16. Penelope
My nerves are shot.
Every time I open a cupboard door or I hear a noise outside my room I’m expecting the ceiling to come in on my head. Exaggeration? Sure. But I bet Satan is mad as hell. It probably took him the better part of an hour to unwrap his precious car. It took at least that long to wrap the damn thing.
It was worth it, though. Eloise sent me pictures, and a video Ares took of Tate standing dumbfounded next to his vehicle.
Between that, and the chocolate cock-sucking pictures Tate sent me, it made my whole month.
However, waiting for his retribution has me on pins and needles. They played the night before last, I wanted to go, almost did, but Dad called at the last minute and asked me to go to dinner with him. It was awkward as hell.
But I heard the Raccoons won three to two.
I’m heading to Bitches Brew. Satan can’t hit me with a prank while I’m in public. My tightening gut says he might just do exactly that.
I was tempted to change the lock on my door, but if I’m really honest with myself, I kind of like when he pranks me. Even if it makes anxiety swirl in my stomach.
I’m halfway out my door when Satan’s roommate, Kieran... Cillian... C... C... something comes out of their room, a duffle bag draped over his shoulder.
“Moving out?” I snicker. “I’d move out too if I lived with Satan.”
When he meets my eyes there’s a sadness there and no trace of laughter on his face.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
He shifts the weight of the bag on his shoulder, then shuffles his feet a bit, looking down at the floor like he’s undecided about whether to say something to me or not. “Tate got hurt at the game the other night.”
Oh god.
My stomach drops as ice creeps into my veins. For so long I’ve thought of him as my enemy... frenemy? I’ve thought about what his father did to mine, and I’ve wanted him to pay, to suffer just like Dad did... my family did... I did.
But from the way nausea is claiming my body, it’s quickly becoming apparent that isn’t what I wanted at all.
He might be the son of Dad’s enemy, but I don’t want him physically hurt.
“I-is he okay?” My hands are shaking.
The roommate—Callum—shakes his head. “He took a puck to the face.”
My face must fall because Callum nods slowly.
“Th-that sounds bad.”
He keeps nodding. “He had surgery.”
An overwhelming urge to cry hits me like a freight train, but I don’t have the time to pick it apart, not least right here in the hallways in front of his roommate. So I do the only thing that feels natural, and hold out my hand.
“Is that for him? I’ll take it to him, where is he?”
His eyes understandably narrow. “Don’t you two hate each other?”
I sigh. I kind of thought so too, buddy. But whatever this emotional cascade is inside my body, hate isn’t it. I’m worried about Tate. I need to see him for myself.
“He’s fucked up. His jaw is wired shut, he has to miss at least six weeks of hockey, but they say it’s likely going to be up to double that. He really did a number on himself.” He flinches. “Not that he did this to himself.” He shakes his head. “It was a freak accident. Wrong place on the ice at the wrong time.”
Again, he must see something on my face because he gives me a knowing smile. “He wins them all over eventually.”
Ouch. I wince.
“I didn’t mean. I just meant... Fuck. Sorry. Here’s the bag. He’d rather see you than me anyway.” He hands me the bag and tells me where to find him in the hospital. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though. He’s... pissy. And that’s being nice.”
I swear to every god I can think of that if these two are yanking my chain and crying wolf with this injury, I’ll lose it. This would be my line in the sand over where pranks are funny or not. Faking taking a puck to the face and needing surgery is my line, and yet, part of me hopes it’s a ruse.
On the way to my car, I pull out my phone and check my emails. If there was an injury on the ice, Tabitha will have told everyone in this week’s—oh god. Oh no. The email subject line from Tabitha’s newsletter is “Get well soon wishes to our beloved Tate.”
My already nauseated stomach clenches even harder. If this is a prank, he’s gone to great lengths to make other people cover for him. As much as I’d think it believable that Tabitha would be down for an elaborate cover-up, I doubt Eloise would cover for him. She has my back.
As my phone rings, I send up a quick prayer. This team feels cursed. Apollo’s car accident when he and Edith got hurt, Raffi’s concussion syndrome that took him out of the game, and now Tate taking a puck to the face.
