Chapter 9
NINE
Concussion
Deacon
When I slide into the SUV I see our driver is none other than Dean Costello himself. And where Dean goes, Drew goes … unless it’s Sunday and her other husband—the one by law—is on the field, QB’ing for the New York Knights.
“I should make at least two of you walk for wearing those colors, disrespecting the Lions,” Costello tuts.
Half our roster comes from Lincoln University, where Dean Costello played goalie.
He was damn good too. He would have gone pro had his grandfather, who owned half the city, not passed away at the end of his senior year and left it all in his hands.
Costello bought the Bears to stay connected to what he loves.
Hired the league’s first female coach from Lincoln and signed the top players on his team. Props for that.
“Is that a crop top?” Drew laughs.
“We were on the lam; we had to do whatever was necessary to survive.” Dash defends.
“Not sure how.” Costello nods toward the house. “Who the fuck lives in that broken ass—”
Dash grips the headrest in front of him, no doubt anchoring his ass in place. “Paul fucking Bronski.”
“Isn’t he dead?” Costello asks.
Drew smacks his arm. “No, he’s not dead.”
“Not sure that place screams I’m living the good life,” Dean shakes his head as he pulls out into traffic.
Dash laughs, “He’s got chickens living in—”
“Hens,” I correct after overhearing both Nalani and Paul do the same.
“You for fucking real?” Costello chuckles.
“He and his wife of sixty years didn’t have children, and one of the hens is still alive. It’s honorable,” Koa explains.
The whole vehicle goes radio silent.
“What?” He asks.
“It is sweet,” Drew says before holding her phone up so we can see her screen. “Do any of you know Claudia Holloway?”
“She’s a friend of Nalani’s,” I answer, because anymore at this point doesn’t make sense.
Drew suppresses a smile and clears her throat as she looks at Koa. “So, are you and she—”
“Working through some things.”
“Well, Claudia has applied for the staff psychologist. Bitty and Sofie Fairfax are two of her references. Will you have any issues with her getting hired if you’re required or need to see her?”
“None,” Koa answers.
“How’s your head?” Drew asks me.
“Been hit harder by better. Thanks for asking.”
“We’ll have the doctor check you out, anyway, before you get out on the ice,” Costello says.
“How much time are we looking at? A year? Five to ten?” Dash asks.
Drew giggles. “You have ‘practice’ an hour from when we tell them you’ve arrived, and I’ll be there to make sure the victims and heroes of last night’s fiasco aren’t inconvenienced any more than they already are. And that being said, let’s hear what went down.”
I don’t say shit, I let Dash, who is a natural storyteller, do that.
The SUV rolls into the private parking entrance beneath the arena, and instead of heading toward the locker room, we’re steered down the tunnel toward the media floor.
Not ideal.
Dash whispers behind me, “This feels like the beginning of a true crime doc. ‘They were good men… mostly.’”
“Shut it,” I mutter.
Costello leads us into one of the player conference rooms — long table, water bottles lined up, projector off. The same room we do rookie seminars in. Except this time there are two NYPD detectives already waiting inside.
No uniforms. Plainclothes. Friendly enough faces, but sharp eyes that no doubt file away every detail, whether they want to or not.
They rise when we enter, hands in view, no tension. This isn’t adversarial. This is cleanup.
“Gentlemen,” the older one greets, a voice like he’s smoked since kindergarten. “Appreciate you taking time before practice.”
Dash plops into a chair like he’s auditioning for The Bachelor: Cop Edition. Koa sits solid, like a boulder that could break a jaw just by existing near you. I take the end seat, back to the wall, watching.
The older detective looks at Dash. “Heard you gave quite a toast.”
Dash beams. “You follow the team?”
“My wife does,” the detective deadpans and looks at Koa. “She thinks your hair’s… nice.”
Koa snorts.
The younger detective turns to me. “Mr. Moretti, how’s the head?”
“Had worse at sixteen playing pond hockey.” Which is true. That ice was brutal, and I was stupid, just like last night.
He nods, impressed or amused or both. “We saw footage already. Just walking through it with you. Dingy threw the first punch?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And only because he thought being drunk made him bulletproof.”
“Did you strike him at any point?”
“I defended myself.”
Dash chimes in, “We were escorting civilian parties away from a hostile individual. Officer, you would've been proud—”
Koa elbows him hard. Dash wheezes.
The detective looks at me again. “You pressing charges?”
My jaw ticks. This is where I should say yes. Dingy deserves it. But will the consequences hit more people than the guilty.
I need time to figure out how this could affect Claudia and that little cherub. “I’d like to see what the doctor says before making that decision.” Clear. Calm. Firm. Time bought.
The detective nods, reading between every line.
“Respectable,” he says. “Let us know.”
I nod.
He looks at Dash and Koa. “You boys did the right thing walking away.”
Dash cough-scoffs. Koa kicks him again.
The detectives stand. “We’ll speak with league reps. Appreciate your time.”
As they leave, the older one pauses at the door and looks back at me. “You lose time on the ice that’s on him.”
Dash laughs, “I thought you didn’t follow us.”
