“Actually, I meant Penelope.” He pushes his glasses up his crooked nose. You’d think that one of the many times he got his nose broken over the years would correct the slant, but I’m not sure glasses will ever sit straight on his face again.
“Penelope?”
He nods. “She’s good at keeping you on your toes and calling you on your bullshit.”
Wow. Don’t hold back, Scott. Tell me how you really feel.
He chuckles. “Sorry. Too much time around Athena and the guys, I guess. Seems broken filters are contagious. Penelope’s worried about you.”
When I turn to face him, he shrugs. “Women talk.”
Damn book clubs have a lot to answer for.
“Unlike some of the guys downstairs who want to give you a wide berth, she misses you. If you really like her—we both know that’s an understatement—send her a text, Tate. Make things right with her.”
“Missing her protein smoothies?”
He nods. “And your mom’s cooking. But none of that compares to how much we missyou.”
“Me?” It’s hard to snort when half your face is fucked up but somehow it works. “I’m nothing special.” The words taste tart in my mouth.
“Fuck off with that bullshit. Is that what you really think?” His gaze is hot on my skin as I avoid looking at him.
I shrug. He nudges my knee with his.
“Of course you’re fucking special. Do you know how many people would kill to be where you are? Playing college hockey, scouted for the NHL? And in your own right, too. You earnedthis spot. Your dad didn’t pull strings or throw money at it until they let you in.”
I stay silent. If what he was saying was true, surely the team would suffer without me on the ice with them.
“Tate.” His tone draws my attention to his face. “What’s this really about?”
I shake my head. If I don’t say the words out loud he won’t think I’m being childish and petulant.
“Out with it.” He’s not backing down.
We sit in stubborn silence for a long moment before I sigh. “The team isn’t suffering without me on the ice.” It sounds so fucking stupid when I say it out loud, which is confirmed by my friend, my teammate laughing at me.
“Fuck off.” I shove his leg with mine.
“Is that what you think? You got hurt and things moved on without you?”
“You’ve been winning game after game.” I toe at the carpet next to my foot.
He shakes his head. “At what cost? We’ve had to rejig the lines, people are pulling extra shifts, Ares was under so much pressure he pulled his ball sack. You know better than most of us, you can’t look at a score line at the end of the game and make assumptions about how we ended up there.”
Okay, his rationale is making me feel like even more of a dumbass.
“You’re re-writing the narrative the way you want it to be. You want to think you’re superfluous so you don’t have to bust your ass to get back on the ice. That’s bullshit. We need you back, deep down I think you know that.”
Fuck. Bourne was right when he said contact sports have a way of forming true bonds between players who have been through the same shit together.
These guys really are my found family.
“You know I’m right. Text your mom—or don’t, she’ll land on our doorstep with more food because she’s worried about you. Text Penelope. And lean on us, Tate. We’ve got your back. Just like we had Raffi’s back. Just like we’ve had Ares’s back. Just like we’ll have the back of whoever needs us next. Because unfortunately, it’s the risk of the job.”
My gut sinks because he’s not wrong. We’re never too far from the next injury. No matter what we eat, drink, how much we sleep or work out, we’re always just one bad rebound, one freak accident, or one wrong-place-wrong-time away from being right where I am now.
On the bench.
