Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brinley
I told myself I wasn’t going to watch his game today.
That was before he called me earlier.
He sounded fine, for the most part. A little distracted, maybe, but that’s to be expected before a game.
We kept it short after he asked me to promise I wouldn’t leave Rixton.
He asked how I was doing and if I needed anything while my car was in the shop.
He offered to have Atlee give me a ride if I needed to go anywhere—the store, class, wherever.
I didn’t tell him I’d already made a trip to the store.
He would’ve been annoyed and made a big deal of it. He already doesn’t like the idea of me staying here. I wasn’t about to give him something else to worry about before his game.
I pour another cup of coffee and stand there holding it, letting the warmth soak into my hands.
I have about twenty minutes before I need to change and head down to Broken Saddle for my shift—an earlier one than usual since the game’s bringing in a crowd.
I’m hoping the caffeine does something for this tired fog I can’t seem to shake.
It’s no use, though. I don’t think I’ll get a good night’s rest until the new bed gets here anyway.
By the time I tie my apron around my waist and step behind the bar, the game has already started.
Broken Saddle isn’t slammed, not like it is during my usual night shifts, but it’s steady.
A couple of regulars are posted up at their usual spots.
Two college guys are arguing over a pool shot near the back.
The TVs mounted around the bar are playing the game.
The volume is low enough, though, that it blends in with the crowd, which helps me pretend I’m not paying attention.
I don’t look right away. Instead, I grab a towel and start wiping down the bar, restocking napkins, and lining up glasses.
Every time the crowd reacts, my eyes find their way back to the screen before I can stop them. When I look up again, I notice it’s not Cooper standing in front of the net.
That makes me pause before I force myself to keep moving as the camera cuts to center ice, then to the benches.
“…and surprisingly, they’re sitting their captain, Rowden,” the commentator says. “There’s been no confirmation, but I’d say it looks like they’re giving that shoulder some rest.”
He didn’t say anything about not playing on the phone. In fact, he promised to block every puck for me.
Which makes me think he had no idea he’d be sitting this one out.
The camera pans wide across the bench. It’s quick, so I don’t catch him—just a blur of Rixton jerseys and my father pacing behind them like usual.
The other commentators talk about being cautious this late in the season. How Coach Dawson has experience leading teams to the playoffs, and how sitting your starters is a long-term approach.
Sasha brushes past me. “Is everything okay?” she asks, nodding toward the TV.
“Yeah,” I say, reaching for another glass.
“Is it his shoulder? Is it still bothering him?”
I don’t want to tell her I don’t know because that would be a lie. I know it’s been bothering him, but we haven’t seen each other for a few days.
So I go with the most honest answer I can give. “I thought he was doing better. He seemed like he was anyway. I guess I don’t know what’s going on.”
She nods and presses her lips together in a forced smile.
The first period ends, and the teams skate off the ice. I use it as an opportunity to slip in the back and refill the ice. When I do, I pull out my phone and open our messages.
He still hasn’t responded to my texts since the night of the party, when I asked where he was and if he was okay.
I scroll up through our thread and land on a photo he sent me. It was one of the first messages we exchanged. It was a selfie he’d taken right before a game.
His hair was wet, either from sweating or from just getting out of the shower. I can’t be sure. He’s sitting in front of his stall without a shirt on.
He looks incredibly handsome with his sharp jawline and those piercing gray eyes. This was when his facial hair was a bit shorter, but the last time I saw him on campus, I noticed he had let it grow out a bit. Like he hadn’t shaved in a few days.
Butterflies settle in my stomach at the sight of him. Something pulls at my chest that I can’t describe in words, but it feels like longing. Like I miss him and hate this distance between us.
I swipe out of the photo and realize I was smiling to myself when my thumb hovers over the keyboard, debating if I want to send him a text.
I hope everything is okay.
I stare at it for another second, then delete it.
He’s got a game. If they’re sitting him for a reason, I don’t want to add something else for him to deal with.
I slip my phone into my apron and finish loading up the ice into a bin.
They don’t show him again, so I turn my attention to work, going through the motions of taking orders, wiping down the counter, and refilling whatever needs to be stocked.
As the minutes wind down on the third period, my phone vibrates against my leg. I glance at the clock on the screen. The game is tied.
