18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Sarah
The week’s already halfway gone before I realize it. And now Wing Wednesday is in full swing and I'm late.
Before I've even made it down the stairs, Overtime's kitchen assaults both of my nostrils again. Fryer grease and barbecue smoke and maybe something best identified as nachos. I tip my head back and lean against the wall for just a second. There's definitely wing sauce.
I survive to make it inside and as I round the corner, Danny's at his usual post near the bar, managing Happy Hour and the associated frenzy without breaking a sweat.
"Your boys are in the back corner," he calls when he spots me. "Fair warning — Tyler's attempting something for social media."
"Of course he is."
"Exactly." He grins. "Good luck."
I weave through the crowd — families, couples, groups of friends all crammed into vinyl booths under neon beer signs and Austin Stampede memorabilia.
Tyler's got his phone propped up on a stack of coasters, recording. "Okay, so for the Rookie Bucket List challenge that’s going around, I'm doing Tex-Mex. This is Austin, so I'm starting with Overtime's famous salsa. This is gonna be easy."
Lindy's got her own camera out, preparing to document everything for an additional team reel, most likely. "You sure about that, Momo?"
Clearly, everyone else at the table is hoping this is far more than just your average reel. Everyone's hoping Tyler goes full rookie.
"It's salsa. I'm from California. We have spice. I can handle spice."
Liam's leaning back in the booth, and his face absolutely screams trouble.
Quinn just walked in from the training facility, oversized bag over her shoulder.
Liam stays very deliberately focused on Momo.
The instant tension in his shoulders becomes obvious as he reaches across the table for the hot sauce caddy.
"Here, Momo," Liam says, dumping what looks like half a bottle of ghost pepper sauce into Tyler's salsa bowl while the kid's adjusting his camera angle. "Extra authentic."
Graham notices and grins. "Oh, this is gonna be good. The gods of the 'Gram will definitely be appeased."
Kevin sees me before I'm halfway to the booth. He shifts immediately, making space, then flashes a smile. "Hey."
"Finally made it. I lost track of time, trying to catch up on some paperwork the county shelter needed.” I slide in and his arm settles along the back of the chair behind me. Not touching but close.
Close can still be casual. And exclusive. But not affecting the team or the rescue.
So, it works.
No rules broken.
Quinn slides into a seat near Paige, very carefully not looking at Liam in the same way he's very carefully not looking at her. The tension is thick enough to cut.
"Okay," Tyler announces to his phone — and everyone in Overtime.
"Hey guys, I'm Tyler Morgan, Austin Stampede, and I'm taking part in the league's rookie bucket list social media challenge.
Since I'm here in Texas now, I've decided the first thing I'm gonna do on my list is to dominate some local salsa at Overtime Sports Bar on Lamar. Let's do this."
He loads up a massive chip and takes a huge bite.
For two seconds, nothing happens.
Then his face goes red.
Then purple.
His eyes water.
He makes a sound like a dying moose.
The table explodes in laughter.
"What the fuck—" Tyler gasps, reaching for his beer and chugging half of it. "Who—"
"That's true Austin, Momo. The more spice the better," Liam says innocently. "You said you could handle it."
"You're a dick, Crash!" Tyler's fanning his mouth, eyes streaming.
"You're supposed to be representing the team on social media," Aiden says, captain voice engaged and barely hiding his amusement. "Pretty sure Ranger would do better than this."
"Ranger doesn't sabotage his teammates!" Tyler wheezes.
"Ranger's in a class by himself, Tyler. And he's over 50,000 followers — and climbing," Paige says helpfully. "What's your count, Tyler?"
"I hate all of you."
Lindy's camera is still rolling. "This is definitely going in the social media highlight reel. Well, after I edit out the colorful language and that helpful description about Crash's personality."
"It's accurate," says Kevin, with a very even tone of voice.
"Without question. Just not on brand," says Paige, trying to hold in a laugh. "I think I might hear from Rob at the league."
Liam finishes off his beer then loudly slaps the bottle back on the table. "Fuck no. Rob's met me. He definitely thinks I'm a dick."
Aiden takes a chip but pushes away the salsa. "Thinks? He knows you're a dick. And so does everyone here. Even Jen at the bar."
The energy at this table is infectious. This is what I love about Wing Wednesday — it's not about hockey or wins or losses. It's just family being ridiculous together.
Kevin leans close, his breath warm near my ear. "How much you wanna bet he tries again?"
