Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The shoulder caught him below the ribs.
Patrick saw the defenseman coming. He’d read the play cleanly, stepped up to close the gap at the blue line, and his positioning was perfect.
He’d just passed the puck to Loman when he was slammed into the boards, a clean check that left his arm pinned the wrong way.
The glass shuddered behind his head. His helmet cracked against it a split-second after his shoulder took the impact, and the world went white for exactly as long as it took his lungs to remember how to work.
He stayed down with his glove braced against the boards, cataloging how bad off he was. Ribs, left side. Shoulder, same side. Head, fine. He’d bitten the inside of his cheek and the taste of copper sat on his tongue.
“Fonty.” Dev was there, stick tapping his shinpad. “You good?”
Patrick pushed himself up. The arena noise came back in layers—the horn still echoing from the goal they’d scored after his pass, the crowd going wild, somewhere nearby one of his teammates scrapping with the asshole who’d hit him.
They were up three to one with eight minutes left in the third, and his ribs were screaming, but his legs were steady, which was the only thing that mattered right now.
“Good,” he said, and skated to the bench for a line change. “Just need to catch my breath. Fucker got me good.”
Barlow gave him the look he gave every player who stayed down longer than a second. Patrick sat on the bench and breathed through his nose while waiting for the trainer to make his way over from the far end.
“Ribs?” the trainer asked, crouching in front of him.
“Yeah. Left side.”
“Scale of one to ten.”
“Four.” It was a six, possibly a seven when he inhaled too deeply. “I’m finishing the game.”
The trainer pressed a hand against his side, and Patrick held still, which took more effort than it should have. “Sit one shift. If you’re moving okay after that, you can go back out.”
He sat one shift and went back out. The last six minutes were a defensive clinic with the Syndicate collapsing into a tight box, and Patrick ate two more shots off his shinpads because his ribs wouldn’t let him extend to block the way he usually did.
They won, and the celebration was agony.
Lifting his arm above his shoulder sent piercing pain through his side.
In the tunnel, Pruitt was still buzzing from his second-period goal. “The way that asshole hit you, I was worried you were dead or some shit.”
“I’m not dead, Pru.”
“You look dead though. Like a sexy corpse. Very dignified.”
“I’m flattered,” Patrick deadpanned. “But I’m not sure your wife would appreciate you hitting on me.”
“Fuck that, man. Why is it gay if guys appreciate their buddies’ looks, but chicks can do it and no one thinks twice?”
“First of all, you better have meant gay as in same-sex attraction, not a slur.” Patrick smacked Pru upside the back of the head.
Locker rooms had come a long way since he was in juniors, but there was still too damned much homophobic bullshit.
Guys didn’t think twice about saying shit, even knowing Patrick was gay.
“And second, they’re women, not chicks. Grow the fuck up. ”
His knees turned to jelly when he tried pulling the sweater over his head.
Fuck, he had no clue how he was supposed to skate with the kids tomorrow.
Hell, right now, he’d settle for sorting out how to strip out of his gear and get dressed.
He’d shower at home where no one would see if he wound up puking from the pain.
The locker room was the usual postgame chaos—music too loud from somebody’s speaker, Kubara talking to the media in the hallway, the smell of sweat hanging in the air like it always did after a physical game.
Patrick sat in his stall, away from the guys who were jostling one another.
The trainer came back with an ice pack. Patrick pressed it against his left side and sat in his compression shorts with his eyes closed, letting the cold seep into his skin.
“I want you to come by the medical room before you leave.” Their head athletic trainer was a scrawny shit, but he had a way of staring down any player who even thought about arguing with him.
“I don’t think anything’s broken, but we need to make sure.
No sense in you hurting yourself worse when the team’s on track for the playoffs this year. ”
“And if I say I’ll do it tomorrow if I still feel like shit?”
Patrick wanted to get home and call Asher to see if he was still coming down to watch. As bad as he wanted to see him again, he doubted he’d be up for living out any of the fantasies that’d been brewing in his mind.
“Tonight, Fontaine.” He turned on his heel and was off to check on a couple of other guys, effectively ending the conversation.