Of course it is.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter to Sasha before slipping into the back room.
An unknown number flashes across my screen. I hesitate, then answer.
“Hello?”
There’s a beat before a man’s voice comes through. “Uh, hi. Is this Brinley Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, this is Caleb from County Line Towing. Just calling to let you know your car’s ready.”
I blink. “Already?”
“Yeah. We found the issue pretty quickly, actually.”
I glance toward the door, the low rumble of the game carrying through the wall. “I’m at work right now. How late are you open?”
“We’ll be here about another thirty minutes.”
I check the time again. Still an hour left on my shift.
“Okay,” I say, nodding even though he can’t see me. “I’ll come by tomorrow then.”
“Sounds good. We’re open until six.”
“Thank you.”
I end the call and stand there for a second before walking back behind the bar. By the time I do, the third period is nearly over. The place gets louder as the clock runs down.
We’re headed into overtime, and I feel the room shift with a mix of groans and cheers.
They mentioned before the game that Rixton won the last two matchups against Kolmont. Neither one was close.
Overtime seems to stretch on longer than it should have, but thankfully, Rixton manages to pull out the win. The bar erupts as the puck hits the back of the net.
I don’t see who scores. I don’t even watch to see if they show Cooper on the bench, not wanting to see the look of defeat knowing he hadn’t been out there.
The last hour of my shift passes quickly after the game ends. By the time I untie my apron, my earlier fatigue is starting to weigh on me again.
I clock out and head upstairs, kicking off my shoes as I change into something more comfortable. I don’t have the energy to shower tonight. I’ll save it for the morning.
I settle on the first show Netflix suggests, not planning on watching it. I curl up on the air mattress, my laptop balanced on the arm of the couch, and doze off.
The following morning, I call a rideshare and wait outside with my coffee until it pulls up.
The driver doesn’t say much when I climb in the back seat, and I’m thankful for it, as I watch Rixton pass by out the window.
County Line Towing isn’t too far away. Only a couple of miles from my place.
A bell rings when I step in through the front door. It smells like oil. A couple of guys are laughing loudly. The older one steps toward the counter, wiping the grease off his hands when he sees me before Caleb comes up behind him.
“Hey, Brinley,” he says, clapping the older guy on the shoulder, muttering under his breath that he’s got this one.
“Hi, Caleb.”
He flips through some paperwork and slides a receipt across the counter to me.
“How bad is it?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “It wasn’t bad. Just… a little weird, I guess.”
My brows furrow. “Weird how?”
“Have you had any work done on your car recently?”
“No. I mean, not since before I moved here. I had the oil changed and the tires rotated, but I didn’t have any issues when I drove it from Kentucky to here.”
“Nothing else? No one’s touched it since?”
I shake my head.
He glances toward the doorway that leads back into the shop. There’s a car up on the lift, but no one else is around.
“I don’t want to jump to anything,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. “But one of the clamps near the fuel line was loose. Like… looser than it should’ve been.”
My stomach tightens. “Loose how?”
“Not falling off or anything,” he says quickly. “Just enough that it could’ve caused issues if you kept driving it like that.”
“Is that normal?”
He shrugs. “Stuff can work itself loose over time. Vibration, wear… that sort of thing, but this would’ve had to be more recent.”
I hesitate. “So… it could’ve just worked itself loose, then?”
“It’s possible,” he says. “Or someone was under the hood at some point and didn’t tighten it back all the way. Hard to say.”
“Okay…”
“But you’re good now,” he adds. “We tightened everything up and checked the rest. Nothing else looked off. It’s parked out front.”
“Okay.”
He slides the keys across the counter with the paperwork.
“How much do I owe you?”
He glances at the screen, then back at me. “It’s already taken care of.”
“What?”
“Paid in full.”
“By who?”
He hesitates just long enough for it to register.
“Was it Cooper?”
He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
I press my lips together and slide my wallet into my purse before I say something I shouldn’t.
“Thank you,” I force out.
“Hey,” Caleb adds when I reach the door. “If anything feels off, like if it’s driving funny or it’s making any noise, bring it back here. We can give it another look. No charge.”
This time, when I thank him, I mean it.