He snorts, with an eye roll that suggests I’m full of shit. “And I’m the Queen of England.” He takes a sip from a bottle that was apparently nestled by his leg on the floor. “You wanna sit with me?”
I’d rather reopen the wound in my face and rearrange my own teeth through a hole in my cheek, but he pats the floor next to him. There’s no getting out of this situation for me. I either go back downstairs and punch a de la Peña in the face, or I step over a brooding Scott to get to my room.
Wish everyone would just mind their own fucking business and leave me the hell alone.
I slide down the wall and plop on the floor next to him. He holds up his beer bottle and waits for me to clink mine against it.
“You won’t want to hear this.”
Gritting my teeth in preparation for whatever he’s about to throw at me isn’t an option. They’re already wired together. So all I can do is wait.
“But you’re not the first person to get fucked up during the game, Tate.”
He’s not wrong. In fact, Justin Bourne had damn near the same injury as I have, and it took him out of the game entirely. When his book came out about his life as a hockey player, Dad picked it up. It was something of a morbid fascination because Justin and I are very similar, so I couldn’t help but read it.
Both sons of NHL greats, both had to bust our asses to improve our game, to earn our places on good teams. Didn’t know at the time, but apparently I was reading my own prophecy.
The parallels between our lives are a painful reminder that my boy Scott here, is right. I’m not special. I’m not the only one who’s ever had an injury during the game we all love.
No matter what, the world keeps turning.
Isn’t that what’s bothering me most about my injury? That the team, the hockey world, the whole fucking planet just keeps turning without me.
I’m not special.
“I don’t mean that in a dickish way.”
Sounded kind of dickish to be fair.
“I mean there are plenty of us around here who have been where you are who can help you out.” He takes a long pull on his beer, his thumb sweeping up a bead of liquid as it meanders down the glass neck of the bottle. “And I don’t mean Ares’s non-profit, either.”
The youngest of the de la Peña’s set up a charity to help athletes come back from addiction.
Scott nudges my knee with his. “If you keep this shit up, though, you will need their help. You’re going off the rails.”
I open my mouth but he holds his hands up. “Don’t bother denying it. We’re all worried about you. Especially your woman. You’re pushing everyone away. And you’re drinking too much, especially when you’re still taking meds.”
I open my mouth again, but he gingerly covers my face with his palm. “When was the last time you talked to your parents?”
Fuck.
I hate when they’re right.
He nudges me again. “You’re going to have to let someone back in before you lose yourself.”
Shaking my head is all I can think to do. I’m afraid if I speak, I’ll cry.
“Maybe having someone who kicks you in the ass and challenges you can help certain people achieve their greater goals.”
“You’re quoting Justin Bourne at me?” It’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Just making sure you read his book.”
“It was kind of required reading in my house. Dad had two copies, both signed.”
Scott takes another drink, giving me a slow nod. “Son of an NHL player. I get it. There are similarities for sure.”
“Are you talking about you guys kicking me in the ass? Or my folks?” I drain my bottle, wishing I’d brought another one upstairs with me.
