Kiss and Don't Tell(78)

“Better be mine,” I add to keep things lighthearted.

“Pretty sure it is. But I think I’m going to go see Uncle RJ tomorrow. I’ve been here for almost a week and it’s time that I do the thing I came here to do.”

“I thought part of being here was relaxing.”

“It is, and I have . . .”

I lift her chin up. “Don’t fucking tell me you plan on leaving again. I thought we talked about this.”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but I’d tell you. I promise—no sneaking off.”

That alleviates some of the pressure, but I still don’t like that she’s considering leaving.

“Anyway, I think I just want to go see him and complete my mission. I don’t like having it hanging over my head.”

“Okay, so when do we leave?” I ask, inviting myself along for the trophy theft, because I know she’d never ask me to go. She seems to be opposed to help.

“We?” she asks. “Oh, you don’t—”

“I want to go,” I say, moving my hand to her cheek and rubbing my thumb against her soft face.

“I appreciate that, but I think this is something I need to do on my own.”

Even though I don’t like it, I can understand her need for privacy. “I respect that. But if you get cold feet or want someone to sit in the car and wait for you, or have the getaway vehicle ready, I’m your guy.”

“Thank you.” She sits up a little taller and glances at her phone. Who’s she talking to that’s so important? “Do you actually mind if I head to my room? I want to go over an action plan and make sure my outfit will fit a stolen trophy.”

“Uh, sure, go ahead,” I answer, feeling confused by her abrupt need to leave. Was it something I said? Is it because of the person she’s been texting?

“Okay.” She goes to stand but I tug on her hand and she looks over her shoulder at me.

“Everything good?”

She nods. “Yup. Everything is good.” She offers me a smile that barely lifts her lips and then she heads into the house.

Hell . . . what was that about? She completely shut down on me. Was it because of the head injury? I know today was a lot for her emotionally. Maybe she just needs some breathing room.

In the distance, I hear the guys laughing, and I lift up from the lounger to see them walking into the backyard from one of the many trail accesses we have here. I’m jealous they got to go on a hike. Being out here, in nature, away from it all, is one of my favorite parts of the off-season, and we swore to each other if any of us are traded at any point in time, we’ll still come here together.

As they draw closer, I raise my lounger into a sitting position and place my hands behind my head.

“Look at that hunk of meat,” Taters says, walking into the pool area. “Where’s your lady friend?”

“Went to her room to work on some things,” I say casually, even though I still have worry in the pit of my stomach about it.

“Good,” Hornsby says, as he takes a seat on the lounger next to me. “We need to talk to you.”

I know exactly what this is going to be. It’s the same conversation they had with me after the injury when I was trying to get back on the ice quicker than I should have. And it’s the same conversation they had with me after the sixth game I missed because of a migraine.

“Before you even start, I’m fine, okay? It was a short migraine—”

“We called Doc,” Hornsby says.

I sit up. “What the actual fuck?”

“We have a responsibility,” Taters says. “And that’s making sure that our All-Star goalie is okay.”

“I am okay. It was one fucking migraine—”

Calmly, Posey steps in and asks, “If it was one migraine, then why are you freaking out about it?”

I go to answer, but Hornsby says, “Doc let it slip that you saw him before you left, that you’ve been having head pain. Dude, this is serious.”

“I know,” I shout. “Do you really think I would fuck around with this?”

“I think you have too much pride to admit when you need help,” Taters shoots back. “I think you’re worried that if you dive deep into this issue, you’re going to find out something you don’t want to know.”

“And what the fuck do you think that is, since you seem to know everything about me?” I ask.

“That they’re going to tell you your time on the ice is over,” Posey says.

And, yup, he nailed it on the head. That’s my biggest fear, being told I can’t play anymore. Life without hockey? Fuck, I can’t even think about it. I don’t know what life is without hockey. Without feeling the ice beneath my skates. Without strapping on my pads to protect my body. Without tracking the puck with my laser focus, daring anyone to try to score on me. Without watching the game play out, sending signals and words to help protect my team. It’s not physically possible to leave that. To hit “stop.”

I haven’t known anything else my entire life other than this sport that I live and breathe, and to have it stripped from me without a goodbye, without closure? No fucking way.

I look away, my jaw clenched tight.

“I know that’s not what you want to hear,” Posey says in his soft tone. He’s always the guy in the group trying to moderate the arguments. “But don’t you think it’s important to find out? What if something serious happened and you’re ignoring it? What if you really shouldn’t be on the ice? It’s not worth it, man.”