1. Silas #2
But I know Coach. He doesn’t do sympathy or compassion. If he thought I’d be back on the ice this season, he’d tell me to have the surgery, shake it off and get back out there. He’s being soft. Considerate. Angling to send me back home to be with people.
He wants me to get my mind off hockey.
That’s not the voice of someone who expects me back in a few weeks.
When he doesn’t respond to my comment, I stand and man the fuck up. “Thanks, Coach. Maybe home isn’t such a bad idea.”
The city is just going to remind me where I’m not going every day. And I suppose, an extra hand—or arm—wouldn’t hurt for a week or two after my surgery.
“I’ll stay at the ranch,” I tell him.
When I was first drafted, Dad offered to build me my own place near the main house. Nothing big, just about the size of a guest cottage, just a little more private—and off limits to anyone else. He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he wanted to give me a home to come back to off-season.
I turned it down. Respectfully, of course.
By that time, I knew when I was back—it would be no more than the occasional weekend or holiday, and crashing in a guest cottage, or even at Wilder’s, felt easier than pretending I still belonged there full time.
Blue River’s still open for business through the end of October. Which means they haven’t shut down the cottages for the winter. Close enough to family if I need them, but still alone.
At least that’s the plan.
Because I’ve got a sinking feeling that the second I set foot on that ranch with one working arm, they’ll decide I need babysitting.
And if that’s the case, I’ll stay with Wilder and his live-in girlfriend, Rose.
Because there’s no way I’m staying with Dallas.
First off, he’s got a new baby, an eight-year-old who’s got more energy than I can handle right now, and a real wedding to plan.
Or vow-renewal, whatever they’re calling it this time around.
Since just about everyone in town knows that last year’s marriage to Willow—his nanny, slash temporary house guest—was nothing but a marriage of convenience to keep the daughter he never knew he had.
Coach nods like he had that answer before I did. “I like that plan, Silas. I’ll check in on you.” He meets my eyes. “Let that arm heal. You come back to me with good news in a few weeks, I’ll return the favor.”
It’s late when I finally step out of the arena.
The parking lot nearly empty. My phone starts vibrating in my pocket, something it’s been doing since second period, but I haven’t looked.
I knew what would be waiting for me when I did—messages from reporters, my agent, guys from other teams pretending to care.
And probably Ginger, the ranch manager who’s been like a second mother to me for as long as I can remember.
Though she won’t message. She’d call. And as her favorite—if I don’t pick up, it’ll bug me all night.
It’s a call all right, but not from Ginger. It’s my brother Wilder.
I hit ignore on reflex. “Oops,” I mutter.
Wilder: The F.U. button? Really?
Silas: Busy.
Wilder: Looks to me like you’re going to have some time on your hands.
I sigh. The scrimmage wasn’t aired—not by any network anyway. But I’ve no doubt there were plenty of fan phones recording. And social media spreads like a tropical flood—fast and unstoppable.
Wilder: Or . . . just the one hand?
I chuckle despite myself.
Wilder: Seriously, how bad?
Wish I knew, I answer silently.
Wilder: Call me later. Or I’ll bring out the big guns.
He means Ginger. Who’s recently moved in with Dad, so it’ll be the two of them.
At least it’s not Dallas. The oldest of the three of us. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being my brother and started sounding like our father. He tries to pass it off as advice. But I know criticism and expectation when I hear it. I was practically raised by athlete coaches.
Silas: I’ll call.
Another message vibrates in my sweatpants as I pull out the keys to my sports car. I pause and reach for the phone instead with my left hand.
My agent’s message is short, sharp, and to the point. It’s what I always liked about him. But this one stings. Because right about now, I need more from him.
Harvey: Surgery consult tomorrow. We’ll handle PR. Go dark online. I’ll call in the morning.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Chase asks, pulling up in his SUV. I remember when he used to ride to practice on his motorcycle. But then he had to go and get married and start driving fancy trucks like he’s getting ready to carpool soccer practice.
“I’m not leaving it in the lot. I can drive one-handed.”
“And I’m not risking the rest of you because you’re afraid anyone would want to touch that machine with a ten-foot pole.”
“It’s a Maserati.”
“It’s yellow.”
I roll my eyes and lock it before jumping in his car.
“Good choice.” He drives off. “Gary and I will put it in your garage tomorrow.”
I settle into his leather seats, not bothering with a seatbelt.
“Wanna talk?” he asks after a minute.
“Sure.” I turn to face him. “Let’s talk about how your fake fiancée humiliated you on television during a game two years ago when she handed you back your ring.”
“Jeez, man. A simple no would’ve been fine,” he mutters. Then considers my reference. “Take it you’re feeling a bit . . . exposed right now?”
I stare out the window, pinching my bottom lip. “Coach wants me to go home. To the ranch.”
He doesn’t look at me. “We takin’ a longer drive?”
“No. Not tonight. After my surgery.”
He curses under his breath. “How bad?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow.”
He glances over. “I’ll go with you.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m good, don’t need anybody holding my hand.”
“It wasn’t a question. I’m going with you. I may be pissed at you but I’m not letting you go in there alone.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “You going back to Hideaway Springs tonight?” Like me, Chase is the youngest of three from a small town outside of Denver, just a few towns over from Blue River.
“No. Staying at my apartment. I’ll head back once I know you’re all right.”
I don’t argue, since I know it’s useless. He’s not my best friend for nothing. And it looks like he’s letting me off easy for lying to him this past year.
“You on any meds right now?” he asks.
“No.”
“Got beer at your place?”
I frown. “I do.”
He smiles. “Then I’ll stick around for a bit. You know, chat.”
Spoke too soon.