Chapter 18
Rome
When I hit the boards with my right leg extended, I heard the pop in my groin, immediately followed by not just pain but a strange warmth flooding my inner thigh.
The doc tells me it was probably blood filling the area, that it’s pretty normal, but it was the weirdest damn thing I’ve ever experienced.
And the pain was intense.
I like to think I’m pretty tough, both on and off the ice. I’m used to playing through injuries but this is something else entirely. I’m going to be off my feet for weeks. Maybe for the rest of the season. Which means my future on the team is now even more uncertain than before.
At least I got the goal.
Even while I’m lying here at the hospital getting X-rayed, poked and prodded, I’m proud of that. Getting hurt wasn’t optimal, though. Injuries always suck but when you’re on the road it’s worse because you’re dealing with strangers instead of your team’s staff.
Now I’m waiting for the on-call orthopedic surgeon to come in to let me know the extent of the injury. Rowan, our team’s assistant trainer, is with me and she looks up with a grin.
“We just pulled out the win in overtime. Canyon got the goal a minute into the period.”
“Excellent.” I grin even though my heart isn’t in it. I’m in considerable pain and there’s already an ugly bruise forming on the inside of my thigh.
Since there’s nothing to do but wait, I dig out my phone and see a million texts. A wave of guilt washes over me, because I know my mom and sisters always watch.
And Billie.
I forgot all about Billie.
Dammit.
I reply to her text first.
ROME: Hey, babe. I’m okay. Looks like a sprain or tear of the groin muscle—waiting for the doc to come in. But in the grand scheme of things, I’m fine.
She responds immediately.
BILLIE: Thank goodness. I was a little panicked.
ROME: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just been nonstop since it happened. Getting checked out at the arena, then they brought me to the hospital, did a bunch of tests and shit.
BILLIE: I’m still at work, so I can’t stay on the phone, but thanks for letting me know. Can I call you when I get off?
ROME: Absolutely. I’ll be up.
She disappears and I take a few minutes to message my mom and sisters, since we have a group chat, updating them on the injury and assuring them I’m okay.
The three of us have a weird relationship and they frustrate the hell out of me sometimes, but they’re still my family.
They’ve never understood me or my lifestyle choices, and I don’t always understand them, so we’ve kept a polite distance over the years.
Initially, it was all me being selfish, wanting to focus on hockey.
I was sixteen when I first left home so I don’t blame my teenage self for not being super cognizant of those kinds of things.
As I got older, I would hear the disappointment in their voices after a game where I got in multiple fights or got benched for mixing it up in the locker room.
And that felt like a betrayal, that my family didn’t understand my career.
I was never going to be a Wayne Gretzky so I had to mark my path in other ways.
Between my awful marriages, subsequent divorces, and the almost constant trades from team to team, it just seemed easier not to engage.
I wouldn’t have to hear about how disappointed they were or get lectured about my taste in women.
Ironic, considering my sister Cat introduced me to wife number two.
It's not like I cut them off. I do my best to remember birthdays, visit in the off-season, and stay in touch during the holidays. Dad would come on the dads’ trips, but otherwise, we didn’t spend a lot of time together.
Then Dad died and it’s been… hard .
Hard to visit the house I grew up in.
Hard to go home knowing I’ll never hear his laugh again or get one of his looks—the ones that told me he was either proud, disappointed, or pissed. I was a little closer to my dad than to my mom and sisters, but even with him, we kept each other at arms’ distance.
And I wish I knew why I allowed it to happen, regardless of the circumstances.
I told myself I was busy. Distracted. Needed to focus on hockey. On my wife. On a million other things—but never my family. Now Dad is gone and I’m back in Los Angeles. It feels like fate is telling me it’s time to reevaluate, and thinking about Billie makes me believe I may have already started.
Old habits die hard, though.
In my defense, my mom can be a busy body, always wanting to know what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with.
