Chapter 13 Oakley Kate
Oakley Kate
Face-planting at the bottom of an escalator minutes after quitting my job of the last five years? I can handle the embarrassment.
Coming face-to-face with the man whose heart I stomped on all those years ago after we’ve mostly been virtual acquaintances? I haven’t totally bombed that…I don’t think.
But being told that I’ll need to have my leg sliced open to insert pins into it and will be laid up for several weeks to months?
I may or may not be handling the news well.
Okay, I am actively avoiding thoughts of the discussion from my ortho appointment.
Nothing positive was said. In fact, the way he explained it, I am not expected to return to my usual fitness routine for at least a year, if ever.
Yeah. Not okay with me, which is why I’m currently drowning my sorrows in a strongly carbonated Sprite with extra ice chips at the local sports bar.
The urge to text Silas for the name of their specialist is strong enough that my fingers keep tapping against my phone screen, but I don’t need anything from him.
Man, I am just full of lying bullshit today.
The pretty blonde behind the counter, Kelly, has been the daytime bartender at Stumps since before I ever started coming here.
She’s the quiet type, natural beauty instead of a face full of makeup, and genuinely cares about her regulars.
When she stops in front of me, sliding a fresh glass of the good stuff onto my coaster, I laugh softly.
“That obvious, huh?”
She shrugs. “Eh. The way you’re staring at the highlight reel but haven’t realized it’s looped twice since you sat down was one clue, but your request for Sprite from the tap is always a giveaway.
” She continues to clean behind the bar but glances up at me when I stay quiet and resume staring through the TV.
“You want some fries or something, love?”
“No thanks, Kelly. Just contemplating.”
“Ah, yes. The perfect thing to do on a Tuesday afternoon,” she teases. “Fair warning. This place will start buzzing in about fifteen minutes.”
“You’re getting crowds before the season even kicks off?”
“Not quite. The guys have deemed this their ‘home base’ for team bonding or something. Was supposed to be for all the new guys, but the vets started turning up, too.”
“The guys?”
“Voltage.”
Nodding, I push off the barstool. “Then that’s my cue to leave,” I mumble before chugging half of my fresh drink.
“Thanks for the drinks.” I slide her a ten-dollar bill for my drinks and make my way to the door.
As I open it and step out, I run smack into a brick wall, both crutches clattering to the ground.
By a stroke of luck, I find myself in the arms of said wall, the fresh scent of eucalyptus and something warm and clean wrapping around me.
“Oof. Sorry, Katibug. You okay?”
Glancing up, I squint as the change in lighting from the dim bar to the sunny summer day throws off my vision. Not that I need to see the man’s face to know whose arms are still holding me in place.
The big burly beast gently pushes hair away from my face before helping me regain my footing. “Kates. You good?”
I realize then he has been trying to draw my attention.
I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs that have taken up residency inside my brain. “No, I mean, yes, I’m good.”
He reaches down and gathers my fallen crutches, depositing them professionally under each arm, the black washcloths and red duct tape on the tops giving them just enough of a Voltage flair.
“You had your appointment today,” he says quietly. “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” I lie and immediately regret it. Silas despises that word. “Sorry. I have to meet up with my mom.” I turn to the side as I try to slip past him, but he hesitates. His gaze is too intent on studying me, that quiet skepticism of his softening into concern.
“Yeah, of course,” he says, voice still low. “I’ll call you later, yeah?”
“Sure.”
I fumble my way down the sidewalk as fast as I can with crutches. Inside, I’m begging him not to call after me, because all it would take is him tilting my chin up to meet his worry-filled gray eyes, and I’d tell him anything he wanted to know.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Silas has always been my safety, my bubble wrap. He protected me from myself, from the press, from face-planting at the rink, but it was always a game to see how many of those little bubbles I could pop before he’d had enough.
I don’t need him to wrap me in safety.
Doesn’t mean I don’t want him to.