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I asked if Beau was going to be okay.

"Don’t call him. Don’t come looking for him. If you contact him, I’ll have a lawyer handle it. Stay away from my family."

I could tell Baylor that I showed up. That I came to the hospital. That I tried to apologize, even back then. Which was rare for me. I didn’t apologize for doing my job out on the ice; I still don’t. But that night was different.

Telling Baylor wouldn't change anything. I’m the villain in her story. Beau still needed surgery. His family still had to sit there and hear that he might never play again. Where I showed up or not didn't change anything.

What happened out on that ice is what makes hockey a risky sport. Beau knew the risks. We all do. Every player I know has been hurt, played hurt, or watched a teammate get carried off the rink. I still chose to hit someone after the play was over. Now I’m staring at a kitchen that I may not have ruined myself, but I allowed it to happen by giving the keys to Rooks. I should have known something like this was going to happen.

"I let Rooks bring people back to my apartment," I say. "That was my call. I’ll cover what you lost, and the offer to use the kitchen stands."

She crosses her arms over her chest, her hip against the countertop. "You don’t even know if I can use it."

"Then we’ll find out."

"That’s easy to say with millions in your contract and a city that loves you. I’m sure you have ‘people’ to make this mess go away."

"Not exactly, but Dan said he could try. Six weeks without a kitchen isn’t an option. That’s why I’m offering you mine."

She looks away and reaches for the box of supplies. I move back to give her room. I’ve done enough standing around in the middle of her kitchen telling her what she should do.

She picks up a packet of cupcake toppers from the box and sets it on a dry towel. There are little superhero masks inside.

"What did you do with the orders for today?" I ask.

"Canceled them."

"All of them?"

She looks up. "Unless you have a hundred and eight cupcakes in your pocket, yes."

"I don’t."

"Then all of them," she says, and then goes back to using the dry towel to dry out the toppers.

"I have a couple of season-ticket seats for the home games," I say. "You could take Ellie to the next one."

She stops arranging the toppers and stares up at me, her eyebrows stitching together. "You want me to sit in your seats? And what next… wear your jersey with your name across my back?"

I never thought about that, it’s an interesting visual, but I know better than that. She’s just as soon as not wear it.

"No, I figure you’d wear your brother's jersey in my seats just to get back at me."

The corner of her mouth lifts before she presses her lips together. Baylor in a San Diego jersey. In my seats. At my own home game. And worse… I’d let her do it if she’d stop being pissed at me—at least a little.

"Still enemy territory. My brother would kill me if I came to watch your game. My parents would kill me if I sat in your seats. So… no thanks."

Her entire family still hates me. I guess I deserve that.

"They’ll be at will-call if you change your mind."

"Don’t waste them on me. Give them to your dad."

"My dad had a heart attack two months ago and hates to fly."

"Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t know–"

"It’s fine. He’s just as big of a pain in the ass as ever. Hasn’t slowed him down a bit. Though it should."