Chapter Fourteen
Jesse
I stare at the team doctor as he gives us the grim update on Richie Head’s knee. Which is fucked. Badly. It’s going to take a lot of rest and physical therapy for him to get back in the game, and that won’t be for the remainder of this season.
He’s out.
“I’m sorry,” Head says for the fifth time since Coach Hoffman pulled me in to let me know we’re losing our fastest defenseman.
I clasp his shoulder. His eyes are red rimmed even though he’s pretending like he’s fine. It’s obvious he’s not. I wouldn’t be either if I were in his position. “It’s not your fault. Nobody expects to blow out their ACL.”
If that asshole on the opposing team hadn’t tripped him, this could have been avoided.
The fucker didn’t even get penalized right away.
Not until he’d done it a second time, targeting Head like he had a personal vendetta.
Something tells me there’s a story there, but I’m not about to push him on telling me because it doesn’t matter.
The only thing we need to focus on is making sure he gets better and heals properly.
Head keeps staring down at his leg, like he doesn’t hear me. “I’m sorry, Cap. I’m so sor—”
“Hey,” I say, cutting him off. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do this to yourself. You’re going to do what the doctors tell you and get better. Then you’re going to come back and kick that shithead’s ass. Get me?”
He’s in shock, and I don’t think he gets me at all.
The poor kid is pale as he nods. I hope they pumped him with pain meds because it looks like he needs them.
We’ve all had our fair share of ACL problems, dislocations, concussions and a slew of other injuries.
He’ll see the best of the best and be back on the ice before he knows it.
When they wheel him out of the stadium, I swipe a hand down my face. Coach Hoffman turns to me, looking as exhausted as I feel. We scraped by with a win tonight even with Head’s injury, but next game is up in the air.
“Fuck,” the Thor lookalike breathes, dropping his head back.
His blond hair is getting long again. It’s starting to look like it did back when he played for New York’s team.
His jaw is scruffy like he hasn’t had time to shave, and his eyes are tired like he hasn’t had time to sleep, and I’m not sure if it’s because of this situation or the newborn baby he has at home.
I nod once. “Fuck,” I repeat in agreement, staring at the double doors they wheeled Head out of. I’ll make sure to check on him tomorrow. He’ll be preoccupied tonight.
Turning to Hoffman, I ask, “Are you putting Raymond in next game?”
He mulls it over. “Most likely. His stats aren’t as good as Head’s are, but we can work with him on it.”
The poor guy who’s barely older than I am looks like he’s ready to fall asleep.
But I know him because I know what being in the game is like.
He’ll go home, but he won’t stop thinking about what happened.
Between wanting updates on his players and thinking about new gameplays and starting lineups, he’ll probably spend another sleepless night in his head.
“You should go,” I tell him, knocking my shoulder against his. “I’m sure Honor could use the help with the girls.”
Usually, his wife and daughter—daughters, now that he became a girl dad of two a few months ago—are at the games wearing jerseys with his name on them.
But since Honor gave birth, she’s stayed home with his firstborn Gemma helping her out.
I know he wishes they were here, or that he could be with them.
It’s clear that they understand his priorities shift during the season.
Honor’s father is the coach for Hoffman’s old team, so she’s been immersed in this lifestyle for a long time. It probably helps their dynamic.
It makes me think about what Belle and I talked about.
Kids. The future. I wasn’t lying to her.
There’s only one person that comes close to me trusting enough to have that life with, and it’s her.
And picturing her with a swollen belly knowing I did that…
Fuck me. I may or may not have gotten off to the idea when I was in the shower.
Hoffman checks his watch and curses. “I didn’t realize it was getting late.”
I gesture toward the door. “I’ll talk to the guys and fill them in. Go.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue like I expect him to.
That’s how I know how exhausted he must really be.
So after giving the team the update on Head’s condition, and the likelihood that our starting roster is shifting for the rest of the season, I watch everybody disperse and take my time before heading out too.
Belle is leaning against the wall outside, texting somebody on her phone. Her mom, maybe. Or my dad. When they can’t attend games, she’s usually the first one to give them updates and play-by-plays that they might not see watching it on screen.
“Hey,” I greet, nudging her foot with mine. She instantly puts her cell phone down and smiles at me with obvious concern on her face.
“How is he?” she asks of Richie, scanning my expression to see how bad it is. “Is he going to be okay?”
