My phone vibrates against the nightstand, the dull buzz cutting right through the thin layer of sleep I actually managed to get. I slap a hand over it before it buzzes again. It’s 7:00 a.m.
The room is washed in the flat, gray light of a northern Alberta winter morning. Just looking out the window makes me shiver. Beside me, the other bed is a fortress of pillows, with Louis still buried in the nest I built him. His hair is a mess against the white linens, and his dark eyelashes contrast against his still-pale skin.And Jesus, why the hell am I noticing his eyelashes? Ugh.He does look peaceful though. Of course, that’s a big lie. The second he wakes up, the pain meds will have worn off, and the reality of his chest muscles being ripped apart will come rushing back.
My gut twists.
I scroll through my notifications. A text from Rylan.
How’s our man doing? Hope you both got some sleep. Big two points tonight. Need you dialed in, dude.
I switch to the NHL app, where the current standings glare back at me. We’re sitting right on the wild card bubble. If we lose tonight, we’ll drop out of the spot. And while team ownership hasn’t specifically said what they will consider a big enough improvement to keep the team together, most of us feel like as long as we make the playoffs, we should be safe for at least another season. If not, the Everton family, the owners, told Carson that they would start a full team rebuild, which means breaking up the core group of players and starting from scratch.
And Louis isn’t playing in this hugely critical game. I am.
I slide out of bed, the hotel carpet rough under my bare feet. My routine kicks in automatically. It’s how I keep my anxiety locked down so it doesn’t spiral into panic. Most of the time, it’s a pretty reliable system, but today is different. For a lot of reasons. I go through the motions anyway. First, a nice, hot shower, followed by thirty seconds of icy-cold to wake up my nervous system. I shave, brush my teeth, and put on deodorant in the exact same order as always before stepping out of the bathroom.
I pull on my Sasquatch warm-up suit and pack my bag. E-reader, headphones, iPad, clean socks, and underwear if I want them after practice. Everything has a place. Control what you can control.
Lou’s still sleeping, which is weird. Those must be some good drugs since he usually always wakes up while I’m getting ready. I move to the side of his bed.
“Louis,” I say gently, my hand hovering over his good shoulder. “Time to get up.”
He rumbles a groan and cracks his eyes open. They’re unfocused and glassy with sleep, before the clarity—and pain—hit him.
“Oh, fuck,” he rasps, cringing with pain. Again, my stomach churns, and I wish more than almost anything that I could do something to help.
I don’t bother to ask if he’s okay, since we both know he’s not.
We move into the weird routine we’ve somehow established last night, neither of us hesitating anymore. It’s intimate in a way that makes my skin prickle. It’s like we’re a unit. It’s not fun, but it is efficient, and we get him dressed and ready quickly.
When he’s dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking pale under the fluorescent lights, I hand him the coffee I had room service drop off before I showered, and he closes his eyes as he takes a sip.
“Fuck, Rookie, nice job on my coffee. This is perfect.” He forces a grin, but it’s a shadow of itself. He’s not complaining, not even mentioning the pain, but the tension around his eyes tells me he’s working hard to act like he’s okay.
I shrug. “I pay attention to shit.”
He nods. “Thanks.”
I putter around, making sure things are neat and everything is put away before we leave the room, even though housekeeping will come in later. It calms my mind.
“Edmonton has a heavy forecheck,” he says, his voice gravelly. “They like to crash the net. Don’t let them rattle you. And Boulton likes to go high glove side on the rush. Make sure you don’t cheat the post.”
I stare at him. He’s about to go find out if his career is over, and he’s giving me a scouting report.
“I know the book on Boulton, Lou.”
“Just saying. You have a tendency to do it when you’re screened.”
“I’ll handle the pucks,” I snap.
He presses his lips into a thin line, focusing on his coffee mug.
I huff out a breath. “Shit, I’m sorry.” I run my hand through my hair in frustration, suddenly wishing I didn’t keep it so short because it would feel really good to pull on it right now. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”
He nods. “It’s okay, kid. I get it.”
I guess I’m back to being “kid” or “Rookie.”Sigh.
He opens his mouth to say something, but a sharp rap on the door cuts him off.
