Chapter 4
ARAVIND
It didn’t take long for my investigation to fizzle into nothing. The community rink was closed, and after haunting the supermarket where Tiago’s friend Ford used to work and being asked to leave, I headed to Hugo’s office, where I was promptly turned away and threatened with being trespassed.
My only other option was the hospital, and I was pretty sure that if Tiago were still there, he’d gut me with a scalpel. But it wasn’t like I had another choice.
I was still shaken after my run-in with Leon, so I stopped for a burrito and ate in the hospital parking lot like some kind of car goblin. When I was done, I made sure I had no guac on my face, that my eyeliner hadn’t smudged, and that my waist still looked snatched in my new jeans.
Which it did.
I never bought ugly jeans.
When I got inside, the woman at the reception desk smiled at me, which was a nice change of pace, and I leaned my elbows on the edge of the counter. “Hi. I’m here to see a friend.”
“Sure thing. Name?”
“Tiago…”
She started to type, then paused when I did.
Fuck. Why did I have to forget his last name now? God, I was going to look like such a tool if I couldn’t—
“Nadeau,” I blurted, then felt my cheeks heat up when she quirked an eyebrow at me. “Sorry. French names, you know?”
She didn’t answer as she finished putting the info in her computer. “Right, yes. Room 407.” She slid a sticker across the desk that had Tiago’s last name and room number on it.
Just like that? No ID, no asking if I was on the list? Did they do lists in hospitals? I tended to avoid them like the plague, especially after my mom, and that had been such a damn fog I didn’t remember any of the details.
I hovered for a moment, waiting to see if she was going to call me out, but she went back to her computer, and I became a piece of furniture in the room. Which was fine by me.
The walk to the elevator wasn’t far, and I felt almost like I was cheating the system as I made my way up to the fourth floor and came to a stop beside a wall with an old-school corded phone.
Right. Round two of passing some kind of test to gain entry.
Here’s where I had to tell them who I was and why I was there. My hand felt sweaty when I picked up the phone and listened to it ring.
“Hi, uh,” I said after the nurse picked up. He had a very nice, rumbly voice. Maybe he was hot. Maybe I could—no. No, Aravind. You are not making up some hospital fantasy right now. “I’m here to see Tiago Nadeau. Room 407.”
“Visitor’s badge?”
“You…want it?”
“Do you have it?” He sounded impatient, which was decidedly not sexy.
“It’s on my shirt.” I pressed my palm over it like it was some kind of Star Trek beaming device, but it didn’t transport me to Tiago’s door.
The line went dead, and then the door in front of me clicked, and I was once again allowed entry.
God, this seemed like a fucking security risk.
Tiago was a professional hockey player—and okay, the PPHL didn’t have the same rabid fan base that the NHL did, but I’d seen the people who kept themselves pressed against the glass with their big signs and tight shirts.
Which was, in a way, ironic since most of the players were blind. But Tiago had gone out of his way to remind me that blindness was a spectrum, so hey. Maybe it worked for them.
God, my brain was rambling today. My ADHD meds were not working, and if this kept up, I was going to need a triple shot of espresso in order to focus tonight to get the rest of this article written.
Lost in my thoughts, I’d turned the wrong way down the corridor and was near the 420s, so I had to double back to the doors and try again. 407 was across from the nurses’ station, which was probably good for Tiago, and his door was cracked open.
I held my breath as I peered in and let out a sigh of relief when I saw him lying in the bed and no one else around him. Even if he did throw me out, there wasn’t going to be some hulking hockey player threatening to kick my ass for stalking him.
Which wasn’t what this was.
It was something else.
Whatever the professional version of stalking was called.
Stepping into the room, I could see he was clearly still alive, and based on the way his knee was wrapped up, I was pretty sure he’d just had his surgery.
After everything his doctor had said when he was first admitted, I probably wasn’t going to get an answer today about whether or not he was going to keep playing hockey.
But at least I could say I did my due diligence as a reporter or whatever.
With a fortifying breath, I stepped all the way into the room and closed the door behind me. Tiago jolted at the sound, and his eyes, which looked redder than usual, began to scan the room.
I stepped closer, and when his eyes fixed on me, he stiffened. “Hello,” I said quietly.
“Why?” His voice was raspy. “Tell me you’re not here for more article bullshit.”