I know it’s all part of the sport. God knows I do. But it’s fucking brutal. At any given time there’s at least one poor hockey player who’s injured in some way, shape, or form. I couldn’t do it, I’m too pretty to get my face busted up.
So’s Tate.
“Hey, are you okay?” Eloise’s worried voice is my first tell.
“So it’s true?” My voice is a hushed whisper as I reach for the car door handle.
“You didn’t know?”
I shake my head despite the fact she can’t see it. “I didn’t. I missed the game and didn’t open my emails yesterday ‘cause I was studying for a test this morning. Is it as bad as his roommate says?”
Eloise sniffles like she’s crying. Her softness, her empathy is one of the most beautiful things about her. She’s the living embodiment of the fact that being caring doesn’t make you fragile. “He had surgery. That’s all we know. Ares is trying to get more information. Despite being part of the team, Tate’s always been a little aloof, you know? Like he doesn’t live at the hockey house with them or anything. Ares and his brothers are going to the hospital later to represent the team. They say Tate will be there for a few days before being released.”
My heart is racing, my head throbbing, and my pulse making itself known in every pulse-point in my body. “Ellie.”
“I know, Pen. I know. Once these Raccoons get their sticks in you, you’re done for.”
I can’t help but giggle at her innuendo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince her, or myself. But Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.
“Bullshit.” She pretends to sneeze when she says it, bringing another smile to my lips.
“I hate him. He’s my enemy.”
“No, honey.” There’s a sweep against the microphone like she’s shaking her head. “His dad is your dad’s enemy. But beyond that, Tate’s done nothing to you.” She knows the history, Karlya too, I had no choice but to tell her when she confiscated my phone and threatened to dunk it into a glass of milk if I didn’t tell her.
They both say the same thing. I can’t punish the son for the actions of the father. But merely acknowledging these emotions inside me that may or may not be nice feelings for Satan feels like a huge betrayal to Dad—even if we don’t have the same relationship we used to. I’d like to get back there some day, and dating his enemy’s son doesn’t feel like that’ll help our healing along any.
“You like him.” Eloise fills the silence as I climb in the car and slam the door a little harder than I intended.
There’s no judgment in her voice, no accusation, she’s stating it like a simple fact, and it’s not one I can even consider denying.
“Ares said Tate’s messages sounded pretty low. I mean, I know he’s just had surgery, and he’s going to be on the bench for a month or two.”
“Up to three.” I groan. I might not know him well, but hockey is in his blood, like his father’s, like his grandfather’s, like my brother’s, my father’s.
Once they’ve been bitten by the hockey bug, once the ice has them in its clutches, there’s no going back, no escape.
Tate’s going to be so fucking broken.
It gives me pause.
Should I not go? Will he want to see me? Will it make him worse?
So many questions assault me, and I miss whatever Eloise is saying calmly in my ear.
“I was going to go see him.”
“I think that’s a great idea. You don’t sound sure, but I think you should.”
“He hates me.”
She snorts softly. “Sure he does. Just like you hate him.” Her words are heavy with unspoken subtext. “He told Ares about the Halloween party where you met.”
I swallow, starting the car as though the distraction might block out the memories of the hottest kiss of my life. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is frustratingly level. “From what Tate said to Ares, you guys had a connection before...”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, because if she did she’d have said I got irrationally mad at him on behalf of his father’s actions and ghosted him.
Except it’s not irrational. I know it’s not.
But it might be at least a little unfair.
Swallowing again, I flick my turn signal on. “I’m going to go see him. I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”
“Just be yourself, Pen.”
I’m glad that’s how she ends the conversation because I don’t know how to be anyone else.
It’s a short drive to Mercy, and I spend it crying to Taylor’s Tortured Poet’s Department. When I get there, I can’t get out of the car. I sit and stare at the bright hospital sign with the winter sun glinting off it.
My phone vibrating scares the crap out of me.
Karlya: I just heard, is he okay? Are you?
Karlya: Anything I can do?
I wish there was something I could say yes to, that there was a list of things I could send back for her to help with, but there’s nothing either of us can do. At least not until I go into the hospital and figure out what the damage is.
Me: I think I’m good. I haven’t seen him yet, so I’m not sure I can answer any of those questions.