I lift a tight shoulder as I readjust my grip on the duffle bag hanging from my hand. “He’s out for the season.”
She winces knowing that doesn’t mean anything good. “That sucks.”
All I can do is nod, walking with her toward the side exit leading out to the parking lot where the staff leaves their vehicles. “Do you need a ride home or did you drive? I can take you to your car.”
Belle smiles at me. “I called a Lyft to drop me off for the game, so I’d love a ride if you’re not too tired.”
I roll my eyes. “Since when am I too tired to drive you home?” I ask, knocking her with my bag. “Don’t be stupid.”
She snickers at my dry tone. “You played hard out there. I know how exhausted you get. In fact, do you want me to drive?”
The thought of her driving my brand-new Tahoe makes me smirk. She hates driving big vehicles. When we were in high school, her car broke down and she had to take my dad’s pickup truck. She was so afraid of hitting other people’s cars that she parked at the other end of the lot.
“Don’t look at me like that!” she accuses, knowing what I’m thinking about. “If you bring up that one time I drove your dad’s truck—”
I laugh, unable to hold it in. “You had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel the whole way to school. You looked like you were going to vomit.”
Belle smacks my arm, but there’s amusement breaking through the mock embarrassment. “He had one of those ridiculously long truck beds! I was terrified I’d clip things when I turned. If you weren’t in that leg boot then I would have made you drive instead.”
I’d been getting over a pretty bad sprain after practice had gone wrong and wore a stabilizing boot to try healing quicker. It was rough. But not as rough as Belle’s driving.
“He needed the eight-foot bed for the construction projects he did on the side,” I explain, shrugging. “Regular truck beds can’t hold the same type of wood he needed.”
That doesn’t seem to matter to her. “I can’t believe you still tease me about that. I hated that truck. It makes me nauseous even thinking about getting around in one of those.”
We arrive to my Tahoe, which is not that much smaller than Dad’s truck. “Then I think I should drive tonight. I wouldn’t want you throwing up your stadium hot dog.”
She doesn’t address the comment as we climb in—her in the passenger seat—and I drive us out of the stadium parking lot. Her phone buzzes a couple times, pulling her focus down to the lit up screen. She’s quick to tuck it under her leg without replying.
“I’m sorry to hear about Richie,” she tells me, her eyes a dim shade of brown. “I’ll have to make him cookies. He loved the chocolate jumbos I did last Christmas.”
Of course she’d make my injured teammate something.
When Jackie Dawson had to sit out three games because of a nasty concussion he’d gotten last season, she brought him homemade cheesecake.
An entire fucking cake. Cheesecake is his favorite because she pays attention to those things.
He ended up sharing it with a few of us so he didn’t eat the whole thing, and I could tell she earned another fan that day.
Her phone buzzes again with another message, and she doesn’t look.
“Do you need to get that?” I ask, gesturing toward where her phone is stuffed under her thigh.
She hesitates before shaking her head. “Oh. Uh, no. It’s no big deal.”
As we slow for a stoplight, I turn to her. She sounds weird, and she’s fidgeting. “Your mom?” I guess, even though I’m positive it isn’t. She would reply to her otherwise.
She shakes her head.
It’s none of my business, but I keep pressing the issue. “Work?”
Her body shifts uncomfortably. “No.” There’s a pause before she sighs. “It’s Dane.”
Dane. Motherfucking Dane. “Huh,” I say slowly, trying to come up with a better response. “I didn’t know you still talked to him.”
The color of her cheeks turns dark as she glances out the window. “We talk,” is all she says at first. But she must sense the way I arch my brow waiting for her to give me a little more than that. “He’s doing the shelves at the store. When I get the permits.”
I’m quiet for a long time as I focus on the long line of traffic ahead of me. The lanes are backed up from people leaving the game, so it means a longer commute home and more time to talk about Dane and his bookshelves.
“The shelves,” I repeat slowly, my hand on the leather steering wheel gripping it until it makes an unruly sound. “Is that all you talk about?”
If Dane were a smart man, he’d be trying to talk to her about more than just work. And based on the way she draws her bottom lip into her mouth, he has. She just doesn’t want to tell me.
She swallows, her throat bobbing. “He invited me out to dinner with some sketches that I can present to the planning board along with mine. So they have a better visual on what the store will look like.”
That’s definitely not all. “Huh.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Saying what?”