“How long since you last played a hand, Beatle?” Sawyer asks teasingly as I fold for the third time. I shoot him a dirty look and pick up the water glass Beckett brought me a little while ago.
“It’s been a while, okay? I was kind of busy playing hockey, not cards.”
Everyone falls silent. It takes me a second to realize that’s the first time I’ve even mentioned hockey since I came back.
“Has your surgeon said anything about playing again?” Beckett asks.
I start to shake my head, then stop. I’m not ready to tell them. Not when I haven’t fully accepted it myself.
“He said he needs to reassess after a few months of rehab.” There, it’s not a lie, not entirely.
“How’s it going with Lily?”
I turn to Hunter, noticing the protective tone to his voice. I guess he probably knows Lily fairly well, given how close she and Kat are. Still, he doesn’t need to worry about me. I’ve got nothing to offer any woman, much less someone like Lily. She’s sunshine and I’m darkness. The two can’t exist in the same place.
“It’s good. She knows her stuff.”
Hunter doesn’t press for more, which is a good thing, since I honestly don’t know what else to say about that.
Eventually my brothers and Hunter leave. It’s late, and as soon as silence falls over the apartment, I realize just how tired I am. Hell, I might even be tired enough to sleep.
Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second. But it doesn’t stop me from going through the motions of getting ready for bed, even following Lily’s instructions, and popping an anti-inflammatory medicine just before sliding beneath the sheets.
I close my eyes and try some of the meditation exercises Kasey’s yoga instructor wife Daphne taught me a couple years ago. I feel my mind relax, but it’s not enough.
Nothing is ever enough to give me the peace I desperately want.
Chapter eight
Jude
“You look like shit.”
I squint through my sunglasses at my younger brother. “Thanks, jackass.”
Sawyer just shrugs. He’s driving me again this week thanks to the way his shifts fall and my physical therapy schedule. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that he’s giving up his days off to chauffeur me around, but it grates on me that it’s even necessary. Plus, Sawyer’s a little too chaotic sometimes. He probably means to be upbeat and positive, but it’s just annoying.
Especially right now.
It’s my own damn fault. I got sucked into a vortex of self-loathing last night, watching my teammates play our number one rival in the league. Because as painful as it is to admit, Pike is doing a good job leading the team.
Leadingmyteam.
Except they aren’t my team anymore and might never be again. Hence the vortex of self-loathing that involved a nasty-ass bottle of rotgut I found when I finally unpacked one of the boxes I had shipped up here from Montana. It’s been ten days; I might as well stop living out of a suitcase.
As if torturing myself by having the game on wasn’t bad enough, as soon as I found that bottle, I was sent back in time to the night after we won the championship game last spring. The party that night lasted until the early morning. The next day, I bought everyone a bottle of gin that was distilled in the city that hosted the final. We agreed we’d all save it and drink it out of the cup the following year, certain that we’d be champions again.
They might get there.
I won’t.
So I chugged that shit last night, and I’m paying the price this morning.
“See you in a couple of hours,” Sawyer calls out cheerfully as I gingerly climb down from his truck. I lift my hand in acknowledgment, focusing on getting to the front door of the clinic. Goddamn it, why does the sun have to be so bright today?
When I get inside, the receptionist basically trips over her own feet to get around the desk to me. I inwardly groan. I don’t need the hero worship from a wannabe puck bunny right now, or ever.
“Hi Jude, how are you today? Can I get you some water? Here, let me take your coat.” She reaches out, any excuse to touch me, but I move out of reach.
