Chapter 16
sixteen
. . .
Nick
My phone rings as I walk into the practice facility. I scan my security pass at the gate and lift a hand in greeting to the guard, Paul. He nods to me, then goes back to his book.
“Hey, girl,” I say when the line connects. “How’s married life? Keep it PG-13, please.”
Elsy’s melodic laugh chimes in my ears. “You know I won’t give you any dirty details.”
With her exes, sure, she’d divulge things I didn’t want to know about my pseudo-sister. But with Whitney? That’s crossing too many boundaries. He’s a dick; I don’t need to need to know what he does with it. She’s made it clear she’s satisfied, and that’s all that matters.
I keep the details of my hookups—few and far between—close to my chest. Ever since the time she sat me down and said she didn’t like Stephanie, but wouldn’t let that impact our friendship, I’ve held back on giving her the inside scoop.
Looking back, I can see why she didn’t like my ex, but at the time, it cut fucking deep.
Nobody wants to hear that their best friend hates their girlfriend. No matter how justified she may be.
“How is everything settling in?” Elsy asks. “You doing okay?”
“As well as I can be.”
She sighs. “Okay, real talk. What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
I navigate through the halls, finally reaching the lounge and settling onto a sofa in the corner. A few of the other guys are grabbing lunch, and I nod at them, so they leave me alone.
“You just sound… down. You aren’t texting back, and I know the team’s on a winning streak, so—”
“I’m in a shitty place,” I cut in. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s all me.”
“Oh, Mitchy.” She clucks. “What am I going to do with you?”
Goody, she’s patronizing me.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“Do I need to send you a fruit basket?” That’s her solution for everything—sending me food. It’s something she’s picked up from Whitney, and I can’t decide if I like it or not. I know she means well. But I don’t need to eat a cookie bouquet the size of my face. Again.
The first time was fun. The second didn’t sit well in my belly. And by the third time, I left it with my doorman because I couldn’t stand the sight of it in my apartment, taunting me.
So she switched to fruit baskets. At least they’re on the nutrition plan.
Although… the bottle of bourbon she sent me after the trade did get put to good use. That one, I didn’t get too upset over.
“Please don’t.” I love my best friend, and I miss her like crazy, but her way of showing she cares sometimes borders on smothering.
“I miss you, Mitchy.” Her voice softens. “I know this trade has been rough, but I’m here for you. Always.”
The cold stone in my chest thaws a smidge. Knowing someone’s seen you at your worst and didn’t walk away? Nothing can break that bond.
“I know, and I appreciate you.”
My next game against Austin isn’t for another ten weeks, right after New Year’s.
Luckily, it’s an away game, so I’ll be able to see her, too.
Whitney and I usually get together for dinner when we’re playing each other.
Sure, we grimace the whole way through. But we do it.
We’re putting aside our differences. Or, at least, trying to.
Partners don’t get to travel on the team plane, and although Elsy could book a separate flight, we’re so busy with game prep, we barely have time to say hi-bye-see-you-later. It’s a big ask for her to fly halfway across the country for one meal and maybe coffee the next day.
“I’m thinking of coming up over Thanksgiving,” she says.
“You’re not spending it with Whitney?”
“He’d come with me.”
I can’t hold back the laugh bubbling up within me. “You mean he’s going to play a game on Wednesday, fly to Boston, stuff his face, then fly back to Austin the next day for a matinee game?”
He’s playing New Orleans, and I wish I could watch live, but I’ve got a game of my own to play. I can’t decide which of the two teams I want to lose more. And it has nothing to do with where each team sits in the standings; it’s all about my personal vendetta.
“I mean…”
“That’s crazy. No, don’t do it. It’s one of the busiest travel weekends of the year. You don’t want that headache.”
“You don’t miss me?”
“That sounds like a trap.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“Look, this is your first Thanksgiving as newlyweds. I’d love to see you. You know I would. But with the game schedule, it doesn’t make sense for either of us to travel. We’ll be together soon enough.”
“I’m just worried about you, Mitch.”
I don’t tell her I’m fine. I don’t tell her not to worry about me—no matter what I say, I know she will anyway.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Your dad…”
“Haven’t responded to him.” Don’t want to, either.
“Mitchy…”
“I promise, I’ll be okay.” Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, I will be. “I’ll get there.”
“Okay, well… I have a favor to ask.”
Heaving a sigh, I already know I’ll give in. Whatever she wants, I’ll do it, no questions asked.
“Go for it.”
“I need you to check in on Bex.”
My stomach sinks. Anything but that.
“Why?” My tone comes out combative, and I immediately regret it. Elsy isn’t the source of my frustration; she is.
