“Bullshit.” Because Noah was my teammate before he was my player, he’s not afraid of me like the other guys on theOtters. He doesn’t hesitate to question my authority or call me on my crap. It’s annoying how well he knows me. And speaking of annoying, he also hasn’t visibly aged since our glory days. He still has a thick head of light brown hair, not a grey in sight. “What was I talking about, then?”
Shit. “Jilly,” I gamble. Noah talks about his six-year-old daughter more than anything else so it feels like a safe bet.
“Lucky guess,” he grumbles. “As I was saying, her birthday party was a complete success. Princess makeovers for all.”
“All? Yourself included?”
“Of course. I would have looked like an idiot if I was the only one not wearing a tiara. But I want to talk about what’s going on with you. Are you still pissed about Murph missing the team meeting?” he asks with that easy grin, and I reward it with a scowl.
“Hell yes, I’m still pissed.” Team meetings are mandatory and Murphy knows that. We leave tomorrow afternoon for a brutal stretch of away games and now I’ve got to bench him for the first game against Boston.
I fucking hate playing Boston. Not because they’re better than us. They’re not. We’ve beaten the Whalers the last three matchups. It’s the fans I can’t stand. The older ones who still pull my father’s jersey over their beer bellies like they’re doing him some kind of honour. I get it. He was a big deal in his day, a real bruiser. But every time I see his name stitched across someone’s back, it feels like someone’s holding up a neon sign reminding me exactly where I came from.
“Well, he feels shitty about it, if that makes you feel better.”
He should, I think. “Good.”
He stares at me like he’s waiting for me to continue. When I don’t, he shakes his head. “Jesus, Ace. What’s up with you?”
What’s up with me? For starters, my knee is killing me. Christ. It screamed at me the second my feet hit the floorthis morning. The kind of deep, grinding ache that made me want to crawl back in bed and call it a day. I could barely put weight on it.
And then there’s her. The woman who thanked me for my help before telling me, with perfect politeness, to fuck off.
Sure, maybe I overstepped when I brought up the kid’s father. But it wasn’t coming from judgement. It was concern. She appears to be working harder than anyone should just to keep her head above water, and I only wanted her to know she’s entitled to more help than she’s letting herself take.
But why do I care? I’ve barely spent two hours total in her presence, yet I laid awake most of the night thinking about her—wondering how she planned on getting to work today. And tomorrow. And what she’s going to do about her car in the meantime.
“Hey, man.” Noah’s voice cuts through my thoughts. The mocking edge from earlier is gone, replaced with something heavier. Concern. “You’re off in space again. Is everything okay?”
Seems silly to choose to suffer alone.
I sigh deeply. “Can I run something by you?”
“Shoot.”
I proceed to give him the abbreviated version of both my run-ins with Elliot. I choose to leave out certain details I consider to be irrelevant. Like how good she smells. Or how I momentarily forgot my name when she smiled at me.
“Thoughts?” I ask him after I’ve finished the relatively short and mildly embarrassing story.
“Marry her,” is his maddeningly straight-faced reply.
“Never mind. Forget I asked.” I roll my shoulders, reaching for the pen on my desk and pretending to scribble something on a notepad. I’ve got better things to do than listen to his ridicule.
Noah’s laughter rumbles across the desk like he enjoys myirritation. He leans forward in his chair, elbows braced against his knees, watching me with that infuriating mix of amusement and curiosity.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice pitched in a mock apology. “You asked for my opinion.”
“About what I should do with her professionally,” I snap, the word clipped and sharp before I rein it back in. “She’s a damn good physio, and we’re already short-staffed. I just…want to help without crossing a line.” I tack on, “For the team,” as if that qualifier disguises the fact that it’s not entirely about the team.
He drags a large hand through his wavy brown hair, the gesture lazy but thoughtful. “What about one of the company cars? Offer to let her use one until hers is fixed?”
It’s so obvious, so practical, it’s infuriating I didn’t think of it first. The team keeps a small fleet for shuttling players and staff. Easy. Clean. No risk of impropriety.
“That could work,” I admit, though the words taste like gravel. I blame Elliot. She’s the reason I can’t think straight. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Noah leans back, folding his arms over his broad chest, his gaze sharpening like a camera lens focusing. “We’ve figured out how to help her. What about you?”
My eyes narrow. “What about me?”