“Followed Moretti since he started.” He looks at Costello. “Been keeping an eye on you as a leader since you bought it up.”
“How am I doing so far?” Costello smirks as he stands.
“Left the game to wear a suit, thought you took the easy out.” He nods his head up and down a few times. “Might be joining my wife and watching the Bears again.”
“Anytime you want to bring your bride and watch it here, I—”
“Proposed to my wife out there, you tore out the seats.”
Ouch, I think.
“You tell me which section and which seats, and I’ll make sure you have the opportunity to recreate it in the same spot, or better if you’d like.”
“Forty-five years ago, kid,” he murmurs.
“I get that.” Dean shoves his hands in his pockets. “Fell in love with the game right here on these grounds.”
The moment the cops clear out, Costello jerks his chin down the hall.
“Med. Now.”
Perfect. From police chairs to doctor’s table, exactly how every championship season should start.
I follow, head buzzing just enough to piss me off but not enough to stop me. Dash gives me a salute like I’m heading into surgery. Koa just claps my shoulder hard enough to rattle whatever brain cells I have left.
Dr. Rowe’s waiting. Older guy, steel grey hair, glasses he probably only wears so we remember he’s smarter than us. Ex-military, no-bullshit energy. The type who thinks “walk it off” is a valid treatment plan for dismemberment. Works for me.
He doesn’t look up from the tablet. “Sit.”
I sit.
“Turn.”
I turn. His fingers dig through my hair, finding the spot behind my ear where Dingy’s dumbass fist landed. It stings like hell.
“You sleep?” Rowe asks.
“A little.”
“Headache?”
“Some.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Two.”
His jaw works once. “Vomiting? Vision issues?”
“No.”
“Lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“You remember the hit?”
“Remember, Dingy being an idiot, if that counts.”
He prods the cut again. Pain zings sharply. I grit my teeth.
“Very mild concussion,” he announces, casual like he’s calling the weather. “Lucky.”
“Feels real lucky.”
“No contact drills. No scrimmage. No games. Two more days off the ice then check in with me in Utah.”
“What if I feel fine?”
He lifts his brows, slow and deadly. “We’ll see.”
“So, you’re saying there’s hope.”
“I’m saying if you try to be a hero, I’ll bench you harder than the last time you mouthed off during rehab.”
I bite back a laugh. “One time.”
“One time too many.” He opens a drawer. “Should have had a stitch or two. Gonna glue it up. Which means I have to clear the area.”
“Shave away,” I grumble.
“Just a little, nothing too terribly noticeable.”
When he finishes, he opens a drawer, hands me two cold packs and a bottle of electrolytes. “Hydrate. Rest. Monitor symptoms. Stay away from screens, wear sunglasses. If you get dizzy, throw up, or start crying at dog commercials, come back.”
“I don’t cry.”
“Any dizziness right now?” He asks.
“Just when Dash talks.”
“Normal side effect.”
He scribbles notes. “And Moretti—”
I pause at the door.
“No fights for at least twenty four hours.”
I snort. “Planning to avoid Dingy anyway.”
“Good.” Then he adds without looking up. “Kids an asshole always has been.”
I smirk, “Tell me he’s any worse than Johnson.”
He doesn’t say a damn word.
Dean is waiting in the hall. “You cleared?”
“Two days down, then he’ll check me on the road.” I arch a brow and decide fuck it. “Johnson’s going to sink this team. He’s all but hitting it in the net for them.”
Unlike most owners, he doesn’t get pissed, and I know damn well it’s because he was a player first.
“Who you thinking?”
I lift a shoulder. “You know who needs to come up.”
“Hank Williams Jr.” He grumbles.
“Kids rotting down on the farm team.” I nod toward the locker room. “Gonna grab a shower and my things.”
Walking out of the locker room after my shower and getting some massage therapy at Costello’s insistence, I get a text
KOK:
How’s your head?
Me:
have a slight concussion.
KOK:
What can I do?
Me:
You have a date. Seal it.
KOK:
That’s a given. What can I do for you?
I jog toward him, and he says. “Shouldn’t you be wearing sunglasses in this light and taking it easy?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m good. They’re saying concussion; glued my head that might have needed a stitch. He comes after us, and I go after him. He goes balls out after the momma bear and her cub; we go hard. If not, it was a bar fight.”
“You out for tomorrow night’s game?” He asks.
I nod. “They’re bringing up your Lincoln guy, Williams Junior, for the game.”
“We’re fucked,” he groans.
“You’re fine. Junior’s a natural.” I hit him with the truth. “I may be fucked.”
“Nah, man, you’re Deacon fucking Moretti. You’re playing like you were before Costello bought the team.”
“Share a ride back to the Puck Palace?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
I have a room at the Puck Pad, but I rarely stay there; I prefer a hotel suite and a duffel bag during the season, always have. My family's place in Italy is where I am when not on the team’s clock.
“You pressing charges?” Koa asks.
I look at him, then pull out my phone and open the ride app. “Change of plans.”
“Screen time, brother,” Koa sighs.
“Got it,” I say after receiving confirmation.