Chapter Thirteen #2
My heart shoots into my throat as “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” jingles through the air. “I’m sure he’s just happy to have a few wins under his belt. Nothing to do with me specifically.”
“When they asked about the Fury’s improving record, he said, ‘It starts at the top with Coach Rivers’ and refused to say a critical word. From a PR standpoint, it was the best possible answer.”
The desire to revel in this competes with an equally powerful desire to protect myself.
I want so badly to trust that his words are genuine and that he really believes in what I’m doing.
When all you hear in the press is everything you’re doing wrong—even from the likes of your own men, like Ivan and Lachlan—the idea that someone could say something nice is almost too much to process.
Maybe I really want Leo, specifically, to believe I’m doing good for this team.
Maybe I want that a lot.
I clear my throat and speak around the lump there. “I knew he had it in him. I bet he was PR trained with the Grizzlies.” I nod toward the guys. “I think they’re getting overwhelmed over there. Should we get Dane to do some crowd control to get these guys where they need to be?”
We split up, some visiting the surgical recovery wing first, some visiting oncology. Isla and I linger in the halls, giving support where we can.
As we pass one room, Callum’s voice floats out.
“—Commander Splat books are like comics where you can actually see who’s talking, that’s why everyone loves them so much.
Okay, here we go: ‘Once upon a time there were two cool kids named Mikey and Bojangles. The most popular kids in the galaxy. Mega epic.’ Those are the kids talking and bragging about themselves, see the picture?
Okay, next block: ‘But unfortunately they had a mean teacher on their spaceship named Mrs. Crabapple’—and there’s Mrs. Crabapple, do you see her saying ‘blah, blah, blah’? …”
Isla laughs quietly beside me. “God love ’em, he is so committed to explaining the format of a graphic novel to a kid who probably already knows.”
A text from Vivi lights up my wrist.
Are the big lugs melting into piles of goo at the kiddos’ feet?
I visualize her curled up on her parents’ couch back in Oregon nursing a glass of wine, texting as her chaotic family swarms.
I glance at the cracked-open door that lets Callum and the patient’s mingling laughs escape before firing off my answer.
They sure are. Happy Thanksgiving. Hope you get the bigger half of the wishbone.
We wander down the colorful hall with cards and art from local elementary schools tacked to corkboards on the wall, and then down another and another, until I start to lose track of time and everyone’s locations.
After we’ve made the full rounds and our time slot is up, the guys are gathered in a waiting area behind the Christmas tree in the main lobby, all wearing matching expressions of humility. I think they got just as much out of this visit as the kids.
My brow furrows. I turn toward Dane, a dead ringer for G.I. Joe in his dark green sweater. “Where’s McLaren?”
“He’s still with Blake up on the fourth floor.”
I turn toward Isla and squeeze her arm. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time. We’re going to stop by the coffee shop and a few nurses’ stations.”
My heels click on the gleaming floor as I tuck into an elevator. A quick scan of the buttons orients me to where I’m going.
FOURTH FLOOR: SURGICAL RECOVERY.
I hold my bracelet up to an electronic reader to prompt the elevator to allow me access. As soon as I step off, I spot Blake standing against a wall at the crossroads of two hallways, his hands clasped in front of him.
He’s staring at me, or rather at the elevator, waiting for some sign of disturbance.
I tuck my own freezing hands into my coat pockets as I approach. “Is McLaren still up here?”
He gestures toward his right. “He’s in the second room.”
I amble toward the door, hovering outside. I’ll just poke my head in and let him know we’re wrapping up—
“—my mom says I won’t be able to play hockey for a while, which I think is baloney.” The girl’s voice holds the sweetness of youth. “I already feel better than I did yesterday.”
“Listen, kiddo.” Leo’s gruff voice washes over me in a rush. “It’s your mom’s job to keep you safe. Even when you’re feeling better, she’s still going to worry. That’s what good parents do.”
“She’s the best parent there is. That’s why I have to get back on the travel team! I’m going to pay her bills when I make it to the PWHL so she doesn’t have to work at the restaurant anymore.”
I nudge the door open with the toe of my shoe. A sliver of Leo’s side comes into view. He’s body-blocking some of the bed.
His Santa hat hangs crooked on his head, and he pulls a second hat out of his pocket and offers it to the girl.
“That’s very kind of you to think of her, and I’m sure your mom thinks so, too.
Here, I want you to have my extra hat. Don’t tell the other kids, though, okay?
