Page 14

14

Holt

It’s amazing the difference sleep can make.

I sleep so hard in Fletcher’s guest room that it’s Sunday morning when I wake up, and initially, I don’t know where I am.

Why I’m here.

Which country here is.

What day it is.

My own name.

Once I’m fully aware of the world around me, I find a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water on the nightstand, along with a bunch of protein bars, and a banana and two apples arranged in a way that I’m positive was deliberate.

Whether Fletcher was calling me a dick or intentionally reminding me that he can often be one, I’m smiling while I grab one of the apples.

I manage a shower—fucking foot—and pull on clothes that I find in the closet—a pair of plain gray cotton shorts and a bright red T-shirt that says Goats are Spoons with a smiley face and a sunflower on it.

Likely Fletcher’s punishment for anyone who spends the night without bringing their own clothes.

The banana-apple dick was definitely about him, I decide.

No texts from Ziggy asking where I am, but I shoot her a quick message anyway, letting her know I’m booking a ride and will be back sometime this morning.

I realize I don’t know where she’s working right now.

If she’s pulling weekend shifts.

If I should’ve added hope you’re feeling better to my message.

No, I know that one. I definitely should’ve told her I hope she’s feeling better.

And that she’s pretty even when she’s sick. And that I’ll buy her whatever food she wants if she’ll cook more for me. And that I want to know more about her.

Somebody has a crush…

I mentally flip off Caden’s voice.

I’m well aware I have a crush. And I’m well aware it’s going nowhere.

When I leave the bedroom and circle around to the living room, I almost fall off my crutches.

Bunch of guys from the team are here.

Crew’s on the floor, using one of the dogs’ beds for a pillow. Porter’s next to him, curled on his side with his mouth hanging open, snoring. Tatum’s on one end of the couch. Zander’s on the other.

Crew cracks one eyelid. “Hey, Captain. Came to love bomb you but you were asleep. Nice boot.”

No one else stirs .

Good thing. Not in much of a mood for them to see me getting wet in the eyeballs.

I’ll never play overseas again. The days of playing in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans, being recognized in public, needing an agent to work endorsement deals are over.

This—the Pounders—this is where I’ll be until I retire from rugby. And it’s not a bad place to be.

It’s been good the past few years. Even with fewer fans and less public recognition.

These guys are like family. Family with better genes than what runs in my bloodline. The team’s nearly fully turned over from the team it was when I first came to Copper Valley to take care of Caden, but these guys were there for me the past year.

They’re what I would’ve missed if I’d made a team in Europe.

I clear my throat and nod to Crew. “Thanks.”

“Need anything?”

“Ride home.”

He pulls himself up, glances around at everyone else, then nods. “You got it. Wanna wake these guys up before we go?”

I shake my head.

He doesn’t question it. Just leaps to his feet, takes the bag with my dirty clothes from me, and leads me to the door.

Dogs don’t even wake up.

In the elevator down to the parking garage, I text Fletcher and Goldie a quick thanks for taking care of me yesterday, then pull up my texts with Ziggy again.

Not read yet.

She’s probably still sleeping.

Or puking , Caden’s voice offers .

Shit.

Should I have offered to stop at the store and pick up more crackers and bubbly water?

“Captain?”

I jerk my head to look at Crew. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

Am I okay?

Elevator door’s open, and I’m standing here staring at my texts like a dumbass.

Clearly, I’m not fully okay. “Jet lag.”

He grins. “Yeah, you look it.”

He’s chatty the whole way back to my place. Talking about mascot ideas for the team, some new guys he’s heard we’re getting, staff turnover in the office.

“Whoa, dude, you know Miranda?”

I snap out of the lazy mm-hmm mode I’ve been in and look at him.

First rule of playing for the Pounders is that you don’t look at the owner’s daughter, and I don’t like his tone right now.

You don’t look at the owner’s daughter comes with caveats like you don’t gossip about the owner’s daughter too. “What about her?”

