“I wish we had more time,” I murmur, rinsing the suds from his hair. “But the bus leaves in half an hour.”
He sighs. “I know. Surgery in two days. I hate going under.”
“You’re gonna do great.”
“Yeah. And you’re gonna do great while I’m out.” He throws my words back at me, challenging me to disagree.
“I’ll handle it,” I say firmly, channeling his confidence. “You work on healing.”
I turn off the water and reach for the towels. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
The team plane is quiet. Normally, our flights are full of chatter—card games, guys chirping each other, movies blaring. Today, it’s eerily subdued. Coming home with back-to-back losses and our Vezina-winning goalie broken isn’t great for creating a cheery atmosphere.
We’re sitting in one of the mid-cabin club sections, four massive leather recliners grouped around a height-adjustable table. It’s usually the prime spot for high-stakes poker, but right now, it’s serving as Louis’s recovery ward. We kept the walnut table lowered to give him legroom, and he’s propped up on a mountain of pillows I raided from the flight crew.
Every time we hit turbulence, my hand twitches, ready to steady him.
Mine.The word flashes in my mind like a neon sign.
The thought is totally reckless. I’m a rookie fighting for my life after two terrible games. But looking at his sleeping face, dark circles under his eyes, hair damp from our shower, my panic recedes, and I feel grounded.
“How’s he doing?”
I jump. Rylan is standing in the aisle. He looks like he’s aged five years in the last forty-eight hours.
“Doc gave him the good stuff,” I say, keeping my voice low. “He was out before we took off.”
Rylan nods, eyes softening as he looks at his best friend. He slides into the empty seat across the aisle. “Good. He needs it. He’s terrible at being injured. He gets…”
“Bored?”
“Annoying,” Rylan corrects with a ghost of a smile.
I snort. Louis stirs, letting out a pained grunt. I freeze until he settles.
“You good, Sinclair?” Rylan asks.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“Last night was rough.”
“Yeah. Well.” I pick at a piece of invisible lint on my pants. “It won’t happen again.”
He holds my gaze. “I know.”
Movement toward the front of the plane catches my eye. Carson Wells is walking down the aisle, followed by Coach Shaw. Coach is clutching his ancient leather day planner like a shield.
Carson looks tired. His tie is loose, and the top button of his shirt is undone. It’s rare to see him not perfectly put together. They stop at our table, Carson sliding directly into the empty, rear-facing seat opposite Louis while Coach drops into the seat across from me, completing the square.
Suddenly, this isn’t just a check-in. It’s a meeting.
“He awake?” Carson nods at Louis.
“In and out,” I say.
“I’m awake,” Louis rasps.
I turn. His eyes are glazed and heavy as he blinks awake. He shifts, wincing.
