“Save it, Sloane. We need you healthy for the division playoffs. Take the rest.”
Mike ran a rapid assessment. “You look fine, but I want to check for any bruising or swelling, especially around that ankle.”
I knew better than to argue. “Can it at least wait until after the game? I want to see it to the end. I promise to sit on the bench like a good boy.”
Mike nodded. “I’m okay with that. But no jumping up and down or sudden movements, just in case.”
“You got it.”
The defense was holding the line, and I was getting hoarse cheering them on.
“Great plays,” Harte remarked. “You really lit a fire under everyone’s asses.”
“Including my own,” I joked.
“You’ve got that quality, Patrick. You’re gonna go all the way this year. I feel it. There’s something different about you now than when you first joined the team.”
I ran a hand through my sweaty hair. “You think? I was just as hungry then as I am now. Even more now that we’re so damn close.”
“Yeah, but that’s not it. I see you’re not into the party scene—I remember the stories of you going out during bye weeks and partying.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got more important things on my mind,” I mumbled, focusing on the turf beneath my feet.
“Or someone?” Harte asked, and I jerked my head up.
“What’re you talking about?”
But he couldn’t answer me because the Bisons failed to score and weren’t in range for a field goal. I watched as Harte took the team downfield and we scored again. When the whistle blew at game’s end, we’d won 31-14. The Bisons had been completely shut out in the second half.
I gave a few on-field interviews, then sat at the postgame media circus, as I called it, with Coach.
“Trick, how’s the ankle? Any problems?”
I frowned. “No, of course not. Coach was just making sure I’m completely rested for the postseason because we know it’s gonna be a fight.”
“So you’re ready for the division playoffs?” a reporter called out. “Does it matter who you face?”
“Nope,” I responded with a grin I knew was cocky as fuck. “I’m ready for it all. It’s what I’ve been waiting for since I was signed by the Kings.”
“Are you feeling any pressure from the New York fans?”
“No more than I put on myself. The fans want another Super Bowl, and so do I. Devlin Summers set a high bar, and I mean to keep up the winning tradition of the Kings.”
“Have you spoken with Devlin and Brody? Have they been helpful?”
“Nothing but. I couldn’t ask for better friends.”
Coach put up his hands. “All right, everyone. Thank you.”
I couldn’t wait to get out of my uniform and into a whirlpool. By the time I got to the locker room, most of the guys had gone to get their own treatments, and I undressed, showered, and went to find Enzo, who waited for me patiently.
“Ah, there he is. The man of the hour. Come lie down and let me work on you.”
With a groan, I crawled onto the bed and lay facedown, sighing as the warm oil spread over my skin. Enzo’s hands moved firm and strong as they kneaded my sore muscles.
“You have no idea how much I looked forward to this.”
“I’m sure. You were giving it your all.” He stopped a moment. “You have some scratches on your back, and some bruising, but it doesn’t look fresh, like from today.”
