"Not a chance. I know exactly what he's going to say."
We're on our second beers when the front door opens.
Sutton walks in, still in her work uniform. She stops when she sees all of us sitting there in various states of defeat.
"I heard," she says quietly. "I'm sorry."
I pull her into a hug. She smells like grease and coffee, and it’s the most comforting scent I’ve ever smelled.
"It wasn't the finger," I tell her immediately. "Before you even think it—it had nothing to do with my hand."
"He's right," Ashton says from the couch. "We all played like garbage. His hand wasn't the problem."
Sutton looks around at all of them, then back at me. "You're all taking responsibility?"
"Because we all screwed up," I say. “We were off. It’s happened before. Sometimes we click, and other times it’s like we put on someone else’s skates.”
She searches my face like she's looking for a lie. "Your hand didn't affect your playing at all?"
"Honestly? I barely noticed it." I flex my fingers. "The tape keeps it stable. The pain's minimal."
She deflates slightly. Like she's been carrying this weight and doesn't know what to do now that we're not letting her carry it anymore.
"Okay," she says quietly.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I believe you." She kisses me softly. "I'm going to shower. I smell like French fries."
"I like French fries."
"You're weird." But she's smiling as she heads upstairs.
The guys continue their post-game analysis. Picking apart plays. Discussing what went wrong. Planning how to fix it for next time.
I can see my phone lighting up inside my pocket.
"You should probably answer that," Pierce says.
"I really don't want to."
"He's just going to keep calling.”
“Or show up here,” Ashton says.
I know he’s right. I do not want to see my father right now.
I head to the kitchen for privacy.
"What?" I answer.
"What?" My dad's voice is ice cold. "That's how you answer when I've been trying to reach you for two hours?"
“I was busy.”
"I watched the game, Declan. What the hell was that?"
"A bad game. It happens."
