I head back upstairs and into my bedroom. “Keep me updated, okay?”
“Will do, Bill. I promise everything’s going to be all right.”
Dad’s soft words of reassurance manifest in tears that run down my cheeks, and I disconnect the call, snagging my purse from the bed as I close my eyes for a long moment.
“Everything’s going to be all right.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMETT
In between his gasps of pain down the phone, Scott told me that Billie was ready and waiting to head to the hospital. But as I roll up along the sidewalk, there isn’t any sign of movement coming from inside the house.
Concerned, I hit Call on Billie’s contact and wait for an answer.
“I’m standing at your passenger window, you goof.”
I hit Unlock, and she throws her phone into her bag, pulling the door open as she laughs at the way I jumped out of my skin.
Stupidly, I didn’t think through how difficult it would be for her to negotiate the low profile of my Aston Martin, but it’s not like I had the time to switch to the Mercedes G-Wagon. I was on my way home from skate when I answered Scott’s frantic call.
As Billie attempts to lower herself into the car, panic rips through me. “Wait.”
“I can do it,” she protests, but I’m already rounding the car, taking her red shoulder bag in one hand and her soft palm into my other.
For a brief second, she pauses and turns to me, big pools ofgreen swallowing me whole. She’s feeling vulnerable and likely nervous over the scan, and she doesn’t need to voice her emotions for me to guess them.
“Let me help you.” My voice barely rises above the sound of traffic and swishing trees.
The weather has been really bad lately with invisible black ice scattered around sidewalks. I slipped on an untreated patch on my way to the rink this morning, and the last thing I need is for Billie to overstretch herself, getting in my car. Or worse, fall.
She’s a little like her dad, and the conflict to accept my help wars within her, although she eventually yields, allowing me to take her weight as she slowly slips into my black leather bucket seat. I close the door, heading back to the driver’s side.
“It looks good on you.” Billie’s smile is full and bratty as she drops her eyes to her bag, still looped over my shoulder.
I climb into the car and turn the heating up a couple of degrees. “You think?” I reply, attempting my best Vogue pose. I look like a complete idiot, but at least it pulls a bubble of laughter from her.
As I set the purse in Billie’s lap, I get my first real chance to take her in. I know I should be halfway down the street right now, eyes centered firmly on the road ahead. The plan was to keep my distance, but I guess the universe had other ideas, like me taking her to the hospital and sitting within a foot of her while she looks cute as fuck in a fluffy green sweater and blue jeans that have to be sprayed on. And let’s not talk about her knitted black beanie or the hot tan leather boots that hug her shapely calves.
Drive, Emmett. Fucking drive.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, pulling into the street and hitting the gas.
From beside me, Billie turns to gaze out of the passenger window. With a light shrug, she says, “Worried about Dad. Feeling like I should be there with him or at least helping with the recovery of his van.”
Scott isn’t what I was referring to, although it doesn’t surpriseme that she’s more concerned about someone else’s well-being above her own. I remember when she was around sixteen, and we were having a barbecue in Scott and Freya’s yard; Billie came tearing into the garden, holding a small bird that had broken its wing. Most people—no, nearly all people—would’ve let the poor thing pass, but not Billie. She basically emptied her modest savings to have the bird treated by a vet. When news broke that the little dude had made it, she insisted that Scott set up a birdhouse in the huge oak tree at the end of their yard, just in case he needed a place to live.
At the time, I thought it was madness, but now, five years later and with a divorce under my belt, I can appreciate how temporary life or things can be.
“Your dad will be fine. His leg will heal and he’s damn lucky that his injuries aren’t more serious.” I attempt to soothe her, taking a left and pulling up to a stoplight.
Billie’s delicate fingers twist together in her lap, her red manicure chipped on several fingernails.
“Once he’s through surgery and in recovery, the pain will be way better. Then it’s all about rehabilitation.”
Memories of the pain I endured when I tore my ACL a couple of seasons back resurface, and I quickly push them away. I was convinced that my career was through, sending me into a deep spiral of depression. Part of me thinks that while it wasn’t the end of hockey, it was the start of the end for my marriage. Maria was hell-bent on me calling it time in the NHL, frequently giving me long speeches about how “everything happens for a reason” and maybe I “should take this as a hint to call it quits.” When I look back, her lack of empathy was palpable, as was her agenda to control another part of my life. Even if I refused to see it at the time, it’s as clear as day to me now.
When the light turns green and I pull off, Billie begins chewing on the edge of her right thumb.
