Page 18

EIGHTEEN

Noah

“Together my ass,” I snarled as I taped up my stick. Brody had put his foot down, the lead one that was heavy as hell, and said I needed to come to practice instead of going with him for all the pre-op shit followed by a visit with the neurosurgeon who was doing the operation. “You need to stay focused on your hockey career, Noah,” I mimicked him as I wrapped black tape in a precise, but pissy, manner. “You’re on the team now, but they could send you down if you get sidetracked, Noah.” Nik jogged by in his cup with a red wig on. No clue. And I was too angry to question. “Go to the rink. Concentrate on hockey. Stay away from social media blah, blah, blah.”

“So is talking to inanimate objects like a hereditary thing?” Blake asked as he sat beside me clad in hockey pants, socks, and nothing else. I glared at him as I went to work on taping stick number four. Did I need this many sticks ready for practice? Nope. But if I didn’t do something constructive with my hands I’d be punching walls in sheer frustration and worry. “Your dad talked to his pipes all the time.”

“Pops is my father by marriage, not blood, and you can’t inherit something via mental congress, asshole,” I snarled.

Blake, as expected, drew back as if I’d slapped him. “Dude, chill the hell out. So sorry I don’t know your genetic markers and all that. Christ. I was just trying to make some pleasant conversation, maybe get you to smile.”

My sight flew from my stick to my linemate. “Here’s a thought, maybe you should mind your own business. Maybe, I don’t want someone coming over here talking shit about my family when they don’t even know that Stan is my adoptive father. Maybe you should find someone else to make smile.”

He stared at me for a long-ass moment, nodded, got to his stocking feet, and walked off. The dressing room was dead silent. Like mausoleum-still. I must have spoken louder than I’d realized. Damn it. Shit.

And now, here came Cap wearing his official captain face.

“We have a situation that I’m not aware of brewing?” Cap asked, standing in front of me like a sequoia, arms crossed over his wide chest. I shook my head. He didn’t leave. I returned to taping my stick. “Well, Gunny, that sounded like a situation. Is there a reason that you just tore your linemate’s head off that you would like to discuss privately?”

I chucked my stick to the floor, shot to my bare feet, and glowered up at Jack. “I have two metric tons of shit to carry around today, okay? The press is all over me like syrup on a pancake whenever I leave the house, my boyfriend is facing some pretty big medical drama, and my head feels like someone stuffed it full of cotton batting. Does that answer your questions, Cap, or do you want more intimate fucking details? Do you want to know what I ate for breakfast, when I last took a shit, and what Brody told me was?—”

He place a hand on my shoulder. I flung it off, my vision red, and took a swing. At my fucking captain. You could have heard a pin drop in that dressing room. Cap caught my shaky right fist, the roundhouse a mile off, and held onto my hand tightly.

“You and me are taking five,” he told me in a low, growling voice that brooked no further bullshit. He tore his gaze from me to whip the dumbfounded Railers gawking at us with his glare. “You chuckleheads get on the ice. Tell Coach Gunny and I are having an informal peer meeting and will join the rest of the team on the ice shortly.”

Fifteen men murmured a “yes, Cap.”.”

“This way.” Cap released my hand.

Head hanging, tail tucked, I trudged along after Jack, knowing I was going to get my ass chewed, and rightfully so. He opened the door to the skate-sharpening room.

Casper, one of the equipment managers, glanced up from relacing a skate. “Hey, guys, you need some skate work?”

“Could we get this space for five minutes, Casper?” Jack asked. Casper looked at the mound of skates requiring attention. “Trust me, it will only be five minutes. Maybe less. Go get some coffee and a donut in the film room.”

“Oh-kay,” Casper said, leaving us to it. Cap closed the door, turned, and studied me for a good fifteen seconds.

“I didn’t mean to take a swing at you,” I said meekly, his scrutiny making me feel just as I had when I was six years old and had called my Nana a nasty witch. Pops had come down on me hard that day. “I was caught up in some shit and… it was all personal. I’m sorry.”

He drew in a breath, his expression stony. “So here it is, you take this for what it’s worth. All of us on the team are fully aware that you’re carrying a crazy amount of stress for a rookie. Your relationship is everywhere. I can’t visit any social media site without seeing you, Brody, or Jemima. I get it. It’s stupid stressful, which is probably affecting your sugar levels. Am I correct in that stress will make your numbers go flaky?”