Karlya: Let me know. It’s a three hour drive from Madison. I can come help if you need me.
I can’t help but smile. She went to college in Madison, Oliver, too, and both of them come back to Iowa as much as they possibly can.
Me: Will do. Give me a pep talk to get out of the car and walk into the hospital?
Karlya: Don’t be a fucking pussy. Get your ass out of the car and go visit the Milkshake Man. Give him my love.
It takes another eleven minutes for me to find my backbone and get out of the vehicle.
I drag my feet the whole way to his room. I’m not sure if it’s ‘cause I want him to be pranking me at this point, or if I’m afraid of what he’s going to look like when I walk in.
Tapping on the door doesn’t work, I knock a little harder, and a woman’s voice answers. “Come in.”
Readying myself to face the only woman in the world it can be—his girlfriend, because of course that’s where my mind goes in this scenario—I push the door open and paste a smile on my face.
He’s facing away from me, lying on his side facing the window and the side of the room his mom—not his girlfriend, simmer down, you jealous wackadoodle—is sitting too.
I throw her a casual wave, my heart hammering inside my rib cage. “Hi. I brought Tate’s bag from the dorm room.”
He doesn’t react to my voice, so I assume he’s asleep and drop to a whisper.
“Sorry. I don’t want to wake him. I just told Callum I’d stop by and see if there’s anything else he needs.”
At that, the still body on the bed grunts.
His mom glares at him, but waves at hand at me. “Come in and sit...”
“Penelope.”
Her eyes light up. “You’re the famous Penelope. Tate hasn’t shut up about you for weeks.”
My whole body gets hot, and I’m pretty sure I’m sweating.
“And he’s not asleep.” She looks at him in the bed, sorrow seeping into her features. “He’s sulking.”
“Ha! I mean, it’ll be nice to get some peace and quiet for a change.” I cover my mouth as soon as the words are out, but her eyes light up again, and she’s shaking with laughter.
A low growl rumbles from the bed.
Huh. So he is awake.
“Oh, shut up, Satan. Let us enjoy this precious moment where you can’t talk.”
His mom’s practically rolling on the floor laughing. I drop the duffel bag at her feet and circle the bed. He’s got a dressing on one side of his face. I wish I’d done some reading on the internet to prepare me, or to at least have educated me on what he’s gone through, is going through.
I crouch down to his level, his beautiful, sad, gray-green eyes staring back at me under unruly dark hair. “Sulking isn’t a good look for you, Satan.” I sweep his hair off his forehead, letting my fingers continue their journey behind his ear to the nape of his neck before placing the softest kiss on his temple.
“Though I kinda love that you can’t snark back at me.” I wink at him. “The quiet is pretty blissful.”
He stays quiet, glowering at me.
“I suppose I could declare a truce.”
Another grunt.
I stroke his forehead again, and his eyes flicker shut.
“Do you want me to leave?”
A tear slips out from his eye, winds its way down his face, and lands on the pillow as he shakes his head.
“Scared?”
Another head shake.
“Frustrated?”
He nods.
“I figured. You already had your surgery, and now it’s time to recover. That’s a lot of sitting on your ass and doing nothing.” I pause. “Aren’t you used to that by now?”
His mom covers her mouth and looks away like she’s afraid he’ll bust her laughing at my poor jokes again.
His eyes snap open, and fire flickers in them. I point at him. “There, see? You’re all riled up and ready to fight. You’ve just got to be patient.”
His face is swollen, and I bet there’s a gnarly scar behind the dressings. He’s probably upset that his pretty face is as marred by this moment as his career is. He looks so fucking sad.
I drag a seat closer to his bedside and take his hand. He tries to pull it away at first, but when I take it back and glare at him, he gives in.
“I’m being nice here, Satan. Enjoy it while it lasts. And remember, your beloved car is unsupervised while you’re in here.”
He rolls his eyes but squeezes my fingers gently before stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. We spend a good hour sitting like that, I hum him to sleep to his beloved Tay Swift, stroking his forehead and telling him he’s going to be just fine, even though I’m not sure he will.
When I was younger, Dad told me about a player, Justin Bourne, who caught a puck to the face, and it ended his NHL career.