“She introduced me to her sister yesterday. I didn’t know she had a sister. Did you know she has a sister?”

“Where’d you see Miranda?”

“At the office. Saw her car. We went to check it out. And she’s all this is my sister and she’s starting on Monday . Like, what? When did she get a sister?”

I stare at him blankly while something tickles the back of my brain .

This isn’t entirely unfamiliar, but it’s not right either. I don’t know a lot about the Keating family.

Don’t need to.

The times I see Roland Keating, it’s for public appearances or charity events or postseason banquets. While the guy’s in the office and we see him watching practices pretty regularly, for the most part, he stays out of our spaces and we stay out of his.

Unless you’re Fletcher.

Fletcher’s in there all the time because he thinks it’s his second job to sell tickets for the team. So he’s often butting in where the rest of us leave it to the office staff to do what they’re best at.

Until Miranda joined the office staff with a position working social media, I hadn’t actually seen her.

I only vaguely knew she existed—I overheard Keating talking to someone else once about going to visit his daughter at college—but that’s about it.

Got the feeling he didn’t want the younger knuckleheads on the team—some of them about her age—thinking of trying anything. And then he confirmed it when Coach sat us all down and told us Keating’s daughter would be working with us for marketing and publicity and if any of us so much as looked at her wrong, we’d be welcome to go try playing rugby in Antarctica.

“Sorority sister?” I finally say.

“Dunno, man. Maybe. You want breakfast? Get to cheat since you’re not playing for a while. There’s this pancake place not far from your house. I can watch you eat and pretend I can taste it.”

“Already had too many since the season ended?”

“ Yes ,” he groans .

“At least you can still work out.”

“You can do upper body. Bet we can get you one of those arm cycle machines too. Keep your ol’ ticker in good shape.”

Yeah.

Yeah, I’m gonna be okay playing for the Pounders.

And they do still want me. Coach said as much. I’m seeing the team doc tomorrow to get a plan for recovery. They think I can be ready before our season starts again early next year.

I’ll do everything on my end to prove them right.

Crew pulls up in front of my house and insists on getting my door, then walking me to my own front door too. Plumber’s van is here.

Good thing.

A second working bathroom upstairs will be helpful.

“You need anything else, Captain?” he asks. “Food? Something moved around? Someone to change the channel on your TV for you?”

“I got it. But thanks.”

He gives me a one-armed hug. “Glad to have you back. I know it would’ve been awesome for you to go back to a bigger league, but we would’ve missed you bad, man. Fletcher wouldn’t be the same as captain.”

I grimace. “No.”

“Heh. Gotcha. No way we’d pick Fletcher.” He grins and points finger guns at me. “Call me if you need anything. Phone’s on all day long for you.”

I thank him again and head inside.

Smells like French fries.

Ziggy’s been cooking.

I head upstairs—fucking stairs and crutches don’t mix—and talk to the plumber. He’s making good progress, and none of the pipes need to be replaced like he thought they might.

I leave him to it and debate if I want to take another nap, but I want to see Ziggy.

Make sure for myself she’s okay.

Her car’s here too, so when I glance in her room and find it empty, I assume she’s out back with Jessica.

Stairs.

More damn stairs.

I sit on my ass and go down like a toddler because it’s easier and faster, and as I reach the first floor, I hear voices.

No, just one voice.

Ziggy’s voice.

I swing myself into the kitchen.

It’s empty, but her voice is louder. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

The door to the porch is cracked. I angle closer, looking for her companion, and realize she doesn’t have one. She’s sitting in one of the chairs at the iron bistro table under the ceiling fan, talking on the phone.

Jessica’s not on the porch.

Hell-beast is probably under it.

“Abby Nora and I broke up,” Ziggy says.

And everything stops.

For me, anyway.

It’s the tone of her voice.

The sadness. The regret.

The grief.

Shiiiiiiiitttt .

I’m not the only person in this house who’s lost someone, it seems.

And fuck me if that doesn’t make me want to help her even more.