“Yup, but if you want to keep scratching my head for a little longer, I’d be ok with that.” I closed my eyes and leaned into her touch.
She chuckled. “I charge twice as much for my head scratches.”
“Take my credit card,” I said, reaching for my wallet when she smacked my shoulder. “But I don’t want to make you late for Webber.”
Nova started to cut my hair, and I was hoping she would comment on Webber. I was pretty sure that was Jude’s best friend's name, and I needed to know more. Did Jude know he was here? How long had he been here? How did I ask without…asking? You think I would have mastered nosy to a science.
I spent the rest of the appointment attempting to find ways to ask, but I was a chicken shit. I ended up resorting to letting the old ladies do the work for me. Blanche said she would get me all the tea and call me later. Never underestimate the elderly, especially when they have time and boredom to fight off.
As I got in my truck a man with a baseball cap and in crutches hobbled past me and I knew it was Jude’s best friend. A protective instinct flared in me. I wanted to get out of my car and say something to him, like get his shit together and make up with Jude who had looked sad since April.
He turned to open the door and as he did, I caught a glimpse of his profile. Something about him felt familiar and I tried to wrack my brain where I had seen him or if I had seen him with Jude. He was a hockey player. I was sure I had seen him on TVbefore. Once you had seen a few, you'd seen them all right?
My phone rang as I watched him, glancing quickly, I saw my sister's number pop up. Sending her straight to voicemail, I looked up, but he was already in the salon. I huffed, so annoyed.I started my truck, glancing at the salon and resisting the urge to go back in. That nagging feeling I knew him from somewhere bothered me, but I grabbed my phone, shooting a text to Jude. I hadn’t seen him in a while and the last time we were together things were going great, until he received that call about his friend. Maybe he needed a distraction as much as I did. We could get lost in each other for a while and then I’d move along just like always. It was how I had survived, and how I would keep surviving.
8
sam
“Webber, are you still there? Webber, I know this isn’t the news we were hoping for, but I will do whatever I can to get us a contract and if that isn’t with the Yetis, I’m sorry, man.”
I didn’t know what to say to my agent, Miles. We had discussed this before I went into the surgery; it wasn’t something I didn’t already know but hearing him repeat it from the team just made it even more real.
“Webber?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I said softly.
“Look, kid, I'm sorry,” he sighed. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but you also jetted off?—”
“I’m doing PT and they are sending updates,” I snapped. “We made this agreement, and they signed off on it. I would be doing the same thing there. If they want me in tip-top shape they need me to be sound in body and mind. My body might be ready to play, but you know as well as I do, if my mind isn’t in it, I’m not going to play well.”
“I know that's what we agreed on,” he said, placating me. “Your injury is delicate, and no team wants someone on their injured list at the beginning of the season.”
“I’m doing my best,” I growled. “If someone had listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
He stayed quiet and he should have because I complained to many people.
“All we can do is move forward and I will do whatever I can do to get you a contract,” he said. “I know you want to stay close to Colorado, but we might want to set our sights somewhere else.”
“Fine, but nothing east coast,” I mumbled.
“No promises,” he said before hanging up.
I stared at my phone for what felt like forever. Enough time had gone by that the sun had gone down and the walls of the cottage felt like they were going to fall on me. A sinking feeling hit me as I had a foreboding awareness about my career and how it might actually be over. I might not get re-signed, and no one was going to want to sign me with my injury. I was a decent player at best, just not good enough of a player for people to bet on me while injured.
Fuck, if this was really the end of my career, I didn’t plan well for it.
I looked at the time on my phone as it vibrated with a new message.
Gomez: Hey, Webber, how's it going? How's the knee feeling?
I opened my phone and saw a few other messages I hadn't responded to.
Cap: How you holding up?
Hunter: How’s the country treating you? Miss the city yet?
I had been avoiding my teammates, afraid they would ask about my contract. Telling them made it feel more real and official. I wasn’t ready and I couldn’t bear to hear their concern or pity. Ignoring the texts, I decided to go straight to the bar. I hadn’t had a beer in a while and if I was going to survive the night, I needed a drink or maybe ten. PT was going well enough that I didn’t need my crutches, but I took them because if I was drinking, I knew I would need all the help I could get to walk on the way out.
