Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DONOVAN
I’m walking on fucking sunshine as I leave the arena after practice, a shiny new bruise forming on my knee from a shitty shot I missed, but a grin on my face.
My agent called earlier to let me know that the higher ups in Boston with the NHL team reportedly appreciated me ditching the gloves and throwing some fists the other night.
Apparently, it showed heart and character or something.
If not those two, then one of the buzzwords executives throw around when trying to measure talent without relying on numbers and data.
I’m on their radar, though, which is all that matters.
I’m fairly certain in the next few years I’ll be suiting up in their locker room instead of the one down here in the minor league, and that definitely feels fucking fantastic.
Not that I’m celebrating yet, though. My mom would shake her head and cluck her tongue at me if I were to get too excited in this moment where my jersey still has the green-and-gold Snakes logo on the front instead of the red-and-gold Copperheads.
She always kept me in line when my expectations grew too big for my body to handle, reminding me that if I wanted it, then I needed to keep working hard.
I tilt my eyes up to the midday sun that peers through the clouds and smile, because if she’s somewhere up there watching me, I hope she knows I’m heeding every little piece of advice and guidance she’d have given me as I move through the rest of this life without her.
I hope she knows I’m happy.
As I get into my Jeep my phone pings with a message on Instagram, and some of my joy is quickly turned to dread because I know exactly what it is.
That same account has been leaving me messages about my mask, trying to taunt me into admitting who the artist is, but the last few have taken a bit of a strange turn into outright demanding to know who did the artwork.
I haven’t responded to a single one, but that’s only served to rile whoever’s sending them up a bit.
Putting the pieces together, I’m sure it’s Kyle Penton sending me reminders of his earlier threats, but I can’t prove anything because the account is basically anonymous and the profile image is just a black circle.
Shit, even the account name hasn’t been changed to anything identifying, and simply reads as user324231.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
It proves nothing. I sigh as I open the message and read it, my blood running a bit cold as I frown at the screen.
Stay away from him, Myers. Don’t make me cause a problem.
I close out of the message fast and head to the account, clicking through settings and blocking whoever it is from being able to contact me. Then I open my texts and shoot one off to Oakley.
You said you’d handle it.
He immediately hits me back.
I did. He was warned.
Well, he didn’t listen.
Fuck. I’ll send another warning. Heading to practice. So sorry.
I send a thumbs up and put my phone into the center console of the Jeep before firing up the engine to head for Helping Hearts to pick Shiloh up after his class.
I’ve grown tired of my protein bowls and have a real craving for pancakes, so I hope he’s hungry, because I intend to take us to Sal’s for some good comfort food.
I wind the Jeep through the streets of Boston, taking care to not get lost by following the GPS voice in my Google Maps.
I can vaguely remember where the center is, but I’ve only been there once and I don’t want to risk taking a wrong turn and ending up out by Salem or something.
I did that once when I thought I knew where I was going, and trying to navigate my way back to my apartment was a nightmare.
Luckily, I make it there in time to meet Shiloh as he walks out of the building, his body wrapped in the jacket I bought him and his hands stuffed in the pockets so the chill can’t touch his fingers.
I grin as he reaches for the door, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a tiny bag containing a small present I grabbed for him back at the arena.
“Hey,” he says, as he hops into the passenger seat and pulls the door shut behind him.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, as he places his hands on the heater vents and sighs a happy sound. I give him a moment to sit in the warmth before I hold out the small black bag to him. “For you.”
“What’s this?” he asks as he reaches for it slowly, plucking it from my fingers carefully. He opens it and reaches in, pulling out the small metal Seaport Snakes keychain.
“Nothing special,” I comment as he smiles. “The shop just got them in, so I grabbed you one. I figured that since you’re such a big fan of the Snakes, you might want to be able to show it off proudly on your keys.”
“I’m a fan of one Snake,” he corrects with a slight smile, as he pulls his keys out of his pocket and loops the keychain onto his set.
I lean over the center console because I can’t resist, pressing my lips to his cheek. “Good enough for me. You ready to eat?”
He nods and offers a smile again, but it doesn’t quite feel right. I cock my head to the side a bit as I scan his face, noting that there’s a bit of worry lingering in his eyes. “What’s up? Did something happen?”
“No,” he sighs as I put the Jeep in drive and head out onto the road. “Not really. Just… Iggy didn’t come today.”
“Iggy?”
“One of the kids at the center. I think you saw him hugging me when you came to visit? He missed class today and he never misses. I asked Pierre, but he hasn’t been there all week. I’m just…” He trails off, ending his sentence with a shrug.
“Maybe he’s sick?” I offer.
“Maybe. I don’t know. His situation at home isn’t the best… and the last time he was absent for more than one class, they called and let us know. I’m just… I don’t know.”
I don’t know what to say that could take away the worry creeping into Shiloh as I head for Sal’s, but I take a chance on something else. “Tell me about Iggy?”
“He’s gentle,” Shiloh offers, his voice wistful as he smiles. “The best kid, really. Talented too, despite being so little. He just… he’s a really good kid in a really shit situation. All the students at Helping Hearts are really good kids in places they don’t deserve to be.”
There’s a gravity to his tone, a certainty that speaks to a deeper knowledge of things I don’t know anything about.
I’m again reminded of the scars on his hip, though I know now is not the time to bring them up.
I pushed too hard before and almost drove him away.
I just have to trust that eventually he’ll tell me where they came from so I can slip that puzzle piece into the place it belongs in my mind.
That he even let me pick him up here speaks volumes, even though it’s such a tiny thing.
