The Brownings apparently believe in a ‘family plan’for debt, and my old man’s tab was so steep they decided it should roll right over to me.
Generational trauma meets organized crime—how poetic.
So here I am, paying off millions of dollars I never borrowed, stuck cleaning up the mess of a man who never cleaned up a damn thing in his life.
Add in the fact that I’m also footing the bill for my mom’s care, and you start to understand why I drive a Honda that’s older than some of my teammates.
The door opens, breaking through my thoughts.
“Mr. Callaghan,” the doctor says as he scans his badge and clicks through the tablet at the foot of my bed.
I clear my throat. “Uh, just Liam, please.”
He glances up. “Sure, Liam.”
Mr. Callaghan.
That’s what the Irish fucks called my dad.
“I think we can get you out of here today at some point,” he announces. “You don’t seem to be struggling for breath, so I think the lung will heal up just fine. I need you to give yourself about six weeks to heal before you hit the ice again.”
“Sixweeks?” I ask, my eyes going wide. “I’ve never missed more than a week, ever.”
He lifts his shoulders and gives me a sympathetic look. At least, I think it’s sympathetic. He could be giving me a ‘well, don’t go out and get drunk and then get beat up’look, but what do I know?
“Six weeks,” he repeats. “Those ribs need time to heal.”
Hockey is literally the only thing that brings me any level of happiness these days, and now I have to sit on the fucking bench like a goddamned lump, being fucking miserable one-hundred-percent of the time, instead of, like, eighty-percent.
Fuck my life.
I’m poutingand feeling sorry for myself when Emma comes in.
“Brooding has always been your look,” she comments, sitting down on the guest chair by the window.
She’s backlit by daylight. Out of her scrubs and dressed in a black tank top, jeans, and pink Adidas Sambas. Her hair is loose and wild around her shoulders, and she’s wearing clear-framed glasses I’ve never seen before.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I blurt out—and instantly regret how dumb it sounds. I clear my throat. “They, uh… they look really good on you.”
She gives me a small, soft smile and bites her bottom lip. It’s still the same nervous habit that used to undo me in high school. Her fingers drift to her cuticles, picking at them just like she used to when she felt awkward.
It hits me right in the chest how much of her is the same, and how much I’ve missed every bit of it.
“Thanks for coming by,” I say. “I’m set to spring this joint later today, I think.”
She nods. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be in here long. They kick people out pretty fast these days.”
I nod, unsure what else to say. I mean, I have a lot of questions. I just don’t know how to ask them.
I finally settle on, “How have you been?”
It sounds lame even to my own ears.
“Um, good,” she says. “Busy. Life is busy.”
I try to peer at her hands. I don’t see a wedding ring. In fact, she wears no jewelry. No makeup either, just her fresh-faced, real, and so damn beautiful it hurts to look at her.
She’s always been like that. Effortless.
