Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Santos
Dustin’s cryptic message lingers on my screen, staring back at me like some unsolvable riddle. We might have a chance. It’s done.
What does that even mean? A chance for what? It’s like he played the lottery and maybe we’ll hit all the numbers, but maybe not.
I’ve been trying to decipher it for what feels like hours, the words don’t make any sense. I’ve even resorted to repeating them out loud, like some chant that’ll unlock the mystery. But no—nothing.
What’s done? Or maybe the question is what the fuck did you do, Dustin Haverbrook? I swear, once I’m up and running I’m going to maim him.
I love Dustin—he’s my best friend, my . . . who the fuck knows what we are. We’re really close and sometimes we only have each other. But other times I don’t get him. What does he mean with this text?
Were we planning a heist, and I wasn’t told about it?
This kind of message drives me absolutely insane. Every time he sends something like this, it’s as if he’s intentionally leaving me dangling on a cliff’s edge, waiting, wondering, stressing.
As I’m about to read the words one more time, my thoughts are interrupted.
The door to my hospital room creaks open, and in walks Mills Aldridge, the owner of the Portland Orcas, with Caspian Spearman, our team captain, trailing right behind him.
Their presence pulls me out of the mental whirlpool Dustin’s text has me spinning in.
“Everything okay?” Mills asks.
“Yeah, just . . .” I hesitate, fumbling for words.
How do I respond? I doubt he wants to know that my best friend might be losing his everfucking mind. His last thread of sanity is gone. Instead of explaining or asking what the fuck they’re doing here, I force a smile and greet them.
Truthfully, I didn’t expect either of them to be here—especially today. They have bigger things to deal with, right? A team to run, games to win. Surely, a now sidelined player is low on the list. And the longer they stand there, the more my stomach is tied into knots. Why are they here?
That creeping fear—the kind that slithers into your thoughts uninvited—takes hold. Are they here to let me go?
My contract isn’t up until next year, but what if they’re planning to send me to some other team early, claiming my injury is the reason?
It’s not trade season, but what if something’s changed?
What if they’re just here to deliver the death blow to my career, right here, while I’m unable to do anything?
My throat tightens, my voice low and cautious. “How can I help you?” I ask, trying to mask the sinking feeling.
I brace myself, mentally preparing for them to say my time with the Orcas is over. Maybe my father’s relentless badgering has finally broken through and messed everything up—just like he promised he would last night.
He said it, my career would be over. Over.
Mills steps forward, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, that signature easygoing smile still on his face, as though nothing’s wrong at all. “The question is—what can we do for you?”
For me?
Before I can ask anything, Caspian steps up, offering a small, sincere smile.
“How’re you holding up? Feeling a little trapped?
Like you just stepped into the first circle of Dante’s Inferno?
” His voice carries a softness, an understanding that cuts right through the tension building in the room.
His gaze settles on me with the kind of look that says he’s been exactly where I am now.
“I remember when I broke my leg,” he continues. “Zero out of zero recommended. It was pure fucking hell . . . until the wife stepped in and played nurse.” He grins like an idiot, his eyes crinkling with fondness.
And somehow, that small comment—his casual, almost goofy attempt to lighten the air—is enough to pull me back from the ledge I’ve been teetering on.
The pressure of everything I’ve been holding in—the injury, the fear, the uncertainty—eases just a fraction.
That tiny crack of humor settles me in a way I didn’t expect.
I wasn’t with the team when he went through his injury, but I remember it vividly, like a moment frozen in time. He was the captain then, and he’s still the captain now. His career wasn’t shattered, it wasn’t derailed. He came back, stronger even. And maybe—just maybe—mine won’t be either.
The thought tugs a flicker of hope that’s been buried under the layers of worry. Maybe this isn’t the end for me. Maybe, like him, I’ll find my way back.
I shrug casually, trying to appear unbothered. “Could be worse,” I say, my tone light as if this is just a day or two injury that doesn’t bother me one bit.
In truth, I’m terrified. Terrified of what comes next, of what my future looks like now that I’m off the ice.