“Yes, sir, yes, that’s right.” Gods, lying was the fucking worst.

“As I thought. So, what we’re going to do, rookie, is this. You’re going to skip this skate due to some issues with your diabetes. Nothing severe, but you’re feeling out of sorts. You’re going to go home, rest, and get your head pulled out of your asshole. Because, and I’m saying this with all the love that I have for a tiny little newbie who looks up to me, if you ever take a swing at me again, I will drop you like a stone, son of a HHOF goalie or not. Do we understand each other, Gunny?”

“Yes, sir, yes, I understand one hundred percent,” I replied, keeping my spine stiff so he didn’t see me wilting outside as I was inside. “Thank you for covering for my… my?—”

“Assholery works, rookie. Now, go talk to Doc.” With that he gave me one long, firm stare before exiting the room. I stood there panting, my heart thundering.

“Noah, you are a fucking idiot,” I grumbled as I slunk off, passing Casper who watched me skulking past him like a whipped potato, to find the team physician.

After a thorough check-up and a thousand questions about mental health, he made the call. I was put on the injured reserve list. Which sucked big time. I would be able to return to active play in seven days, which, thank all the hockey gods, got me on the ice for the season opener against Washington, but it still blew.

“So I’m not being sent down?” I asked Doc for the tenth time as I slid from the exam table.

“No, not for this, but I am going to note that your diabetes needs a firmer regime implemented when you return.” He gave me that I’m-very-serious-here doctor stare.

“Cool, yeah, I’ll work harder on it. And the stress. I promise. I’ll take up yoga.”

I bolted before he could change his mind.

When I returned to the locker room, it was empty. I undressed in silence, flung my gear into my cubicle, and pulled on my street clothes.

I took a second to go to the whiteboard on the wall. Using the sleeve of my Railers hoodie, I wiped off the X’s and O’s to write SORRY FOR BEING A SPANK– GUNNY, under which, I drew a big old dick with an arrow leading from Gunny to the penis.

On the way home, I stopped to grab a milkshake at the ice cream shop and sat in the car staring at it, knowing I would pay for the indulgence. I drove home, headed for the back entrance, as the press milled around outside the front doors, and rode up to my floor sucking on my shake. Mm, mint chocolate. A chip got stuck in the straw, so I had to suck super hard as I padded down the hall.

As I fumbled with my keys, the one bright spark of the day was knowing that I could now go with Brody to the doctor. We’d have to go incognito to avoid the crush of nosy paparazzi, but at least we’d be hand-in-hand.

I threw the door open, stepped inside while looking for Brody, and tripped over a suitcase. I nearly dropped my shake as I shouted in surprise. Brody came jogging out of the bathroom, shaving cream on his cheeks, and stared at me as if Lucifer had just strolled into the apartment.

“Noah,” he coughed out, wiping at his face with the hand towel resting on his shoulder.

I stared at the suitcase to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from the sugar rush. I tapped it with the toe of my sneaker. Nope, it was no visual disturbance. It was a packed bag.

I glanced up from the bag to him. “You weren’t going to talk to the doctor at all, were you? You’re going to the hospital today. Fucking hell, Brody! Were you even going to tell me? I thought we were doing this together!”

“I didn’t want to say goodbye,” he whispered, shamed, as he should fucking be.

“So you just were going to sneak off, go under the knife, and not let me know?! Fuck, what kind of miserable snake shit is that? I can’t believe you!”

I slammed my shake to the coffee table. The cup crinkled on impact, melted ice cream oozing out of the straw as I glared at the shake.

“Noah…”

I drew in a wobbly breath, sat down with a huff, and buried my face in my hands.

“Today is officially the worst day in a string of miserable days,” I said into my palms.

“I was going to have Logan call you when it was done,” he said as he sat beside me on the sofa. “He would have filled you in if things went well.”

I jerked my head from my hands to power glare at him. “And if things went wrong?”

“Then, I wouldn’t have had to say goodbye.”

“Coward,” I snarled, tears forming. I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hands. “How dare you make that decision for me?! We’re boyfriends, Brody. Do you know what that means?!”

