“He’ll be okay,” I hear Addie say again. “Right, Duncan?”
I give her a thumbs-up.
“Yeah, that last shot was good. You can take him,” the director says.
I switch which digit on my hand is sticking up.
And I debate giving myself that finger too.
This wouldn’t have happened ten years ago.
And it’s not the first sign I’ve had about my future.
But as I realize the sniffling I’m hearing is my niece, utter clarity smacks me in the balls.
It’s time.
And for once, it’s not a terrifying thought.
Maybe, just maybe, because it’s finally right.
And this time, I’m not thinking about Addie.
Not directly anyway.
10
Addie
The best partof the take-no-prisoners attitude that I taught myself to wear to work every day is that none of the hockey players question why I keep popping down the hallway outside of the in-stadium clinic as the Fireballs’ medical staff gets Duncan cooled off and pumped full of fluids.
The worst part is that I’d like to head into the bathroom and cry the same way Paisley did as we watched Duncan get helped off the field.
He was so fucking pale.
I knew that last take was a bad idea.
I knew it.
But he stared me dead in the eye and said he was fine.
Worse, hewinkedand said he was fine.
And he’s an adult, so I let him make that call, despite my instincts telling me we needed to take a break.
He’s cleared for visitors after half an hour or so, and every last hockey player swarms the room.
The next time I pop down the hallway, Paisley is squatting solo against the cinderblock wall, staring at the door across the hallway.
I squat next to her. “You okay?”
“Why are men dumb?”
The question catches me so off guard that I actually laugh out loud.
“It’s our egos,” Tripp Wilson answers for me as he steps out of the stairwell to our left. “Gets us every time.” He nods to the door. “Mr. Hockey gonna make it?”
“It’s like he didn’t nearly die an hour ago,” Paisley said.
