Great. So, he’s really going to make me watch my language. Fine, whatever.
“Connor, whether he goes back to Crestwood is his choice. Not yours, not mine. His.”
My fingers dig into the countertop so hard my arms shake. I want to punch something. Not Larry, not Ryan. Just . . . fuck. If he needs this place more than he needsme, then . . . “You think if he stays here, it’ll be better for him?”
“Maybe. But whatever he chooses, you respect it.”
The pounding in my skull's getting worse, black spots dancing at the edge of my vision again. I blink hard, trying to clear them.
Fucking concussion.
I straighten up, ignoring the way it makes my head swim. “I just want him to get the help he needs.”
Larry snorts. “Maybe you're not completely hopeless.”
“High praise.”
“Go rest. You look like you’re about to pass out. The guest room is upstairs, second door on the right.” Larry crosses his arms over his chest. “And don’t let me catch you in his bed.”
A humorless chuckle escapes before I can stop it. “Already had enough people beat the shit out of me. Not looking to add another.”
Larry just shakes his head.
But as I turn, everything spins. I blindly reach out, trying to grab something before I fall over.
Larry grabs my upper arm, steadying me. “Don’t even want to know how you drove here, but let’s get you to bed.”
I huff. “It’s just a concussion.”
“And I’ve coached hockey for as long as you’ve been alive. It might not be anything severe enough to land you in the hospital, but you need to be careful.”
“Can take care of myself. Always have.”
He grunts, mumbling something under his breath as he wraps his arm around my waist. “You’re in my house now, young man. And in my home, we take care of each other.”
I want to snap back, to tell him I’m not weak. But it’s not his fault. I’m just not used to having people care for me. So, I keep my mouth shut and let him help.
On our way upstairs, I spot Ryan through the window just sitting out there in the fucking dark.
Fuck the guest room. I'll sleep on the goddamn floor outside his door if I have to.
Not letting him deal with this alone. I’ve got his back.
Like he’s always had mine.
Chapter 27
Ryan
The horror movie playing on Connor’s desktop monitor is supposed to be terrifying, but some masked dude chasing kids through a fake haunted house? Kinda tame.
I’m stretched out on my bed with a bag of Sour Patch Kids. The sugar burn helps keep me more grounded than the movie. Merci's in my desk chair, making these dramatic gasping sounds like he's the one getting chased. Eli’s on the floor, knees tucked up, hiding behind a pillow every time the killer shows up.
I pop another candy into my mouth and flip through the notes Merci gave me for Ethics class, if half-finished doodles and curse words can even be called notes. No wonder he’s barely passing.
Tomorrow, I finally get to be back on the ice. Can’t wait. I’d shown up for practice the day after we got back from Erie, but Nieminen told me to take time off toget my head on straight. Rinne face-palmed so hard heleft a mark on his forehead, and Harper started cursing Nieminen out for being an insensitive prick.
Pretty sure Coach didn’t mean it the way it sounded. He’s just . . . abrasive.