I can feel the heat of him next to me in the booth, can smell forest air in his cologne. My pulse kicks up and I force myself to focus on Tyler's inevitable second attempt instead of the way Kevin's shoulder is pressed against mine.
"He's too stubborn not to." I realize I'm too stubborn not to lean in just a little closer.
Kevin takes a chip and gives it an aggressive crunch. "He'll learn."
Jen is braver than I ever would be, because she decides this is the perfect moment to come over and get everyone's order.
As usual, Kevin orders, and as usual he gets it right.
"Chicken sandwich with ranch, no mayo, sweet potato fries, Shiner for Sarah.
I'll get the same, but I want curly fries.
And can I get a local IPA? Pick one you think I'll like, Jen. "
If anyone else tried to order for me in a restaurant, we'd have problems. But for some reason, when Kevin does it, it doesn't mean he doesn't trust me or doesn't believe I can take care of myself.
It somehow means everything — everything that's good and protective and perfectly Kevin.
It settles in my heart even as my stomach does a flip.
"Actually..." I say, trying to sound casual. "Just water tonight. Still working on that grant proposal. I've got to go back upstairs and finish it up after dinner."
Kevin's head turns and he studies my face. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Water's good. Maybe a lemon too."
He doesn't push. Just nods to Jen and slides my water closer with two fingers when it arrives. But I feel his attention lock on. He's sensing that something's out of position.
Paige is watching me too. She knows my drink order as well as Kevin does.
Tyler's recovered enough to try another chip — regular salsa this time — while Liam watches with satisfaction. "You're buying my next beer, Crash."
"Worth it."
Everything at this table smells too strong. The beer. The nachos Graham ordered. Even Kevin's curly fries seem to be radiating grease into the air.
But I'm holding it together. I can do this. Wing Wednesday will end soon, and I can go upstairs and—
Kevin's hand finds mine under the table again. Not the casual thumb circles from earlier — this time his fingers press once, deliberate. I glance over. I’ve seen this look on TV before — he tracks every player on the ice, even while he’s focused on the puck.
And now he’s focused on me while acting like he’s completely engaged with everything happening around the table.
He knows something's off. He just hasn't figured out where the threat is coming from yet.
Then Jen brings out a fresh basket of wings for the table. Hot Honey BBQ.
The smell hits. And now I know exactly what it’s like when the other team shoves one of the guys into the boards.
Everything goes sharp and then fuzzy at the edges. The sound of the bar — laughter, glasses clinking, Tyler's voice — compresses into a single hum. My vision tunnels. I grip the edge of the table.
This is a check. A smell check.
Vinegar is punching its way up my nose, followed closely by peppers and grease. No. No. No. Hell to the no.
I need air.
Now.
"Bathroom," I manage, standing too fast. My knee hits the table and makes it jump.
Kevin's hand comes to my elbow immediately as he slides out quickly to make way. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just… Um… I’ll be right back."
I don't wait for a response. Just move, weaving through tables, following the RESTROOMS sign like it's a beacon.
The door swings shut behind me, and I grip the sink, breathing hard through my mouth. The fluorescent lights are too bright. Everything smells like fake flower air freshener and somehow I can still smell those fucking wings.
I look at myself in the mirror. Pale. Shadows under my eyes. When did I start looking like this?
And the nausea isn't passing. It's just sitting there, heavy and wrong.
Coffee tasted like the Space Needle itself instead of just being in the Space Needle mug at Kevin's place.
I've been exhausted for weeks. That garlic smell at Paige's house while the guys were on their last road trip hit me so hard I had to count to ten and avoid the kitchen.
And now wing smell is trying to kill me.
It's all connected. I know it's all connected.
No.
No no no no no.
The door opens.
Quinn.
She takes one look at me. Her eyes do a quick scan: checking face, posture, breathing. Medical mode activated.
"Yeah. Just needed a minute."
The door opens again. Paige.
She doesn't say anything at first. Just comes to stand beside Quinn, her hand finding my back between my shoulder blades. She's on ponytail patrol, keeping it out of the way. She only says one word. "Honey."
I look up at the mirror. At their faces.
Every single one of us in here knows.
Including me.
"Oh fuck," I whisper. "No."
"When was your last period?" Quinn asks, gentle but direct.
I try to count back. My cycle's never been regular, always a little off when I'm stressed, and I've been stressed with being behind on our adoption numbers and then the rent increase and—