The detectives stand. “We’ll speak with league reps. Appreciate your time.”
As they leave, the older one pauses at the door and looks back at me. “You lose time on the ice that’s on him.”
Dash laughs, “I thought you didn’t follow us.”
“Followed Moretti since he started.” He looks at Costello. “Been keeping an eye on you as a leader since you bought it up.”
“How am I doing so far?” Costello smirks as he stands.
“Left the game to wear a suit, thought you took the easy out.” He nods his head up and down a few times. “Might be joining my wife and watching the Bears again.”
“Anytime you want to bring your bride and watch it here, I?—”
“Proposed to my wife out there, you tore out the seats.”
Ouch, I think.
“You tell me which section and which seats, and I’ll make sure you have the opportunity to recreate it in the same spot, or better if you’d like.”
“Forty-five years ago, kid,” he murmurs.
“I get that.” Dean shoves his hands in his pockets. “Fell in love with the game right here on these grounds.”
The momentthe cops clear out, Costello jerks his chin down the hall.
“Med. Now.”
Perfect. From police chairs to doctor’s table, exactly how every championship season should start.
I follow, head buzzing just enough to piss me off but not enough to stop me. Dash gives me a salute like I’m headinginto surgery. Koa just claps my shoulder hard enough to rattle whatever brain cells I have left.
Dr. Rowe’s waiting. Older guy, steel grey hair, glasses he probably only wears so we remember he’s smarter than us. Ex-military, no-bullshit energy. The type who thinks “walk it off” is a valid treatment plan for dismemberment. Works for me.
He doesn’t look up from the tablet. “Sit.”
I sit.
“Turn.”
I turn. His fingers dig through my hair, finding the spot behind my ear where Dingy’s dumbass fist landed. It stings like hell.
“You sleep?” Rowe asks.
“A little.”
“Headache?”
“Some.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Two.”
His jaw works once. “Vomiting? Vision issues?”
“No.”
“Lose consciousness?”
