“You can barely walk right now.”
“It’s fine after the pills kick in.”
“And then what? You’re going to take more pills to keep playing? You do know this is how people turn into addicts, right?”
“Riley, I’m handling it.” Frustration hardens my tone.
Her eyes narrow in response and I get the feeling she’d hit me if I wasn’t already injured.
I speak again in a pleading tone. “I just got a team back. I’m lined up to play with the Lucky Strikers, withChance McLanely. I’ve worked so hard to get to this point.”
She glances away, her lips pursed.
I reach for her hands, trying to convince her. “I’ll pace myself with the pills. Make sure not to over-do it. Until then, you can’t let anyone know about this.”
Riley throws my hands away in disgust. “You want me to lie for you too?”
“Not lie.” My heart pounds desperately. “Riley, work with me here. Please. I don’t want to fight with you.”
“I don’t want to fight with you either, but I don’t agree with your choices, Nat. It’s incredibly dangerous to be on the ice when you’re in so much pain. And you’re starting to abuse medication. How do you expect to play an entire season like this?”
“I—”
Riley bulldozes over me. “And not once in that little speech did I hear you saying anything about going to a doctor.”
“I’ll see one… eventually.”
“When?” Riley demands.
I scratch the back of my neck. I hate that I’m worrying her, but I also won’t let her box me into a corner. With a pain likethis, there’s only one thing the doctors can say and I don’t want to hear it.
Riley firms her lips and steps away from me, eyes as cold as her voice. “I won’t tell anyone about the pain you’re in, Nat.”
“Thank…”
“But until you decide to see a doctor and get medical treatment,” she moves back, resolute as a pillar, “don’t come to me.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
RILEY
I arrive at the garage the next morning with no sleep, sunken cheekbones, bags under my eyes and zero tolerance for any bad behavior.
Jimmy, Blade and Carlos by some miracle arrive to the workshop together.
“You’re late,” I snap, walking around a car that I’m diagnosing for a client.
“Sorry, Boss.” Jimmy lifts both hands. “Traffic.”
“Please sign in at the book over there.” I point without looking. I set up a table by the door so that the mechanics can sign in when they arrive.
I’ve decided that I should be logging their arrival and break times just as much as I do the vehicles. That way, I have evidence of their tardiness and they won’t be able to argue when they reap the consequences of their actions.
“You’ll sign out for lunch and at the end of the workday too,” I inform them brusquely. “If you have any questions, let me know.”
“Someone’s got a bur up her?—”
“Blade, say it loud and proud if you want me to hear. I can’t interpret your mumbling.”