“She’s been kind of… volatile lately. I’m worried about her health.”
Volatile? She’s always that way around me. I don’t want to think I bring out the worst in her, but sometimes it sure seems that way. We’ve settled into an amicable truce, where I pine obnoxiously from afar and don’t talk to her, and she avoids me like the plague.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re there, and I’m here.”
“She doesn’t want me poking into her private business.”
“Mitch, please. For me.”
“We work together. It’s weird.”
“It’s not weird, she’s my sister-in-law. You guys are my best friends. I need you to be my proxy. Check in on her. Look out for her.”
Silence stretches between us. I want to do it. I do. But I’ve been trying to give Bex the space she wants from me.
“She’s not interested in talking to me.”
“You know,” Elsy drawls, “her mother did a number on her. Just like your dad did to you. I bet you have more in common than you think.”
Whitney’s not close with his parents. They didn’t even attend the World Juniors competition all those years ago. They were minimally involved in the wedding, and didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about the marriage itself. I never thought to consider whether Bex was estranged from them, too.
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises,” I finally say.
“Just keep an eye out. And maybe let me know if she seems different.”
“I’m not a snitch, Els.”
Her hearty laugh warms me. “It’s not snitching. It’s heading off a potential mental health crisis.”
“Is it that bad?”
She falls silent, and the line crackles with tension. “It has been in the past. Three years ago… well, she’s better now. But the last few weeks, I get the sense she’s backsliding. I hate that I’m so far away. That I can’t help more.”
My heart pounds at her words. Three years ago. That would be around the time we hooked up. Maybe she’s not as unaffected by this as I thought. Maybe she still thinks about me, too.
I hate that our night together triggered her or caused her issues, but if there’s even a chance she might be interested…
“I’ll let you know if I see anything you need to worry about.”
“Thanks, Mitchy. You’re a doll.”
“Yeah, yeah.” My face heats at her praise.
A commotion sounds out in the hall, and a familiar voice stops my heart. “I’ve got to run, we’ve got weights in a few.”
If I tell her my father is here, she’ll go ballistic. I’ve never seen Elsy physically assault someone, but I have no doubt she’d take a swing at him. Hell, I don’t blame her. I’d like to as well.
“Okay, I’ll let you go. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I mutter, hanging up the call.
What the hell am I going to do?
Fred Mitchell is an alcoholic. This is an indisputable fact.
He destroyed his liver so badly, he needed a transplant when I was a freshman in college. My mother refused to let me donate since it would end my college hockey season, and my coaches weren’t enthusiastic about the idea, either.
So she gave him half her liver.
She was fine. It was routine surgery, or so they said. I didn’t need to come home from college for it, she said. My father would take care of her.
The recovery would take a few days in the hospital, a few weeks on the couch, and less than two months later, she would be good as new. My dad would be better, too. He promised to lay off the booze. Swore up and done he’d seen the light. That rehab changed him for good.
Until she developed a post-op infection.
Until she went septic.
Until she died a slow, painful death.
Paul stands at his station, arms crossed and eyeing me warily. “He says he knows you,” he says as I approach. “Are you okay?”
The man making a racket in the rink lobby may be my father, but he’s no family to me.
He’s skinny as a string bean, balding, and his skin is sallow.
The whites of his eyes have a familiar yellowish tinge—where they’re not bloodshot.
Waves of stale alcohol radiate off his skin, the stench overwhelming even in the open, well-ventilated room.
I cross my arms over my chest, my eyes narrowing as I take in my sperm donor. “What do you want?”
“You’re back,” my father slurs, wobbling to the side. “My kid is back in Boston. Right where he belongs.”
I stare at him, impassive.
“What do you want?” I repeat, gritting out the words. “Money? Another liver?”
“Nicky, I—”
“No.” The harsh sound tears from my throat. “You need to leave.”
His bloodshot eyes blink slowly, each up-and-down movement of his eyelids stretching on forever. “Son—”
“I’m not your son.”
Not since he killed my mother. Not since the only time he reaches out to me, he’s drunk and begging for money. Not since he’s made it clear he only wants to use me, the way he used her.
Fred lists to the side, unsteady on his feet.
I lift my hand, waving to Paul. “This man is not welcome here. He’s trespassing. Don’t allow him back into the building.”
The guard raises an eyebrow. “From the arena, too?”
Fans can’t access the behind-the-scenes areas, but anyone can buy a ticket to a game. Sure, it costs several hundred dollars he probably doesn’t have, but I can’t take that risk. What if he caused a scene in the middle of a game?
He’s already ruined my life. I don’t need to give him any more power over me.
Without hesitation, I nod. “He needs to go. Permanently.”