“He’s fucked up. His jaw is wired shut, he has to miss at least six weeks of hockey, but they say it’s likely going to be up to double that. He really did a number on himself.” He flinches. “Not that he did this to himself.” He shakes his head. “It was a freak accident. Wrong place on the ice at the wrong time.”
Again, he must see something on my face because he gives me a knowing smile. “He wins them all over eventually.”
Ouch. I wince.
“I didn’t mean. I just meant... Fuck. Sorry. Here’s the bag. He’d rather see you than me anyway.” He hands me the bag and tells me where to find him in the hospital. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though. He’s... pissy. And that’s being nice.”
I swear to every god I can think of that if these two are yanking my chain and crying wolf with this injury, I’ll lose it. This would be my line in the sand over where pranks are funny or not. Faking taking a puck to the face and needing surgery is my line, and yet, part of me hopes it’s a ruse.
On the way to my car, I pull out my phone and check my emails. If there was an injury on the ice, Tabitha will have told everyone in this week’s—oh god. Oh no. The email subject line from Tabitha’s newsletter is “Get well soon wishes to our beloved Tate.”
My already nauseated stomach clenches even harder. If this is a prank, he’s gone to great lengths to make other people cover for him. As much as I’d think it believable that Tabitha would be down for an elaborate cover-up, I doubt Eloise would cover for him. She has my back.
As my phone rings, I send up a quick prayer. This team feels cursed. Apollo’s car accident when he and Edith got hurt, Raffi’s concussion syndrome that took him out of the game, and now Tate taking a puck to the face.
I know it’s all part of the sport. God knows I do. But it’s fucking brutal. At any given time there’s at least one poor hockey player who’s injured in some way, shape, or form. I couldn’t do it, I’m too pretty to get my face busted up.
So’s Tate.
“Hey, are you okay?” Eloise’s worried voice is my first tell.
“So it’s true?” My voice is a hushed whisper as I reach for the car door handle.
“You didn’t know?”
I shake my head despite the fact she can’t see it. “I didn’t. I missed the game and didn’t open my emails yesterday ‘cause I was studying for a test this morning. Is it as bad as his roommate says?”
Eloise sniffles like she’s crying. Her softness, her empathy is one of the most beautiful things about her. She’s the living embodiment of the fact that being caring doesn’t make you fragile. “He had surgery. That’s all we know. Ares is trying to get more information. Despite being part of the team, Tate’s always been a little aloof, you know? Like he doesn’t live at the hockey house with them or anything. Ares and his brothers are going to the hospital later to represent the team. They say Tate will be there for a few days before being released.”
My heart is racing, my head throbbing, and my pulse making itself known in every pulse-point in my body. “Ellie.”
“I know, Pen. I know. Once these Raccoons get their sticks in you, you’re done for.”
I can’t help but giggle at her innuendo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince her, or myself. But Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.
“Bullshit.” She pretends to sneeze when she says it, bringing another smile to my lips.
“I hate him. He’s my enemy.”
“No, honey.” There’s a sweep against the microphone like she’s shaking her head. “His dad is your dad’s enemy. But beyond that, Tate’s done nothing to you.” She knows the history, Karlya too, I had no choice but to tell her when she confiscated my phone and threatened to dunk it into a glass of milk if I didn’t tell her.
They both say the same thing. I can’t punish the son for the actions of the father. But merely acknowledging these emotions inside me that may or may not be nice feelings for Satan feels like a huge betrayal to Dad—even if we don’t have the same relationship we used to. I’d like to get back there some day, and dating his enemy’s son doesn’t feel like that’ll help our healing along any.
“You like him.” Eloise fills the silence as I climb in the car and slam the door a little harder than I intended.
There’s no judgment in her voice, no accusation, she’s stating it like a simple fact, and it’s not one I can even consider denying.
“Ares said Tate’s messages sounded pretty low. I mean, I know he’s just had surgery, and he’s going to be on the bench for a month or two.”
“Up to three.” I groan. I might not know him well, but hockey is in his blood, like his father’s, like his grandfather’s, like my brother’s, my father’s.
Once they’ve been bitten by the hockey bug, once the ice has them in its clutches, there’s no going back, no escape.
Tate’s going to be so fucking broken.
It gives me pause.
Should I not go? Will he want to see me? Will it make him worse?
