sigh, dragging a hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the stress etched into his features. He mutters something in Slovak, a language I don’t understand, but the tone is undeniably dramatic, laden with emotion and intensity.
His phone vibrates against the glass surface of the coffee table, the screen lighting up with an incoming call. He casts a fleeting glance at it, then lets out a low groan.
“Rowan,” he mutters under his breath.
I raise an eyebrow and chuckle. “Are you planning to answer that, or just glare at it until it stops ringing?”
He shoots me an exasperated look, then reluctantly picks up the phone. “Hey,” he greets with a resigned tone.
“Hey, man, how are you?” Rowan’s voice crackles through the speaker, slightly distorted but familiar. “You busy?”
Bruno responds with a noncommittal grunt, a sound that’s become his signature reply.
I can’t help but chuckle. “Seriously, man, why don’t you just say ‘yes’ like a normal person?”
Bruno rolls his eyes in mock annoyance but relents. “Fine,” he finally admits, running a hand through his hair. “Be there in twenty.”
Just as he’s reaching for his keys, I bound down the stairs behind him, tugging my hoodie over my head. The cotton fabric brushes against my hair, and I can almost feel the static it creates.
My cross-fit session is on the agenda, but curiosity gets the better of me.
“Where you off to?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though the anticipation bubbles beneath my words.
“Hospital,” he mumbles, each syllable emerging slowly, heavy with emotion, as if merely uttering the word causes him discomfort.
Concern sends my eyebrows flying up. “Oh yeah. Ro’s getting out today, huh?”
A low affirmative grumble, a sound that resonates deep in his throat. He shoves his feet into his sneakers with such force it’s as if they’ve personally wronged him, each stomp echoing his pent-up tension.
The frustration emanates from him in waves, palpable and intense. The guy is so dramatic, as if he’s performing on a stage, showcasing his internal turmoil for an invisible audience.
I watch him for a moment, noticing the way his brow furrows and his lips press into a thin line. Rolling my eyes, I decide to break the tension.
Without a second thought, I swing my fist playfully into his arm, the impact making a quiet thud against his jacketed bicep. Bruno jolts in surprise, spinning around to face me, his eyes blazing with a fiery glare.
“What the hell?” he demands, his voice a mix of annoyance and disbelief, cutting through the air like a knife.
“Stop acting like a moody little bitch,” I retort, trying to coax a smile from him. “Rowan’s fine. The team’s gonna be fine. You sulking around like a grumpy grandpa with sciatica isn’t doing anyone any favors.”
I can almost see the cartoonish storm cloud hovering over his head as his scowl deepens, shadowing his features with irritation, but he chooses not to argue.
Instead, he lets out an exasperated huff—a sound not unlike steam escaping a kettle—then tugs his jacket more securely around his shoulders and strides purposefully toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.
“If you punch me again, I’m breaking your damn wrist,” he growls over his shoulder.
I can’t help but grin at his stubbornness. “Love you too, sunshine,” I call after him, the words laced with affection and a touch of irony.
He disappears through the doorway, leaving a trail of tension behind him. I quickly follow.
We hop into Bruno’s truck, and he speeds off toward the hospital. “How on earth are we going to get Rowan to stick to his physical therapy without him making us all miserable?” he grumbles.
I chuckle dryly, shaking my head at the thought. “Man, I’ve been wondering that ever since he took that nasty fall.”
Bruno keeps his eyes on the road, shaking his head. “He’s going to be impossible. He barely listens when he’s fine, and now he’s just going to be an angry, immobile version of himself.”
I grin, shielding my eyes from the setting sun with my hand. “Here’s the plan: we tell him if he skips therapy, we’ll put glitter in all his beloved protein shakes, swap his bed sheets with pink satin ones, and change his ringtone to ‘Barbie Girl.’”
Bruno snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’ll do the trick.”
“It definitely will,” I say with a grin.
He laughs a little, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel. “Yeah, okay. Maybe.”
The laughter dwindles to a whisper, and I absentmindedly run my hand over the faint stubble on my chin, my brow furrowing with concern. “But, seriously, man. This is gonna be tough,” I admit.