She attempted to micromanage the trajectory of my hockey career when I was a teenager and never stopped trying, even when I got to the pros.
And the harder she pushed, the further away I stayed.
She’s been better since I moved back to L.A.
but I also haven’t given her much opportunity.
She didn’t like either of my wives, which didn’t help anything, and there were a lot of I-told-you-so’s after each divorce. As a result, I’ve kept both a geographical and emotional distance and at this point, I don’t know how to fix it or if I even want to.
“Mr. Castellano.” A tall man with white hair and glasses comes in.
“Looking at your scans, I think this is a moderate strain. Obviously, you’ll see your own orthopedist when you’re back home, but you’re going to need to take it easy.
” He goes through a litany of what I’m not supposed to do, coupled with ice, rest, and a bunch of other bullshit that all amounts to the same thing—I won’t be able to play for weeks. Possibly months.
Fuck. Me.
I already suspected but having it confirmed sucks.
The flight home is long and uncomfortable. My leg is throbbing, despite the painkillers the doctor gave me, and I’m almost grateful Bodi drove us to the airport so I have to get an Uber home.
I arrive late in the afternoon and the townhouse is empty.
Billie’s at work, Bodi’s still on the road trip, and this might be the first time I’ve been alone in the house since Billie moved in.
The silence is peaceful but also jarring—I’m so used to seeing her on the couch, puttering in the kitchen, or listening to music.
After a quick shower, I strip down to my boxers and get into bed. The painkillers make me sleepy, and since I don’t have anywhere to be until I see the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow, I allow myself to drift off.
The next thing I know, there’s a warm hand on my shoulder, soft hair tickling my chest. I force my eyes open and manage a smile as I peer up at Billie’s sweet face.
“Hey, baby.” My voice is hoarse from sleep.
“Hi. How are you?” She sits beside me, running her hand across my chest.
“Sleepy,” I admit. “From the drugs.”
“I can leave you to—” She starts to get up but I reach for her hand.
“Don’t go.”
“Okay.” She sinks back down and twists to look at my leg. “Oh, Rome, look at your thigh…” She gets up again, but it’s so she can lean over and rest a gentle hand against the wicked bruise that’s formed. “Does it hurt to the touch?”
“Not when you touch it like that, but in general, yeah, it’s sore as fuck.”
“What can I do?” She moves her hand across the bruise, her touch feather-light.
Jesus, that feels good and my eyes close involuntarily.
If she keeps that up— dammit .
I’m already getting aroused and since I’m not wearing anything but fitted boxer briefs, there’s no way to hide it.
“Honey, I?—”
She doesn’t stop the gentle circles on my inner thigh, up and down from my knee to the crease of my leg, the warmth of her hand leaving a trail of pleasure in its wake.
“What? You think I’ve never seen an erection before?” She peeks over at me through her lashes. “I promise I’m not a virgin. But I can stop if you don’t like it.”
“No…I like it. A lot.”
“What can I do to distract you?” she asks, moving her hand up, this time right to the juncture between my legs without actually touching me where I want her to.
“I’m half-asleep and in no condition to reciprocate, baby.”
She murmurs softly, “Who said anything about reciprocation? I just want to touch you. Maybe make you feel good after an ugly injury.”
I reach out and gently grip her chin between two fingers, forcing her to meet my gaze directly. “I don’t expect anything, Billie.”
Her soft laugh warms me almost as much as her touch. “If I thought you expected it, I wouldn’t be here. I want to touch you, Rome. I’ve wanted to since that night at Blue Thunder. I was so disappointed when you didn’t invite me to go eat with you and your friends.”
Yeah, I kind of sensed that.
I just didn’t want to be that guy—the one who goes out with his new buddies and then ditches them for a girl. Even a beautiful one who stomped on a guy’s foot with her heel and then convinced me to dance with her.
There’s so much sincerity in her eyes—so much fire and passion and unadulterated need—I’m done resisting the inevitable.
“Then do it,” I say gruffly.