Rolling my eyes, I walked over and flopped into the chair beside his bed. “So, the thing is, my boss is a raging ass fistula who decided that the statement you gave wasn’t enough.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your boss,” Tiago said, turning his head toward me. His eyes wandered again, so I had to wonder if he’d lost me.
“You and me both. But I promised I’d get a follow-up statement—”
“You can quote me,” he said, gently pushing up a bit. He winced and groaned, but eventually, he was up and leaning over the railing. “Kiss my ass. A big, wet tongue kiss right up my puckered hole.”
It was meant to be an insult. A creative chirp, which it was. But it also gave me an extremely vivid mental image, which should not have been sexy, considering the circumstances.
But my dick had the audacity to twitch in my jeans.
Luckily, I was sitting prim and proper, and also, he could barely see my face, so I figured he couldn’t see that.
“So, is that a no on your future with hockey, or…”
He flopped back down and pressed his hands over his face. “Why are you like this?”
“Genetics,” I told him flatly. “Also, a contractual obligation to finish this article.”
He scrubbed at his eyes for a long time, then dropped his hands to his sides, almost like he was forcing himself to do it. “My status is currently undetermined. Other than that, no fucking comment.”
I pulled out my phone, stood up, then leaned on his bed railing. When Tiago’s face turned toward me, I laid my hand on his arm, and his eyes fixed on it, and then they traced their way up to my shoulder, then to my chin.
Then he met my eyes.
I think.
“There you are,” he murmured before his cheeks went pink. “Do you always go to hospitals in a full face of makeup?”
My throat got a little tight and hot. “I never go to hospitals. Ever.”
“Scared of the big, bad doctor?”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that the last time I was in front of the big, bad doctor, he was breaking his promise he’d made to save my mom. My fear was both rational and irrational. And it was surrounded by a grief I was still trying to cope with.
“I never go anywhere without my face on,” I eventually told him.
Tiago lifted his hand almost like he wanted to touch, and then he dropped it back down. “Does your dad hate it? I know Asian parents can be…complicated.”
“You know a lot of Asian parents?” I asked with a small laugh. Points to him that he called me Asian. Most white boys went with Indian—which wasn’t inaccurate. Some of them were racist and did the whole “dot not feather” shit. But people like him tended to other me from my birth continent.
He shrugged. “I’ve met Ferris’s mom. I’m kind of obsessed with her.”
Ferris. The Boston rookie—one of maybe four South Asians in the NHL.
I hadn’t looked up the PPHL, but I had a feeling those stats were even worse.
I didn’t know his mom, and as much as it sounded amazing to meet her, I didn’t think I was ready to get close to another mom figure. Not yet. Having my aunties was enough.
“My father stopped having big feelings about the stuff I did and what I wore,” I told him, thumbing the edge of my phone case. “He figured there were more important things to worry about.”
Tiago’s face fell into a small smile. “I really love your dad.”
Most people did. He deserved it, even when it was annoying. “Anyway, for that official statement, do you want me to add in the word ‘fucking’ to your—”
“Tiago, you have guest! Oh! Is little coach junior.”
I immediately recognized Vanya’s booming voice, and a second later, he shoved his way into the room. He was wearing a Vegas sweatshirt and tight jogging pants that showed off, well, a lot.
Micah must have been a very happy guy.
“Hello, Ivanov,” I said quietly.
He huffed and rolled his eyes, walking over to yank me into a hug. “How many times I’m telling you my name, little coach?”
“As many times as I’ve told you I’m not a coach and never will be,” I reminded him. I didn’t wriggle out of the hug though. It felt too good, and this didn’t happen often. I sank into his embrace, and he sighed, giving the back of my bun a tiny tug.
“If you want to be coach, you just call me, okay? I get you work on best team.”
“Mm.” It was easier to nod and smile than argue with Vanya.
“So. What you doing here? Keep Tiago company after his surgery?”
I turned back to Tiago, who had the pillow half over his face. “How did the surgery go?”
“On the record?” he asked.
“I’m not trying to be a dick. My boss won’t let me submit the article until I get some kind of update, and when I tried to sneak out of the office, I ran into him and my ex, who decided to play a fun game of who can humiliate Aravind more, and—”
“Wait.” Vanya folded his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed. “Your boss trying to humiliate you? And why he’s with your ex?”
Fuck, my big mouth that didn’t know when to shut up. “Uh. So…my ex works in the same building that I do.”
Vanya’s frown deepened, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tiago sit up a little more. “Your ex…girlfriend, boyfriend? Partner?”