“No, I honestly don’t. I have no idea how to do this relationship-with-a-man thing.” His dark eyes were glued to me, dewy as mine were. “I thought I could spare you the grief of looking at my corpse.”

“Maybe I want to see your corpse!” I fired back, then realized how awful that sounded. His eyes rounded. “Not like that. Shit, I am all over the place today. You’re making me nuts, Brody. Truly and astronomically bonkers! I yelled at Blake, took a swing at Cap, and was put on the IR list for a week to get my ‘shit together.’ Then I came home to find out that my supposed boyfriend was going to sneak off to get his brain operated on without telling me. Fucking fuck of all the fucks!”

I grabbed my shake, tore the lid off, and downed the rest of the warm shake in two shuddering gulps. Who needed booze when sugar would get a man buzzing?

“Noah, why the hell are you drinking a milkshake? Your sugar is going to?—”

“Nope!” I poked a finger at his noble nose. “Fuck off,” I snarled, then burped. “Maybe I’ll go find some candy to chase down the ice cream. Then, I’ll hide somewhere and go into a coma, but you won’t know because we didn’t love each other enough to be totally fucking honest with each other.”

He stared at me as if I’d slapped him. “Yeah, okay, I get it. I get it.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because I’m really mad at you for this stunt. If you ever do something this selfish again, I will… I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do, but it will be stupid. Just like that.” I waved a quaking hand at his suitcase.

“No, you could never match me for stupid,” he whispered.

“No shit,” I panted, wrung out and on the verge of a crying jag. Also, I was feeling crappy now—stupid sugar. Sometimes, I could live with my illness, and other times, I wanted to be normal. Boyfriend does something stupid? Eat a pint of ice cream, then watch a chick flick like the rest of the world. No, not Noah Gunnarsson. I needed to piss. Again. Not a great sign. “I need insulin.”

He went pale. “What can I do?”

I looked right at him. “You can stop trying to protect me. We do this together. All of it. The good, the bad, and the fucking ugly.” He nodded. “Now kiss me, then let me get my sugar down, then we’ll go to the hospital. Together.”

His lips touched mine, sweetly, shyly. I let my head drop to his shoulder for a moment, then I did what my body needed. I rested after the spike, while he returned to shaving. When I was feeling better, we left my apartment. Together.

With security tight to us, we sneaky-snuck out of the janitor’s exit to a waiting car.

We rode to the hospital in DC. Together.

We were rushed into yet another side door. Together.

And when we were in his private room, we stood at the window and stared out at the Washington Monument in the distance.

Together.

I could feel his anxiety from ten feet away. He didn’t pace or chew his lip; he kind of vibrated with worry. Nurses came and went as he changed into funky little grippy socks and one of those sexy-as-hell hospital gowns. When I was helping him tie the strings on the back of his gown, the door to his room opened again.

“That’s certainly a look, B,” a woman’s voice said. I glanced over his shoulder to see Jemima Wren standing just inside the doorway, bracketed by two behemoth bodyguards. She tossed her ballcap and shades to the bed as I gawked like a dodo. “Your knees are still super cute.”

“Jem, why are you here?” Brody asked as the slim olive-skinned woman embraced him while her dark eyes met mine. “When we talked yesterday, you said you were in Canada recording a new album.”

“I was. I’m here to wish you well. Course, I had to annoy the hell out of Logan to get the truth about where and when you were going under the knife.” She pecked his cheek, and then, smiled at me. I'm glad to hear it wasn’t just me he had been hiding this from. “And is this your personal nurse? He’s adorable. And those curls! But I’m not sure dirty Nikes are exactly sterile.”

“I’m Noah.” I reached over Brody’s shoulder to shake her hand. “I’m his boyfriend.”

“I know.” She winked. “The whole world knows.” She smiled down at Brody. “I’m so proud of you, B, for coming out boldly. That was a monster fuck-you to the uptight racing world and your asshole grandfather.”

“I’m not so sure it was the fuck-you that you think it was, but it felt right.” He glanced back at me, grinning at the pop superstar in baggy jeans, ratty sneakers, and a blue tee with a plump penguin on the front. “We’re together.”

I hugged him from behind. Hard. Finally. He finally got it. Jointly. With each other. That was the only way to face down the hard shit that life flung at you. With the person you love at your side. My fathers taught me that. Nothing could knock you down if you faced it with love.

Together.