I could only fit one more in my pocket.”
“Aren’t you rich, Mr. McLaren?”
The muscles in Leo’s neck and shoulders tense as he laughs. “You can call me Leo.”
A flicker of thoughtfulness lights her eyes. “Okay, aren’t you rich, Leo? I bet you could afford as many hats as you want. That must be so cool, to have it all.”
“I do all right.” He stands to help the girl maneuver her hat into place.
When he moves, I’m able to see the casts on both her legs and her left arm.
A sharp pain of empathy stabs me right in the chest, so powerful I feel it radiating outward into every limb.
“But I’m going to let you in on a secret, okay? ”
She nods solemnly, as though this is the most important thing she’ll ever hear.
“There’s no amount of money in the world that can replace good health, so make sure you’re taking care of yourself and following the doctor’s rules, okay? There’s only one you, Naomi.”
It feels like someone is squeezing my heart in their closed fist. I think of his hands on my hip, the deep well of empathy in his eyes when I talked about the injury.
I saw the moment Ivan hit Leo last season on television, but I wasn’t there to hear the whole arena fall silent as he failed to get up.
But I’m here now, every single day. And I know—despite never, ever admitting it out loud, even to Viv—he’s not the same player he was. It’s not for lack of skill, which he possesses in record-breaking amounts. It’s either fear or pain impacting his play.
I’ve been praying it’s fear stemming from what happened last season, because that can be conquered.
But everything he’s saying to this girl, and the impassioned way he’s saying it, makes me wonder.
A nurse clears her throat behind me.
“Sorry,” I blurt.
Leo peers over his shoulder as the nurse steps into the room. “That’s my cue, Naomi. I’ll catch you at the rink sometime, yeah?”
“Yeah! And I will kick your old butt.”
I bite back a laugh, but he lets his out.
“I have no doubt.” He presents his fist. She bumps it.
Something unfurls in my chest, a flower opening petal by tender petal. I close my eyes and take a long, steadying breath.
By the time Leo emerges, I’m short on words.
“Hi,” I manage. “Ready?”
“Yes, sorry. Lost track of time.” He scratches his temple where exactly two gray hairs shine in a sea of dark brown. “How long were you standing there?”
I roll my lips together, too guilty to answer outright.
“Little stalker, at it again,” he murmurs. His gaze, tone, and body language all scream disarmed, like whatever happened in that room chipped away at his grouchy exterior to reveal something soft and squishy underneath.
Awareness prickles my skin. This is the closest we’ve come to being alone since—
“Ms. Rivers?” Blake calls from down the hall.
Leo startles, and his posture stiffens.
Blake lifts his phone. “Ms. Keane texted for us to meet her out front when we’re ready. The elevator is clear.”
Leo gestures for me to walk ahead of him. Blake follows us into the elevator, a looming presence.
As we descend, I glance sideways just in time to catch Leo side-eying me. An electric current zips down my back.
The rain has turned to the promised wintry mix, a violent, slushy mishmash of rain, sleet, and snow. The valets fetch our vehicles with the brutal efficiency of people who know the flow of hospital traffic depends on them. Leo and I aren’t alone again.
Frustration nips at my heels. I wanted a chance to talk to him—to discuss the team. To see if anything new has come up with any of the guys.
Maybe the best way to get over whatever didn’t happen in the hot tub is to be alone with my captain again. To get things back on track.
In my car, with snow dusting my hair and rain soaking my coat, I type furiously before I talk myself out of it.
Tomorrow I’ll be at Sports Engine watching the Brawlers-Pioneers game. If you happen to stop by, I’d like to hear the latest about the book club, the guys, etc.
It’s not a big deal, because there is no place that would feel less like being ‘alone together’ than a crowded bar surely filled with hockey fanatics on Black Friday.
It’s the perfect place for us.
You are not seriously considering going to a hockey bar in downtown Portland after what happened at the diner, are you?
My lips turn down, even as the question tugs at my nerves.
Watching Black Friday games at a bar is my tradition.
His response is immediate.
Traditions can change.
Maybe he’s right and I’m being naive. But the thought of spending another night at home alone sounds miserable this year in particular. If I stayed home every time someone said something terrible about me online—or to me directly—I’d never go anywhere.
And apart from work, I don’t.
I’m still mulling over my response when he sends another.
I know a spot we can go. Less conspicuous, and I’m friends with the owners. No one will give us trouble.