He’s trying, I can tell, to let me into the places it feels safe for him.
I open my mouth to ask more about his art class, but he beats me to it with a question that redirects attention to me instead. “Practice went well?”
“Yeah.” I nod as I pull the Jeep over to the curb beside Sal’s. “Really good, actually. I heard from my agent that the Copperheads didn’t disapprove of me dropping the mitts, which is a relief.”
“You were worried,” he says, not asking, confirming.
“Kind of. The league is trending away from fighting being a huge part of the game. There aren’t many real goons left, but sometimes everything just gets chippy out there and it becomes inevitable that there’s gonna be a fight.”
“Goon?”
“A player put on the ice whose job is to fight,” I explain, with a grin. “That used to be a big thing. Sure, the guy could skate, but his real skill came in protecting his team and dropping the gloves.”
“Violent,” Shiloh says as he opens the door of the Jeep and hops out. “I didn’t know hockey was quite that vicious.”
I get out and join him on the sidewalk in front of Sal’s. “It was. It still kind of is.”
Shiloh nods, but I get the feeling that he’s slipped a million miles away in his head again, worrying about Iggy. Taking a chance out here on the public sidewalk, I grab his hand and give it a small tug, catching his attention.
“Hey, it’ll be okay,” I say, as his eyes meet mine. “Maybe he’ll be back tomorrow.”
Something in his eyes says that he doesn’t quite believe me, but he sighs and nods anyway. “Maybe.”
Oakley flies across the ice on my TV, heading for the goal with the puck on his stick.
He shoots and I tense, then sigh under my breath as the shot is scooped up by the opposing goalie.
Shiloh sits on the couch in front of me, nestled between my outstretched legs with a blanket on his lap.
His hands hold a book he told me he needs to read for one of his classes, but his eyes keep drifting to the game on the TV.
“He didn’t score,” he points out.
“He’ll keep trying. Maybe it’ll happen.” It likely will. Oakley has scored a goal in the last three games he’s played and is on a roll out there tonight.
“Is this what you do? Play hockey all day and then watch your friends play hockey all night? That’s it?”
“That’s not all I do,” I reply with a laugh.
“No?”
“Sometimes I play hockey video games.”
Shiloh rolls his eyes, but he smiles as he turns back to his book, settling into my chest even more as he turns the page.
I lean down and press a kiss to his curls, then lift my hand to run my fingers along his scalp as the game continues on the screen.
I know he’s still worried about Iggy, but tonight he’s managed to settle into this scene of domestic life here with me, and that’s something I’m also adding to the “he’s trying” column in my mind.
Oakley’s team doesn’t manage to score before the end of the first period rolls around, and I’m nearly asleep on the couch beneath the slight weight that is Shiloh’s frame. I yawn as he hums softly under his breath, turning the page in his book and wiggling a bit where he sits.
“Uncomfortable?” I ask, as intermission starts and commercials fill the screen.
“I’m alright,” he replies, turning the next page.
I peer past his head to see what he’s reading, but my eyes start to slide closed and I lean back against the couch, listening to the TV drone on as I skirt the edges between awake and asleep.
I don’t know how long I linger in this moment, but a sudden movement in front of me forces my eyes open.
“Wha…?” I mumble, as Shiloh moves out of my lap, his chest heaving while he stares at the TV. “What’s up?”
He doesn’t look my way, his eyes trained on the TV and his face paling by the second. I turn my head and focus in on what’s on the screen, trying to figure out what the hell’s got him so alarmed.
And then I get it.
My heart drops as the local news anchor’s face fills the screen, her tone dour and her face dead serious as she outlines the reason for the break in broadcast.
“The child has been taken to hospital with serious injuries, but police are seeking the public’s assistance in tracking down the man neighbors witnessed fleeing the scene.
Harold Bronwell, rumored to be the child’s father, is considered armed and dangerous.
At last sighting, he was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a dark green T-shirt as shown in this image taken from a local ring doorbell camera,” she says, as the screen flips to a still grainy image of a man walking away from a small apartment block somewhere in Boston.
I glance at Shiloh, seeing that all color has drained from his face and his hands have started shaking on his knees.
I lean forward to pull him into me so he isn’t alone while the news anchor continues giving information about this incident, but he jerks himself away from my grasp and rises to his feet.
“It’s Iggy, isn’t it?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
I already know.
“I have to go,” Shiloh blurts, taking off at a rabbit’s pace for the door of my apartment. I jump off the couch and trail behind him, reaching the door as he’s shoving his feet into his shoes.
“Where?”
“I need space. I… I need to go.”
His eyes beg me to stop asking. To not demand that he stay here with me when every inch of his body seems to vibrate like he can’t possibly be here right now. I nod as he slips on his jacket, hands fumbling with the zipper for a few seconds before he finally gets it done up.
“Call me?” I ask, reaching out and placing my hands on his shoulders. “Let me know you made it home safe?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, as I lean in and press a kiss to his forehead.
He tilts his head up and connects his lips to mine for a brief second before he pulls away and opens the door. He doesn’t turn around once as he leaves, closing the door behind him, but I head to the window and wait.
I watch him exit the building, bursting through the doors like the devil’s hot on his trail. He moves quickly across the snow-covered ground, head bent down as he hurries away from my apartment and disappears around a corner.
I wonder for a split second if I should have stopped him from leaving.
Made him stay here while he processes the news of what’s happened to Iggy.
I settle back onto the couch and watch as the game picks up on TV again, clutching my phone in my hand as I wait for the news that he’s made it back to his place.
Safe and warm, as he should be.