Bruno leans back in his seat, a thoughtful hum escaping his lips. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches between us like a taut wire until an idea strikes. I snap my fingers, a spark of hope lighting up my eyes. “Wait. What about Jinx?”
Bruno shifts his eyes toward me, curiosity piqued. “Jinx?”
“She’s the best physical therapist we’ve got—well, the only one we’ve got. But she’s better than letting him fend for his own!” I explain, my enthusiasm building.
“Sure, she handles team stuff, but this would be more one-on-one. We’d have to actually ask her to take him on. But she knows all about muscle rebuilding and rehab. Plus, unlike us, she actually knows how to motivate people to do things they don’t want to.”
Bruno mulls it over, nodding slowly as if weighing Jinx’s credentials in his mind. “Yeah, she’s smart. And she doesn’t take any nonsense.”
“Exactly.” I flash a confident grin. “Rowan would actually listen to her. Or, at least, she’d find a way to make him.”
Bruno lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. Could work. Plus…” He pauses, casting a quick glance my way, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She’s cool.”
I raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “You do like her, huh?”
He shrugs, attempting nonchalance, though his voice betrays a flicker of interest. “She’s interesting. Not like other girls.”
“Oh, for sure,” I quip with a grin. “Tattoos, piercings, and those almost mystical contacts? She’s like a sexy little sorceress.”
Bruno groans, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, Thomas. Tone it down.”
I chuckle, unable to resist the playful jab. “You’re just mad ’cause I said it first.”
He shakes his head, trying to suppress the grin that threatens to spread across his face as he navigates the car into a spot in the bustling hospital parking lot, the engine purring to a stop.
As soon as he parks, I reach for my phone, fingers tapping rapidly across the screen as I send a text to Jinx.
We need your expertise, ASAP. Rowan’s going to be the most stubborn rehab patient ever. We need a PT wizard to handle him.
A few moments later, the phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance at her reply.
No kidding. He’s like an old man with a rusty hip. I’ll head over and sort it out with you guys.
I tilt the phone toward Bruno, who’s still gripping the steering wheel with a look of concern. He glances at the message and gives a curt nod.
“Good. Maybe she’ll knock some sense into him.”
We exit the truck, the doors slamming shut behind us, and head toward the hospital’s sliding glass doors.
The anticipation of seeing Jinx outside of work, of getting to hang out with her, makes me giddy like a schoolboy, and I can’t help but laugh to myself.
This situation is about to become very interesting.
Bruno and I pass through the hospital’s automatic doors. Fluorescent lights glare down from the ceiling, reflecting off the polished floors and white walls—a place designed for healing, yet unwelcoming in its brightness.
We make our way down the hall to Rowan’s room, where he sits propped up in bed, his expression sour, like a bear disturbed mid-hibernation. His muscular arms are folded across his chest, and his lips are twisted into a scowl.
The doctor, an older man with silver hair at his temples and a kind but firm gaze, stands beside the bed, flipping through the chart in his hands.
“You’ve got a minor concussion, a sprained ligament in your knee,” the doctor explains, scanning the papers. “Your scans are clear outside of that, though, and you should be ready to get back on the ice in a few weeks.”
Rowan grunts, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “So, I can go?”
The doctor nods, offering a reassuring smile. “Yes, but take it easy. No heavy lifting, no intense workouts, and absolutely no?—“
“—Headbutting people?” Rowan interjects with a cocky grin, his eyes shining with mischief.
The doctor sighs, a trace of exasperation in his voice. “Exactly.”
Once Rowan is signed out, we make our way to the discharge area. I exchange a glance with Bruno, knowing it’s time to share the news we’ve been holding onto.
“Hey, bud,” I say, draping an arm over Rowan’s broad shoulders as we walk. “We’ve got a surprise waiting for you when we get back to the house.”
Rowan grunts again but I can see that he’s curious. “What? A stripper?”
Bruno chuckles, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Better. A hot little goth physical therapist.”
Rowan’s mouth twitches a bit but then he shakes his head in disbelief.
Maybe this is going to be harder than I thought.