“Who you thinking?”
I lift a shoulder. “You know who needs to come up.”
“Hank Williams Jr.” He grumbles.
“Kids rotting down on the farm team.” I nod toward the locker room. “Gonna grab a shower and my things.”
Walkingout of the locker room after my shower and getting some massage therapy at Costello’s insistence, I get a text
KOK:
How’s your head?
Me:
have a slight concussion.
KOK:
What can I do?
Me:
You have a date. Seal it.
KOK:
That’s a given. What can I do for you?
I jog toward him, and he says. “Shouldn’t you be wearing sunglasses in this light and taking it easy?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m good. They’re saying concussion; glued my head that might have needed a stitch. He comes after us, and I go after him. He goes balls out after the momma bear and her cub; we go hard. If not, it was a bar fight.”
“You out for tomorrow night’s game?” He asks.
I nod. “They’re bringing up your Lincoln guy, Williams Junior, for the game.”
“We’re fucked,” he groans.
“You’re fine. Junior’s a natural.” I hit him with the truth. “I may be fucked.”
“Nah, man, you’re Deacon fucking Moretti. You’re playing like you were before Costello bought the team.”
“Share a ride back to the Puck Palace?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
I have a room at the Puck Pad, but I rarely stay there; I prefer a hotel suite and a duffel bag during the season, always have. My family's place in Italy is where I am when not on the team’s clock.
“You pressing charges?” Koa asks.
I look at him, then pull out my phone and open the ride app. “Change of plans.”
“Screen time, brother,” Koa sighs.
“Got it,” I say after receiving confirmation.
TEN