Barlow came in for his postgame pep talk.
Patrick whooped when Loman was handed the puck that was already marked with tape for his first pro goal.
Clapped when Smitty presented Mullins with the oversized black portfolio that was given to the player of the game as determined by his teammates.
And the entire time, he counted down the seconds until he could swing by medical before going home to the comfort of his bed.
He didn’t check his phone until the room had cleared out, until he’d showered and dressed and the ice pack had gone warm against his skin and he was cleared to head home and take it easy on their day off. The building was quiet now. Too damn quiet. It kinda freaked him out.
There were texts waiting for him. Two from Marc about a meeting next week, and one from Asher.
Asher
That looked like it hurt. You okay?
The heaviness in his chest eased a bit. He gave Asher shit for worrying about him, but only because he didn’t want to admit how nice it was.
The last guy he’d dated took every injury as an opportunity to ask when he was going to hang up his skates.
And that was only the tip of why things hadn’t worked out between them.
That had been two years ago. Before him and after, it had been hotel rooms in road cities with men whose last names hadn’t mattered.
None of them ever asked about his injuries, if they’d even noticed.
That had seemed like an advantage at the time.
Tender, but I’ll live. Were you watching on TV?
Section 312. Row F. Thought I’d come down tonight and see what all the fuss was about. You guys aren’t half-bad.
Screw you. We’re on fire.
I’ll have to take your word for it.
Where are you now?
In my car. Apparently, they start looking at you funny if you don’t follow the rest of the herd out after the game. Trying to figure out wtf you park.
East side of the arena. I’m just heading to my car now.
Patrick’s ribs throbbed and his face was doing something he couldn’t quite control. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sat there in the empty locker room with the lights half-dimmed and the custodial staff running a vacuum somewhere down the hall.
I would have gotten you better seats if I’d known you were coming.
Wasn’t the point. Are you actually okay or are you doing the tough guy thing?
I’d say you could check me out for yourself, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.
Oooh, playing doctor? Sounds kinky!
Remember, you’re not the only elite athlete. I’m not so much of a dick I’d expect… well, dick, tonight.
Patrick chuckled, and immediately listed to the side.
He breathed slowly until the spots behind his eyes cleared.
He should go home. He had a routine. He had a foam roller and a freezer full of ice packs and a specific way he processed a game—alone, in silence, replaying every shift until the adrenaline wore off enough to sleep.
Send me the address of your hotel, and I’ll meet you there.
Patrick took the elevator to the seventh floor and stood in the hallway for a few seconds before he knocked.
He couldn’t believe he was standing in a hotel hallway at midnight with bruised ribs because a man he’d only met once had driven three hours to watch him play hockey without telling him.
He’d considered bringing his duffel inside but decided that was a bit presumptuous.
If he wound up crashing here tonight, and that really would depend on if Asher was serious about not expecting anything, he’d grab it later.
Asher opened the door in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that had seen better days. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, and his eyes went to Patrick’s left side before they went to his face.
“You’re holding your arm weird,” Asher said.
“I’m holding my arm fine.”
“You’re really not.” Asher stepped back and held the door open wider. “Get in here before you fall over in the hallway and make it my problem.”
The room was spacious, a king bed with the covers already pulled back on one side and a TV playing something on mute.
There was a bucket of ice on the coffee table in the sitting area and another with four bottles of beer.
Patrick wasn’t much of a drinker, but figured he could use something to take the edge off tonight since he refused to take prescription pain meds unless he couldn’t move without them.
“Sit down and tell me if you need a bag for the ice or if you can handle a towel wrap.” He helped Patrick out of his suit jacket. The damned thing had been a bitch to put on, but walking out disheveled would’ve drawn attention to his injuries.
“Towel’s fine.”
Asher grabbed one from the bathroom and wrapped a handful of ice in it with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d done this before, for himself or for teammates or for someone else who wouldn’t admit how much it hurt.
Patrick sat on the edge of the couch and let Asher press the bundle against his ribs without pulling away.
“You don’t have to hover,” Patrick said.