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Chapter

Lennon

“How are you feeling?” Coach Whittaker asked when he picked me up at Houston’s Hobby Airport eight days after my originally scheduled return date.

“Good. Really good,” I assured him. “Dr. Delancy cleared me to use the hospital’s physical therapy equipment on the third day, as Dr. Haberman suggested. And before you ask, I kept exercise light that first week. I haven’t had a headache or any issue in five days.”

“But you did have another trauma to your brain, and I take that seriously for all my players, Lennon. You’re too young to have a serious mental injury.”

I chuckled as he pulled the car away from the curb and began the arduous task of driving through the city’s traffic. Houston was always congested, no matter the time. But it was heavier than usual during this midday period. “Construction?” I asked.

“When isn’t there something new to build or something old to rip out in this city?”

“Especially highways.”

Coach chuckled. “I need you to talk to me, Lennon. I understand you not wanting to share the attack with your teammates, but I think it’s the wrong call?—”

“They’d worry about me more than you do, and that means they would play to defend me as opposed to how it’s supposed to be: me defending them.” I forced down the frustration that tried to fizz through my chest and past my iron-clad control. When you’re as big a guy as I was, you couldn’t lose control. “And that change in play could well cost us a run for the Cup.”

“Of course they care about you,” Coach said, sounding exasperated. “You’re one of our cornerstone players.”

“I’d like to keep it that way for another three, maybe five years.”

Coach smirked. “Seeing as you’ll be past thirty-five by then, we’ll just have to see.” He sobered. “Roles change, but that doesn’t mean you’re less integral to our success.”

I snorted. “Yes, it actually does. I don’t want to be relegated to the bench.”

“I wasn’t thinking the bench, and Dr. Haberman gets the final call on that one. Not me,” Coach said.

“And he’s seeing me now?”

“Always so impatient, you players. Yes, I’m driving you to the facility to meet with him. Soon we’ll have a better picture of what we’re dealing with and how best to help you.”

“Letting me play my game is what you need to do.”

Coach grunted. “We’ll see.”

I’d had to ask my mother to keep my German shepherd, Belladonna, for an extra week, which meant my dog was probably five pounds heavier and much worse at listening than when I’d left. My mother spoiled the dog more than she did her kids. Not that I blamed her; when Belladonna turned those liquid brown eyes on me, I was a goner.

“Hola, Mama,” I said as I walked through her kitchen door later that evening. Belladonna woofed and danced, licking my hands and rubbing against my joggers as she whined with pleasure.

“My son! How are you feeling? Oh, you look peaky. Sit. I made posole. It’s good for sickness.”

“Good to see you, too, sweetheart,” I said to my dog, giving her ears a scratch. “I’m not sick, Mom. In fact, I just got a clean bill of health?—”

“Posole will help. Good nutrition in your veins to keep your vitality up.”

I couldn’t help but smile. My mother loved her kids deeply and hard. She wanted to do something for me, and cooking was one of the ways she showed love. I enjoyed her dishes, and I wasn’t going to turn down one of my favorites.

At least I hadn’t planned to until my mother shot me a sly look. “So when do I get to meet Vivian?”

My mother had been in the U.S. for over fifty years, but she pronounced Vivian’s name Vee-Vee-Ann . It was rather adorable. I thought Vivi would like that, too.

My smile slid as I realized I couldn’t tell Vivi my mother wanted to meet her; I couldn’t tell Vivi my mother already knew about her, knew how much I cared about her. “You can’t, Mom.”

She reared back and clutched her chest, her eyes wide. “The hell you mean I cannot meet the woman you love?”

Leave it to my mother to get straight at the heart of the matter. I dropped my forearms to the table and my forehead to my arms as I began to describe the ending of my time with Vivian.

“And she just left you?”

I didn’t look up, but Mom’s color would be high, and I was sure her eyes flashed with anger.

“I didn’t really give her a choice.”

“Oh, that woman had a choice. She chose to leave you when you were injured.”

I lifted my head, and Mom narrowed her eyes as she drew herself up. “That’s not the woman I want for my beautiful son. You deserve more than that, Lennon.”

I chewed on my lower lip as I debated how to answer—if I should answer. “I pushed her away. I made her leave. The lead attacker, he said he would find Vivian through me. That he’d, that he’d…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. A shudder worked itself outward from the ice block in my belly.

“Oh, my darling. I didn’t mean to bring back the bad feelings. I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me he spoke to you again.”

I frowned, something about her statement snagging in my mind. The start of a headache pounded against my temples.

“The posole, my son. You need a big bowl and a good night’s sleep.” She ran her fingers through my hair and scratched my scalp lightly, just as I’d liked her to do when I was small. She rose from the table. “When does training camp start and will you be cleared to play?”

Thoughts of Vivian receded as I gave my mother the details about my concussion and how the Wildcatters medical staff wanted to handle the possible traumatic brain injury. “So, I can skate, but they’re putting an additional layer of padding into my helmet, and I have to be honest with Coach Whittaker and Dr. Haberman about headaches and any potential hallucinations.”

My mother set the bowl in front of me with a loud thud, and some of the broth sloshed over the side. “Sorry! So sorry, darling. I’ll get it.”

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

Her frown tightened her brows, but she shook her head. “Nothing. Eat now. And then you rest. Tomorrow will be soon enough for these worries.”

I stopped the spoon halfway to my lips. “There’s nothing to talk about. Vivi and I are over. At least until those men are found.”

She raised a single brow. “Who said I considered Vivian a worry?”

Touché. I went back to eating my soup.

That day and every day over the next weeks and months, I continued to think about Vivian. Usually multiple times a day. Too many. But she was important to me. Very important, and I wanted to let her know how important she was. I also wanted to keep her safe.

I puzzled over how Vivian had acquiesced to leaving after that initial conversation with Dr. Delancy. The more I thought about it, the stranger her reaction was. Vivian had become silent. Because I’d grown up with a houseful of women, I knew withdrawal when I saw it. As much as that hurt my heart and bruised my soul, perhaps it was what I deserved. I’d made this mess what it was.

We were more than two months into the season now, and I still fell asleep with Vivian’s beautiful face front and center in my mind. And inevitably I woke, as I had every night since the attack, in a cold sweat, crying for her to be okay as I held her bruised and bloodied body in my arms.

I flung my arm over my eyes, pretending the tears seeping down my cheeks were sweat. I repeated what the hospital social worker had told me: dreams of a loved one being hurt after trauma were normal. Just because I thought it subconsciously didn’t mean the scenario would happen. Our minds were built to unravel scary issues.

Mine was having a hard time letting go of the worries. But I could do it.

Especially once those men were in jail. Then I could protect Vivian properly. Once that happened, I could tell her how I felt about her.