“I want to thank you,” Matt goes on as he merges onto the highway. “Gem told me you’ve been good to Finley. Not that I thought you wouldn’t be, but… she’s had a rough couple years, and she doesn’t know many people here. She deserves good people in her life.”
My heart stops beating for an excruciatingly long second before powering back on. “I–I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it. You warned Jennings and Volk to stay away from her.”
Matt laughs. “I was fucking around with Volk. I’m not sure the guy realizes women other than Kennedy even exist. I warned Princeton because he had that look on his face, and Finley doesn’t need any of that shit right now.”
I know I shouldn’t push the issue and raise his suspicions, but I can’t help myself. “What shit?”
Matt hits his indicator and glances over his shoulder before switching lanes. “Guys hitting on her, especially my teammates. She got mixed up with a real asshole in the past. I won’t let it happen again. I know it’s driving a wedge between us, but I can deal with her anger as long as she’s safe.”
“Jennings wouldn’t hurt her,” I manage to force out.I will never hurt her.
The vice in my stomach tightens so intensely, I curl into myself.
“Hey, man, you okay?” Matt pulls over to the side of the road to check on me. “I can take you home if you’re not ready.”
I shake my head violently. His kindness makes the guilt worse. “No, no. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have eaten so much this morning, that’s all.”
His eyebrows draw together. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I force myself to straighten in my seat and nod toward the road. “I’m good. Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
Matt laughs. “Yeah, I don’t want to have to discipline you on your first day back.”
He cranks the radio as I stare out the window, trying to forget our conversation before I vomit in my captain’s car. By the time we reach the arena twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to compartmentalize everything but hockey, as I’ve trained to do my entire life. I send guilt to the same place I send pain from injuries and self-doubt after a bad game.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Jennings calls when I walk into the Wolves locker room.
“Briggsy!” A chorus of shouts echoes around the room, the voices blending in a wave of resounding support and happiness. And damn, I’m relieved to be back with my hockey family, the guys I get in the trenches with day in and day out, all working toward the same goal.
“Hey, boys!”
Unsurprisingly, the Irish accent of Callan O’Boyle, who we affectionately call Boy-O, hits decibels above the rest of us. He’s the hype man every team needs, especially when shit gets hard. I expected to walk into one of his pranks, but he must be worried about me.
“How ye feelin’?” Boy-O asks after I plunk down in my stall. He doesn’t look up, continuing to wrap tape around his stick.
I strip off my clothes to change into practice gear. “I haven’t been nauseous in a week, which is a good sign.”
Hockey players like to follow superstitions, ranging from the clothes they wear to the food they eat pregame to their warm-up routines. I’ve never focused on that stuff until now. There’s more I could say to Boy-O, but for the first time, I’m worried about jinxing my recovery.
“So you’re finally going to get out of Cap’s hair, eh?” he smirks, stirring shit like usual.
Matt halts a conversation with Volk midsentence to reply. “You all know that’s not up to me.”
“Exactly why I remain a bachelor,” Lepel chimes in from the other side of the locker room. He likes to remind us of his perpetual singledom, as if any of us needs it. I’ll never forget the sight of his bare white ass as he plowed into one of Gemma’s bridesmaids.
“I’m a good roommate!” I protest.
Volk scoffs loudly, which draws deep belly laughs from the team. They’re all aware of the grease fire I started when I lived with him—it would’ve burned down Volk’s house if Kennedy hadn't saved the day.
“At least, I am now.”
Volk pauses his locker room exit. “Have you stopped microwaving metal?”
“Shit, I forgot you microwave metal.” Matt thrusts a hand through his blond hair, then gives it a firm tug. He’s probably imagining his fancy schmancy house burning to a crisp.
I ignore the additional round of snickers from my teammates. I can’t wait until I’m no longer the youngest player on this team, and someone else can take the razzing. I won’t be the last rookie who microwaves metal, that’s for sure.
“For the record, I’ve never had a problem with it,” I say, holding up a finger. “But yes, I’ve stopped so I won’t have to hear your shit anymore.”