“I’ll be fine,” I add still using the same casual tone.
Mills steps closer, his face kind, but still, I can’t quite read him.
“We just wanted to check on you. Let you know we’re here for whatever you need.
” He pauses, then says something that loosens the tightness in my chest, if only for a moment.
“The team will be waiting for you—whenever you’re ready to come home . . . to the ice.”
The ice. That word alone makes something inside me ease, like it’s a part of me, like no matter how far I drift, I’ll always find my way back.
“Thanks,” I reply, and this time, I mean it. “I really appreciate it.”
It’s not every day that the owner of the team and its captain make a special trip to tell you they’ve got your back.
But no matter how much reassurance they try to offer, no words will be enough until I’m back in my skates, feeling the cold, familiar glide beneath my feet, ready for the next match.
Ready to prove to myself that this injury didn’t take everything from me.
They shift the conversation to how the team’s doing, updates on the games I’ve missed—two.
The playoffs are approaching fast, and the sting of knowing I’ll be on the sidelines while the rest of the team fights for the championship and then the cup.
The ache in my leg is nothing compared to the ache of missing out.
“My father is going to rejoice,” I mutter sarcastically, trying to mask the bitterness creeping into my voice. He’ll use this, I know he will. I’m just surprised that he and my agent haven’t done any damage just yet.
Then Mills clears his throat, a seriousness in his tone that makes me look up.
“Speaking of your father, your people requested to keep him away from the hospital,” he states.
“I want to reassure you that security has been notified and we’ll have people around the clock to assure that he doesn’t step foot in here. ”
I blink, trying to process his words. “Wait, what?” Who asked for that? What people? “I mean, I’m glad he won’t be here, but . . . I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
Caspian steps in, his voice firm. “We want to make sure you’re recovering, not stressing over the little things,” he reassures me. “You, like everyone else on the team, are family.”
I stare at them, a mix of relief and disbelief washing over me.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to hear that.
For the first time in what feels like forever, the suffocating presence of my father feels .
. . manageable. I just want to know how the fuck I requested that without opening my mouth. Who are my people?
Dustin . . . maybe? Is that what he meant when he said it was done? My mind latches onto his cryptic words, trying to untangle their meaning. But does it even matter right now?
“Thank you,” I manage to say, though my voice comes out quieter than I intended. It’s all I can muster with everything closing in on me. It all feels overwhelming, like I’m being pulled under by a tide I can’t fight.
Caspian gives me a nod, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a sleek business card. “And, uh . . . here,” he says, handing it to me. “My agent’s number. I heard you’re in the market for a new guy, and Fitzhenry Everhart is one of the best.”
I stare at the card, feeling like the world has just shifted in a way I can’t quite grasp. His agent? He’s offering me his agent? My fingers curl around the card, the smooth surface unfamiliar in my hand as I try to wrap my head around it.
“Umm, thank you,” I reply, confused.
This feels like the twilight zone. A world where my father has no say and I can make my own decisions—where other people seem to understand me and want to help.
“Whenever you’re ready to make some changes, give him a call. He’ll take care of you,” Caspian promises, his tone so confident, that for a fleeting second, I feel like things might actually be okay.
But before I can respond, Mills speaks up. “And just so you know . . . if you ever feel comfortable sharing—your private life, whatever it is—we’ll back you. The whole team will.”
Those words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I freeze, my mind scrambling, heart racing.
What do they know? My pulse quickens as my thoughts race ahead of me, trying to piece it together.
What are they trying to say? Who talked to them?
Dustin. I don’t know what he said, but whatever it was, I’ll probably kill him the next time I see him.
It’s overwhelming, even though their intentions seem good, almost too good.
I can’t figure out how to feel about it.
I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod, offering a weak, “Thanks.” I hope that’s enough, that it’s the right answer, because right now, I can’t trust my voice to say anything more.
After they leave, the room feels both too big and too small at the same time. My mind’s still spinning, replaying their words over and over, but I don’t get much time to process it before the door opens again, and in walks the surgeon with the team’s physician right behind him.