He leads the fist bump glide past our bench, then we do a much-needed line change and catch our breath as Stevo leads the next line out to play keep away and burn some of the last few minutes of the game away.
Coach Wilson doesn’t say anything to me about the assist. Which is good, because I don’t want to make eye contact with him right now.
When the final buzzer goes, we pile off the bench to line up to head bonk our goalie in celebration of the victory.
Then we head straight down the tunnel to the visitor dressing room.
Wilson follows us in.
I keep my head down, my fury at the man for wounding his daughter competing against my happiness at the win. I just need to compartmentalize the shit out of my job right now.
“Well done taking advantage of the turnover,” he says as we start peeling off gear, chucking laundry into bins and equipment into bags that the staff have set in front of each of our stalls.“We can’t count on mistakes, so there will be tape to review tomorrow, but two points is two points. See you all on the plane.”
Of course he had to find a way to dampen the joy.
I fucking hate this man.
The sooner we get on the plane to San Jose, the sooner we get to the hotel and get some much needed rest, so there isn’t a lot of post-game chatter. Just straight business. Gear into bags for the equipment team, then showers and dressed for travel.
I’m doing the world’s fastest blow dry on my hair when I catch the other American centerman on our team, Steve “Stevo” Stevenson, staring at my left hand.
I’ve worn my ring all day and nobody else has noticed, in part because my hands are in gloves almost the entire time I’m in front of Wilson—and I assumed my teammates wouldn’t give a fuck about jewelry.
Stevo is a spectacular hockey player, fast at all times and able to find another gear when needed. But he’s not the brightest bulb off the ice. His wife was a former Miss Kentucky or Ohio, something like that, and there’s a viral clip of her completely misunderstanding a question as part of a beauty pageant and giving a very tone-deaf word salad answer about how people who burn the bible should go to jail or definitely face real consequences. And he regularly calls her the smart one in their relationship.
Can’t fault a guy for hyping his wife, but if there’s anyone on the team who I’m glad saw my ring and made me second guess my plan to wear it all the time, it’s Stevo.
“How’s your wife?” I ask.
His whole face lights up. “Pregnant.”
“No shit. Congrats.”
“Thanks. Yeah, baby number four.” He whistles. “Life comes at you fast.”
A week ago, I’d have internally scoffed at him, because dude, that’s what birth control is for. But given that I married our coach’s daughter last night, and now I don’t know where the fuck my wife is exactly, I’m hardly on stable ground to judge.
Grabbing a towel, I keep my hand covered until I get to my clothes. Reluctantly, I slide my ring off and slip it into an inside pocket in my jacket. The last thing I need is for anyone else to notice it and start asking questions.
But as soon as I’m alone in my hotel room tonight, I’m putting it back on.
CHAPTER 12
FRANKIE
There’s nothing I love more than striding into the hospital at five in the morning. And come the summer, I’ll get to do it every single day for three years.
Liz and I biked in together, then I head to the orthopedic surgery floor.
I recognize my new rotation attending, Dr. Patricia Chen, from a lecture she gave to my class in second year. She’s standing at the nurses’ station when I arrive, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, reviewing charts on a tablet.
“Are you Wilson?” she asks without looking up.
“Yes, yep. That’s me, yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. Makes me feel ancient.” She finally glances at me, her sharp eyes assessing. “What residency programs have you applied to?”
“Emergency Medicine here, plus San Francisco, and Phoenix.”
