Chapter Three
Nate hung up the room phone and blinked at the textured ceiling in the dimly lit room. For the first time in days, his mind was quiet. Every muscle in his body relaxed. He hoped those sensations lasted longer than a few days.
The wall clock read a few minutes after two.
Nate rolled off the bed and onto his feet.
Wesley had cleaned him so gently but so thoroughly that Nate didn’t need a shower before getting dressed.
He did, however, need to piss. He didn’t bother with the overhead light in the bathroom as the two small outlet lights reflected enough illumination off the giant mirror for him to relieve himself and get dressed.
After he’d dressed, he patted pockets.
Phone? Keys? Wallet? Check. Time to head out.
He should be able to fit in another visit, maybe two before the season ramped up.
Between training camp and preseason, the start of a season was always hectic.
Not to mention all the team-bonding shit.
Being new to the team, as well as single, he’d be expected to attend.
Not that he really minded. He looked forward to getting to know some of the guys better, needed to learn the nuances of his new teammates, but the round of functions could be exhausting.
Could he exhibit goalie weirdness to beg off a few of them?
The night, warm and close after a day in the mid-nineties, reminded him of home.
Being in Omaha meant he was closer to Columbus than he’d ever been since his first few years in the League.
Maybe he could get home more often, see Claire.
Flights were short enough. Or she could come to him.
That would require another spare room, which would also require him to look for a new place.
Ugh. He pushed that thought aside. He’d worry about it after his endorphins from tonight wore off.
Nate reached for the door handle and the car unlocked; he slid into the plush leather seat and sighed.
God, he loved this car. The purchase had been his one extravagance after he’d signed his first major contract as an unrestricted free agent a couple of years ago.
It purred to life; he kept it well maintained.
With a pro athlete’s salary, there was no reason not to.
Then he sighed again...just another thing he’d have to add to the list of shit to do in this new place.
Find a trustworthy mechanic. But that was also a task for another day.
Maybe he needed to hire a personal assistant.
He had no idea how to go about doing that. Also a consideration for another day.
Right now, he was going to enjoy one of the other luxuries his job afforded him—driving this car.
The streets in this part of town were empty at half two in the morning, even in downtown.
Loving the smooth ride, Nate accelerated a little more quickly than necessary over the triple set of train tracks just to enjoy the lack of bounce in the shocks.
A groan wafted from behind him.
Nate’s heart vaulted into his throat. He pulled into a vacant parking lot under a light pole.
He jammed the vehicle into park and jumped out.
Whoever was in his car didn’t sound in any condition to hurt him.
Quite the opposite in fact. Also, he was a six-foot-four, two-hundred-fifteen-pound hockey player.
He could handle himself. Nevertheless, he retrieved his stick from the cargo area before opening the rear driver’s side door.
Between the harsh glare of the buzzing fluorescent light above his vehicle and the dim illumination from the overhead light inside the car, Nate saw the bulk of a body on the floorboard behind the front passenger seat. With the knob of his stick, he hooked the blanket and pulled.
Nate gasped. “Shit.” The guy was beat to hell.
Dried blood smeared across one side of his face.
The rest was distorted, swollen, and livid red, as though he was the sole target of a line brawl.
Nate was no stranger to bruising, although he didn’t get his from being beaten up.
He poked the guy’s knee. “Hey, man. Are you still with me?”
The guy moaned.
Okay, that was something at least.
Nate nudged him again. “Dude. Can you hear me? What happened?”
“‘Tacked.” The guy’s voice was rough, gravelly.
Well, fuck. Nate had no desire to get involved in anyone else’s drama. He’d had enough drama of his own this summer. Throughout his life in general. He didn’t need, nor want, anymore. “Well, you’re safe now. I’m gonna call the police, okay?”
“No,” the guy squawked and then moaned again. “Please, don’t,” he lisped and then gasped.
“Give me one good reason why not.” Nate just needed to pass this guy on to someone who was more qualified to handle these kinds of things. Someone who was paid to handle these kinds of things.
