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“Yes,” Noor replies.

“Okay.” Rachelle meets Emil’s eyes, who leans forward.

“I want you to go in knowing everything they’ve been up to over the past seven years as far as we know,” he says. “We will begin with the night we thought we lost you and go from there, yes?”

Noor nods slowly, and she reaches out toward me. I easily take her hand, having no idea what they’re about to tell us. Knowing this family, this is going to be unhinged, but I don’t think I’ll be surprised by the lengths they’ll go to, to protect her.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

TWO WEEKS LATER

DRAVEN

Scheduling a date between hockey practices, games, and Noor’s life was like an exercise of Tetris. It took an inordinate amount of time to sort out, but then, we knew it would. Getting a date to shake out in two weeks feels like I got lucky in some way, and I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I’ll be in San Diego for one night, and then I’ll take a red eye in order to be back in Denver for practice. I’ve never been happier to have a Thursday night off in my entire life.

I have a million things running in my mind as I wait for Noor to arrive. I’m sitting in the waiting room, listening to music that is supposed to relax me, but I’m too far gone for that. My left hand presses down on the hard rubber spikes wrapped around my thick thigh in an attempt to center myself, thinking about all of the things I’ve read to look for about POTS and spa experiences.

I don’t want to fuck this up, and the reality is that Arran doesn’t have to lift a finger to help me at all, despite feeding me countless suggestions about her POTS condition to help me. Alastair, Ciaran, and I are the ghosts of Noor’s past. Unlike some, we have to prove that we aren’t better off staying there.

The door opens, and Noor’s heart shaped face looks tentative as she peeks her head inside. I’m sure this seems like an odd place to have a date, but I wanted to be different. She’s a single mom who holds shit down every day. I want to spoil her, help her relax, and maybe have a decent conversation where she doesn’t feel as if I’m trying to weasel my way into giving me something I don’t deserve.

Tonight is about going in with no expectations, other than to have a good time.

“Hi.” I rise to my feet, walking over to her. I booked out the last set of appointments, making sure no one else would be here. I’ve been playing for the Snow Canyons for the past seven years, give or take, and I’ve become recognizable.

I only played college hockey for a semester before I was drafted. I worked my way up until the Canyons started putting me behind the crease more and more to prove myself. I want to keep my attention on Noor, not speak to fans.

Maybe that’s selfish, but I have so little time with her. I’m also someone who has always preferred to stay behind the scenes. As the goalie, I can get away with being the strong, silent type who dances in circles behind my crease. Feeling dizzy is a type of high I actually enjoy.

I recite random facts I’ve picked up until they sound like a silly song. It’s what I’ll sing while pucks come flying at me like they’re on a mission to concuss me during a game.

All players have their own rituals to get ready for a game, this is one of mine. People in the stands now chant ‘turn, turn, turn’ during warm ups when they see me turning like a top.

It’s ridiculous, but it fucking works for me. After the turns and the world is twisty, I’ll drop and stretch my hips and do the exercises that are actually supposed to help me during a game.

“We’re all checked in to begin. Now that you’re here, someone is going to walk you back for a massage. I’ll see you again at the pool, where we can hang out and talk, or not.”

The ball is completely in her court. Would I love to talk to her? Yes. However, I will also be content to exist in the same space as her. The massage is to butter her up, just a little.

“We’re getting massages.” Noor has a backpack instead of her huge tote today, and she shifts on her feet as she stares at me as if trying to figure out what the gag is. “Separately.”

“Yes,” I say, grinning. I’m sure it’s lopsided, and one I don’t give many people. “Have you ever had one?”

“No,” she says honestly. “This is a surprise. I thought you’d want to go to dinner or something.”

I choose not to respond to that and begin moving her toward the front desk. I let Arran know that she should bring her swimsuit and why, but I’ll still run through things.

“Your massage therapist is female, and she’s going to focus on a lighter massage. I asked that she stay within shouting distance while you’re getting up because you could feel dizzy,” I explain. “Either way, she’ll still help you sit up and offer water once she’s done. I let them know that you have POTS, and not to use anything with fragrance because I don’t want you to get a migraine.”

“Who are you?” she mumbles.

“Hopefully, you can find that out after you’re relaxed and done with your first massage. If you don’t like something, tell her, okay?” I ask this with my voice pitched low and she nods slowly.

I’m sure I sound like a pod person or as if I’ve been body snatched, but I want to show her that I took my time planning this. I’ve often wondered over the last seven years what a real conversation could have been like with Noor, and why I couldn’t have first met her when I wasn’t a desperate, self centered ass.