I was no pushover. Never had been. I just didn’t waste energy on bullshit unless someone forced my hand. Kowalczyk had forced my hand. He was lucky I’d only given him a black eye.
“Hey, Sully.” Volsky appeared beside me, freshly showered, and in his post-game suit. “I’ve got a great oral surgeon if you need a referral. Bradley made me go to him after I took that puck to the face last season.”
“Thanks, man. Send me his info.”
“I’ll text it to you.” He clapped me on the shoulder, careful to avoid my jaw. “Hell of a goal. Hell of a right hook, too.”
“Felt good.”
“Looked good.” He grinned. “Get some rest. And ice that face.”
After I showered—carefully, keeping my mouth away from the spray—I finally pulled out my phone. The screen was cluttered with notifications.
A few concerned texts from my mom, which I replied to right away:Not as bad as when I lost my molar in my rookie season. Promise I’m fine. Love you.
She responded immediately with a string of worried emojis and a demand that I call her tomorrow. Classic Mom.
I was scrolling through the rest when I saw Théo’s name. Multiple messages. I blinked, surprised. As far as I knew, he didn’t watch our games.
Théo: I want to knock out #47’s tooth. A tooth for a tooth.
Théo: Are you ok?
Théo: Can you call me later?
Théo: I mean it. Call me. I don’t care how late.
I smiled.
Fuck. It hurt like hell.
But I smiled anyway, staring at those messages, at the worry threaded through his usual sharp edges. He’d watched the game.He’d seen me get hit, seen me bleed, and his first instinct had been violence on my behalf.
Something warm spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the post-game high.
I typed back:I’m ok. Missing a tooth but I’ve looked worse. Heading to the hotel now. Can I call you in 20?
His response came immediately:You better.
I was wiped when I got back to the hotel. I had taken a painkiller and now I was drowsy, my limbs heavy, my thoughts swimming through molasses. Still, I tossed my gym bag by the foot of the bed and crawled under the covers before calling Théo.
He answered on the first ring.
He was in my bed, wearing one of my Frost hoodies, his hair sticking up in different directions like he had been tugging on it. He was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth when the video connected.
His mouth fell open. “Jesus, your face.”
There was swelling and bruising where I had taken contact—my lip was split, my jaw was mottled purple, and the left side of my face looked like I’d lost a fight with a brick wall. I had gotten most of the dried blood off in the shower, but I still looked rough.
“I knew you only liked me for my pretty face.”
He frowned. “I seriously want to take a hockey stick to that guy’s face.”
“Hmm. I like when you’re a little spitfire.”
“I’m always a little spitfire.”
“Not with me, snowdrop.” I shifted against the pillows, trying to find an angle that didn’t make my jaw throb. “Were you watching the game?”
