I push off the concrete wall in the tunnel outside our locker room, nodding and putting my phone back in my pocket. “Yeah, I was just talking to my sister. She’s worried about her follow-up scan next week.”
“I can’t imagine what that would feel like.”
I nod, still gutted over her crying in our conversation just now. Calla still lives in our hometown of Overland, Kansas, but we keep in close contact. She’s six months out from beating stage three breast cancer, and she has to get a scan next week to make sure she’s still clear.
“She doesn’t want to fall apart in front of Matt, but it’s okay with me.”
He frowns, a crease forming between his brows. “You sure? You look pretty weighed down right now.”
One of the equipment interns passes us, rolling a rack of gloves. We both nod at him in greeting.
“Yeah, it’s heavy. But the least I can do is listen.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done more than that.”
Not as much as I would have liked to do. I was seventeen, and Calla was twenty, when we lost our mom to breast cancer. Then that bitch of a disease came for my sister, and it stole almost everything from her.
I made sure she and my brother-in-law were taken care of financially, and I paid off their house to lift some of the burden, but that’s just money. I stayed with them for a month of my offseason so I could be there for her last month of treatment, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder even than watching Mom wither and die, because I knew how wrecked Mom would be over Calla going through it.
I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders. “Gotta let it go for now and get into game mode.”
“Come on, let’s go eat.”
We just got back from a road trip yesterday, and we have a home game tonight. When we walk into our team dining room, the savory scent of grilled steak makes my stomach rumble.
Our team chef, Marco, has the usual pregame buffet set up. He’s standing behind a grill at the end of the buffet, where he prepares grilled steak and chicken to order, so it’s still steaming when he puts it on our plates.
“Hey Marco,” I say as I pick up a plate. “Looks great.”
“Steak medium rare,” he says, gesturing toward a sizzling steak on his grill. “And grilled chicken for you, Cap.”
Marco is all business during mealtime. He’s a tall, wiry guy who shaves his head completely bald. He rolls through assistants because he’s impatient and doesn’t tolerate mistakes.
“The soup is butternut squash and carrot with a bit of coconut cream,” he says.
“I’ll take a little.”
He ladles about a fourth of a cup into a bowl and passes it to me. I don’t like to eat much soup on game days because it weighs me down, but a little bit is okay.
I thank him and go to the salad bar while my steak finishes cooking, getting half a baked potato and making a salad. Puck drop is still four hours away, so it’s time to fuel up with carbs and a little protein.
Once I have my steak, I scan the small dining room for an open seat.
Talia and Melina are sitting together, smiling and talking. Those two have become tight since Talia started traveling with us. An invisible tug pulls me over to their table.
“You mind, ladies?” I ask.
Talia tips her chin, her hazel eyes meeting mine. I study them for just a second, trying to decipher something. Anything.
Our pregame stretching routine has become a ritual I look forward to. Since she started traveling with us, we haven’t lost a single game. She froze me out for a few days after I mentioned Kyle, but she’s since warmed back up.
I’m not sure how tonight will be for her, though, because we’re playing Vancouver—Kyle’s team.
“Sit down, Beaumont,” Melina says. “We’re talking about our periods.”
I put my tray down across from Talia’s and sit, my lips pulling up in a grin. “I’ve actually got major cramps today, they’re the worst.”
“You have no idea,” Talia says lightly.
