My head spins so fast I get dizzy. I really need to eat something.
Cal’s face is painted with concern from where she hovers in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. “Nothing!”
“Elliot,” her tone is so soft, so unlike her. “You’re crying.”
I am? My hand comes to my face to find fresh tears. Shit. “Oh. Geez. I guess I am. I’ve got a bit of a migraine. I’m going to take a rain check for lunch, if that’s okay? I think I’ll just lie down and see if it passes before my next session.”
“Elliot. We could hear you on the phone. What’s going on?”
I close my eyes and rub my temples. Like the simple movement can somehow turn back time. “It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.” Cal comes closer and for a moment I worry she might hug me. I couldn’t handle that in my present state. “Look, you don’t need to tell me what’s going on. But if there’s anything I can do, I want to help.”
I nod, wiping fresh tears away with the back of my hand. “Thank you. I’m okay, really.”
She looks far from convinced. “I’m serious, Elliot. What do you need?”
I sniff. “I don’t suppose you could get tickets for the game on Friday?”
She blinks but shows no other reaction. “Done.”
“Are…you serious?”
“Yeah. You’ll have them by the end of the day.”
Some of the dread leaves me, replaced by relief and gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Cal.”
“Not a problem.” She glances over her shoulder. “I’m going to take my girl for lunch. I’ll bring you back something, yeah?”
“Oh, you don’t have to…” I trail off at the disapproving look she levels me with. “That would be great. Thank you.”
She nods and steps back. “If you ever need to talk about anything, you know where my station is.”
I nod and watch her go. When she’s gone, I sink to the floor, utterly exhausted. Cal may have come to my rescue this time, but how many more times will I need saving?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ARTHUR
“Congrats on winningthe series in six, Arty.”
I don’t respond because I know without a doubt that the backhanded part of my father’s compliment is coming.
“Of course, you should have won it in four. I mean, Detroit? They shouldn’t have even made the playoffs.”
I don’t know what pisses me off more. That my father can’t let me have even the smallest victory, or the fact that I agree with him. Because we should have won that series in four games. It should have been an easy sweep. But I didn’t count on our starting goalie, Foster James, pulling his groin in game three. Games four and five proved to be a comedy of errors, but by some miracle, we were able to come back and win game six.
Foster has been cleared to start the next series against Florida. And as we’re much more evenly matched teams, we’re going to need him.
My father starts to cough violently. Most people would hold the phone away from their mouth, but not Ed Stetson. He continues to hack and hack into the phone, not caring thatthe noise is enough to blow out my ear drum. He sounds awful. Like he’s about to cough up a lung.
Eventually the coughing dies down, turning into a weaker wheeze. If I ask if he’s okay, he’d tell me to mind my own business. Besides, it’s not like I care about his health any more than he cares about mine.
“You’ll need to focus if you want another chance at holding the Cup again,” he adds.
“I am focused.” I am.