“Can’t get fired...”
Shit. Nate’s trade to the Locomotives had been the result of getting caught at a club much like the one he’d just left. Also with the shit beaten out of him by some homophobic asshat as he’d been leaving the Portland Pleasure Palace.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course, he didn’t want the guy to get fired for whatever reason, but the guy needed help. Help that Nate was in no way equipped to offer.
“How about a hospital? I’ve seen and experienced my fair share of concussions, and I’d bet my annual salary you’ve got one. Probably more than that, too.”
The pause was longer than Nate would have liked, but the guy finally said something. Well... Nate saw his lips move but heard no sound. Yeah, this guy needed medical care, and he needed it half an hour ago.
“Nod if that was a yes.”
The head inched down and back up. That slow controlled nod didn’t bode well either. Shit.
“Okay, sit tight. I’ll get you to the hospital as quick as I can, and sorry for any pain it’s gonna cause.”
The guy dipped his head sluggishly and closed his eyes, letting his head fall to rest against the front passenger seat.
* * * * *
The hospital was close by, and Nate’s condo wasn’t far either. He could drop this guy off and be home in no time. He parked near the emergency department entrance of the University of Nebraska Medical Center. Reaching behind the seat, he tapped the guy on the knee, received a grunt in reply.
“We’re here, man. I’m gonna go in and get some help. Be right back.”
The guy hmmd.
“Hey, what’s your name? They’re gonna ask.”
The guy’s throat cleared. “Wethley Byerly,” he said in a harsh whisper.
Nate slapped a generic ball cap on his head and slid from the vehicle. Not that anyone in Omaha would recognize him since he’d only been in the city for a few weeks. On the other hand, his new team was the only professional sports team in town and hockey fans turned up in the strangest places.
A short time later, two nurses wheeled a gurney out from the ER doors and cut across the lot toward Nate’s car.
They worked in sync, easing Wesley out and settling him onto the stretcher without jostling him more than necessary.
The ride back to the building was short but bumpy enough to pull a couple of low moans from him.
Inside, they kept moving, one nurse firing questions at Nate while the other called out numbers and clipped monitors into place.
Nate found himself overwhelmed by the cacophony of the chatter of the doctors and nurses combined with the beeps and tones of medical equipment as they wheeled Wesley into a ten-by-ten bay, walled off on the left and right but open to the emergency department otherwise.
He could well imagine how Wesley’s head throbbed being buffeted by the clamor.
Nate stood in the back corner of the cubby and responded with the few details he had while they further checked Wesley out.
Wesley flinched and groaned in response to their brisk handling.
After the initial assessment of his face, they removed Wesley’s shirt—is that a blouse?
—to check for internal injuries. Once assured Wesley didn’t have internal bleeding or cracked ribs, they raised the end of the gurney so Wesley was in a reclined sitting position, and then everyone vanished, leaving the two of them alone in the few square feet of space behind a curtain.
Under the bright fluorescent lights, Wesley looked even worse, and Nate grimaced in sympathy.
While he’d had his fair share of broken bones, concussions, and bruises in all his years of hockey, he’d never been as badly hurt as Wesley.
His face had received the bulk of the damage, but there were a couple of softball-sized splotches on his torso as well.
Nate had taken a puck or two to the chest over the years, although he’d had chest protectors to dull the blow.
He couldn’t imagine the pain Wesley must be suffering.
The longer Nate studied Wesley, the more his Spidey senses tingled.
The clothes were all wrong—a women’s blouse and some skinny jeans—but beneath the swelling and the blood, the guy looked an awful lot like Ashton.
Same build, same hair. Except he’d said his name was Wesley.
And he didn’t want the police called for fear of losing his job. Could it be...?
Nate moved into Wesley’s line of sight. He looked beneath the blood and the swelling as best he could.
Wesley blinked, puffed out a breath.
Nate’s chest tightened. “Ashton?”