Chapter 25 #2
We load up plates, and once again, they try to convince me that this time off is doing wonders for my nervous system, which I mostly ignore.
Poppy goes on a little tangent about something called “adrenal fatigue,” which sounds totally made up—another buzzword—and a way for wellness influencers to convince you something else is wrong with you.
But during a commercial break, I Google it, scan a few articles, and start to change my mind.
It’s not that I don’t believe the doctors when they say stress can wreak havoc on your body. I know this—in theory.
That’s just something that happens to other people.
And if these articles and doctors are right, and I’m reacting this poorly to stress, then how am I supposed to fix it?
It’s not like I can quit my job. Even if I were independently wealthy, I have zero interest in sitting around and not being productive.
The source of my stress is still going to be there whether I take a day off or not.
In fact, taking a day off makes me even more stressed because it’s one less day to chip away at the very long list of things to do.
But I’m not thinking about that tonight.
Tonight, apparently, I’m watching a hockey game.
To my utter horror, every time Finn shows up on the screen, my stomach does a little somersault. I never got that “Oh my gosh, I know that guy” feeling when seeing the team on TV. I mean, I’ve watched a handful of games. It never registered with me before.
Now it’s registering. And it’s unfamiliar and exciting and annoying all at once.
The whole reason for dating Justin is to prevent these kinds of emotional gymnastics.
I turn my attention back to my phone because I need something else to occupy myself with, but then one of the announcers mentions Finn’s name, and it draws my eyes up to the screen.
“Before the game, Dallas Burke told me that Holbrook is an absolutely crucial piece to the health of this team.”
“That may surprise some of our viewers since Holbrook isn’t one of the Comets’ big stars,” the other announcer says. “But he is well-loved among his teammates and the Comets’ fans.”
“He’s a rare kind of player who makes everyone else better every time he’s on the ice.”
There’s a close-up of Finn, who is focused in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. He moves around on the ice, completely engrossed in the job he’s there to do. I watch as he glides so effortlessly, and it’s—stunning, really. Surprisingly so.
“You see something you like there, Raya?” Eloise cracks.
I look up and find both of my sisters watching me watch Finn.
I clear my throat and look away. “Nope.”
The game starts, and they both disappear into it the way our dad does when he watches. It’s hilarious because once upon a time, they both disliked—and didn’t understand—this sport as much as I do. Now, there’s a lot of gasping and hollering at the TV.
I pull out my phone and scroll, thinking maybe I should text Justin. Only . . . I’m not sure what I would say.
I already sent him the details for Thanksgiving.
We’re getting together Wednesday, so I can explain to him who everyone is, and really, what else is there? We’ll never be two people who need to know what the other is doing at all times.
And that’s the point. I don’t want to miss him when we’re apart.
“And Holbrook takes an elbow to the jaw!” the voice blares from the television.
I glance up in time to catch a replay of Finn getting in between a player from the other team and Gray.
“That’s what he does,” Eloise says, more to herself than anyone else. “He keeps the path clean.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“He protects the other guys,” Poppy says. “Dallas says he’s their most selfless player.”
I can see that, actually. He might be all wrong for me, but it’s not hard to believe this about Finn.
“So . . . tell us about this new guy,” Eloise says. She picks up a chocolate cream puff and shoves the entire thing in her mouth. She almost instantly realizes this was a two-bite snack and covers her mouth with her hand as she chews.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, hoping they ask softball questions.
She shrugs, still chewing.
“We know he’s in real estate,” Poppy says. “What else?”
“He runs,” I say. “He’s doing the Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning before he comes to dinner. He’s an only child. Never been married. His parents live in . . . Naperville, I think? No, Barrington? Work is really important to him, so we have that in common.”
Poppy looks away.
“We both believe in direct communication, so we’ve laid out clear expectations,” I say.
“Wow. Sounds swoony.” Eloise’s tone drips sarcasm.
“I don’t need or want swoony,” I say. “Sensible suits me just fine.”
Eloise does a robot motion with her arms, a blank look on her face, but I ignore her.
I take another cracker and load it up, wishing I could convince my sisters that this really is the best thing for me.
There’s a collective “Ooh!” from the crowd, a huge reaction from the announcers, followed by a series of loud whistles on the television that draws our attention back to the game.
“And Holbrook is down! A huge hit on a wind-up by Pendleton!” one of the announcers shouts.
The cameras cut and swing around to Finn, sprawled out on the ice.
“Oh my gosh,” the words escape before I can stop them. The crowd is going crazy. “Why are they still cheering?!”
“It’s an away game,” I hear Poppy say, but my eyes are glued to the screen.
“Holbrook just got absolutely destroyed, and it looks like—yeah, on the replay—it looks like he saved Hawke from a hit of his own,” the play-by-play announcer says.
They switch to a zoomed-in shot, and on the replay, there’s a player from the other team who lowers his shoulder to hit Gray, but at the last second Finn skates in from the left and blocks the hit.
“And now that hit has drawn a crowd—a scrum with several of the Comets. It looks like the gloves are off. Stevens and Pendleton are locked up, with—OH!” Both the announcers react to Jericho, who rears back and levels the guy who hit Finn.
“Jericho Stevens lands a shot, sending Pendleton to the ice! Other players are starting to jump in—”
“—Yeah, I wouldn’t want to mess with Stevens, he’s got forty pounds and five inches on Pendleton—”
“—And Finn Holbrook is still down—either knocked the wind out of him or knocked him clean out—but he is not getting up.”
My eyes are glued to the screen.
The referees manage to separate the players, pulling them away from one another and sending them off, but Finn is still down.
They replay the moment of impact in slow motion, and I see the guy lower his shoulder, launch a bit off the ice as Finn takes the brunt of the hit on his chest—but he’s sent flying backward, out of control, and lands in an awkward position.
I gasp as I watch Finn land on his back, his head snapping back and bouncing off the ice.
“Oh no.” Eloise stands. “That looked bad.”
“The trainers are out on the ice, tending to Holbrook, who still hasn’t moved—we’ll be right back.”
It cuts to commercial.
I’m holding my breath. I didn’t know I was doing that.
I look over at my sisters, who wear the same expression I feel on my own face.
After about a minute, the game pops back on. The trainers have Finn upright and help him to his feet. He looks dazed, but he’s up. There’s lackluster applause in the stadium from the opposing fans, peppered with boos and whistles, and I realize I’m standing, eyes glued to the screen.
“That’ll most likely be the last we see of Finn Holbrook today, I’m afraid,” one announcer says. “Let’s hope the Comets can get by without him.”
I know I’m not supposed to care, but there’s no hiding the shock of watching someone you know get hurt on such a public stage.
“How do we find out if he’s okay?” I ask.
“I think we just have to wait,” Poppy says. “They usually give an update.”
I turn my attention back to the TV, willing someone to tell us something. “They’re just going to go on with the game?”
“They can’t stop every time someone gets hurt, Ray,” Poppy says. “It’s hockey.”
“But . . .” I hold my hand out at the screen, like he’s hurt!
I pick up my phone and open my text thread with Finn, but quickly realize I have no idea what to say.
My fingers hover over the tiny keyboard, and I type the only thing I can think of.
Raya
Please tell me you’re okay.
I pause, then delete it.
And I realize I care a whole lot more than I thought.