I hope to all the hockey gods that doesn’t happen for Tate. Tate is hockey. I’m not sure even he knows what he is without it.
When his soft snores fill the room, I find a way to slow my own breathing before I dare look in the direction of his mom.
“How bad is it?” I don’t know when I started crying, but my cheeks are wet, and I don’t like it.
“The pain will be worse for the first few days,” she starts. “Though the doctors say it could take a couple of weeks to completely disappear. Which is also how long they say his stitches will take to dissolve, up to two weeks.”
I nod, swiping at my cheeks with my hands which just makes the tears fall faster.
“The IV is for antibiotics to fight any potential infection post op.”
Makes sense.
“You usually only stay in the hospital for one night following the surgery.” Her sad eyes meet mine. “They checked his fractures with x-rays today but they wanted to keep him in again tonight because he spiked a temp.” She sighs.
“He has plates and screws holding the fractures in place in his lower jaw, and it’ll take upwards of six weeks for it to heal completely.” She holds her hands in her lap. “No contact sports for at least eight weeks.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t like that one the most. I don’t know how I’m keeping him off the ice.”
“I’ll duct tape him to a chair if I have to, Mrs. Myers. I won’t let him be a dumbass.” I think about what she said for a moment. “Is he at high risk of infection?”
She shakes her head. “That’s not usually a complication. Or so they say. Since he gets an IV of antibiotics. But.” She shrugs. “It could happen.”
“What else?” None of this is any of my business. But I’m curious. What other complications could he be facing? Does he need a speech pathologist? What will his diet be like? How much duct tape does it take to strap a really strong and stubborn person to a chair?
“There is a nerve that runs through the lower jaw, it’s what gives you feeling in your lower lip, chin and bottom teeth. The doctors said his nerve may have been bruised at the time of the fracture, and as a result he might feel some tingling or numbness in his lip and chin once everything wears off. It may or may not have been made worse by the surgery. It may or may not get better on its own. And it may or may not take several months to do so. He’s likely going to have hardware in his face forever, they don’t take it out unless it causes any issues, though sometimes the screws they use can damage the teeth.”
She looks at him lying in the bed. “They didn’t take any more of his teeth.” She smiles, sadly, her body slumping when she’s done like she’s been holding onto all of those words for hours since the doctor told them to her.
I lean over and pat her hand, it’s all I know to do. “He’ll be okay. He’s strong and healthy, and he’s a fighter. I know it’s scary, but he’ll be okay.”
She nods, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I know. It’s all just a lot.”
As we sit in silence, my brain whirrs, and while he might not need a speech pathologist, I could definitely help him with his nutrition.
As though she’s reading my mind, she turns to me. “Will he need to learn to talk all over again?”
I shake my head. “From everything you’ve said, having his jaw wired shut won’t impact that. It’s just like gritting your teeth when you aren’t allowed to say what you’re really thinking.” I smile at her. “Communication and mobility shouldn’t really be a problem during his recovery time. There might be some weight loss because you have to do a liquid diet, like maybe five-to-ten percent of his body weight. He’ll have to make sure he stays on liquid protein. He’ll probably have a dietitian assigned to him, but I can help him write out a therapy plan and meal schedule.”
She smiles. “He might be more inclined to listen to what he should do if it comes from you.”
My cheeks heat up again. “We both know the only person he’s inclined to listen to is himself. Hence the need for duct tape. But I’ll do what I can to make sure he’s not his usual stubborn, idiot self.”
She laughs quietly, and we sit in an amicable silence for a long moment before she asks me about myself. What I want to do with my life, what my plans are, what my favorite food is, and we chat for a little while. It’s like I’ve known this woman my whole life. Conversation is so easy that if I had the nuclear passwords, she could probably get them from me with ease.
We’re laughing over a picture of Tate as a young boy dressed as a hotdog on her phone when the door opens. The man who walks in is the image of Tate, just a couple decades older. His hair is salt and pepper gray, there are age lines around his eyes and mouth, but those eyes, the shape of his face, the skin tone—they’re all Tate.
I sit up straight in my chair, fighting the urge to scream, and stare straight into the eyes of the man who ruined my life.