He lifted his chin and opened his eyes, and the room righted itself.
But people were scrambling around to stare. Heads turned from every direction to take in the latest scandal. Hugh Major, the general manager of the team, hustled over and tugged Coach Karl back a step. The man’s meaty hand on Georgia’s father’s arm was either a calming influence or a threat. Or maybe both.
Glass continued to tinkle musically to the floor from the table behind Leo, and the pop and flash of several phone flashbulbs went off, the light bouncing erratically off the glass shards and guaranteeing that the newest Brooklyn Bruisers fiasco would make tomorrow’s gossip rags.
Somehow, Silas slid between the growing cluster of gaping people, arriving at Leo’s side. “Come on,” was all he said before pulling him out of the scrum.
Leo obeyed, straightening up to his full height and dropping his hands to his sides. After a few deep breaths he was steady on his feet as they entered the lobby.
“You have a coat check?” Silas asked.
“Uh . . .” Leo dug into his pocket, coming out with the paper tag.
Silas took it. “Wait here. Two minutes.”
His jaw throbbing, Leo leaned back against a pillar and looked up at the ornamental ceiling far above him. Someone had gone to the trouble to make the room look like a forest in winter. Tomorrow the place would be back to looking like a music hall.
He had to wonder whether he’d be back to looking like a minor league player in the morning. Getting punched by the coach? Not an auspicious sign.
* * *
By the time Silas got him home in a cab, his phone had lit up several times with numbers he didn’t recognize. He didn’t answer any of them. The lights in the hallway outside their apartment were all too bright. He just wanted to put some ice on his aching face and go to bed.
“How old is Georgia?” Silas asked as the door swung open, and Leo realized they hadn’t spoken all the way home.
“Twenty-four,” Leo mumbled, his jaw stiff.
“Can’t punch a man for kissing your daughter unless he’s robbin’ the cradle.”
“Apparently you can.” It hurt to speak. Leo headed straight for his room.
Silas chuckled. “You need anything? Motrin? Water? A lawyer, maybe?”
“Just ice.”
“I’ll bring you a pack.”
Leo waved a hand. “You don’t have to, man.”
“I know.”
He stripped off the tux and got ready for bed, ignoring his phone. In the mirror, his jaw looked swollen already. So he stopped looking at it. He took a pain reliever and lifted his suitcase off the bed and onto the floor. First thing tomorrow morning he’d be getting on a plane with the team and Coach Worthington. Wouldn’t that be cozy.
Silas walked in, an ice pack in one of his hands, a phone in the other. “You’re not answering, apparently. The team’s doctor is looking for you.”
“Thanks,” Leo grunted, taking the ice and—reluctantly—the phone. “Hello?”
“Mr. Trevi, I hear you took a punch to the jaw.”
“Yessir,” he said, trying to enunciate so the doctor would know he was okay, and leave him alone. He sat down on the bed. “It’s not too bad, though.”
“How are your teeth?” the doctor asked. “Any looseness?”
“No.”
“Did the skin break or abrade either inside or outside your mouth?”
“Don’t think so.” He didn’t feel like getting up to check, either.
“Are you experiencing nausea or dizziness?
“No. Just pain.”
“On a scale of 1 to . . .”
“. . . Just a three,” Leo broke in, inventing a number. “Hurts at the point of impact. I took a couple of Advil. I’m icing it.”
“Tell me exactly what medication you took, please.”
Didn’t he just do that? “Two ordinary Advil. Nothing fancy.”
“Okay. I’m worried about a concussion, Mr. Trevi.”
“Leo,” he corrected. “And I really don’t think it’s that bad.”
“All right,” the doctor said mildly. “If you have nausea or dizziness, you can call me, and if it’s serious, you should always go to the ER or call 911.”
“Got it,” Leo promised. He sure as hell hoped he didn’t have a concussion. What player ever sat out an NHL game because the coach punched him? It was almost impressive how many brand-new ways Leo seemed to have found to fuck up a pro career.
“We’ll speak tomorrow morning,” the doctor said. It was a demand, not a question.
Leo hung up, handed over the phone, then climbed into bed to put a terrible evening to rest. What a disaster. Except for that kiss . . .
He fell asleep remembering the taste of Georgia on his lips.
* * *
“Hey. You okay? Can you wake up a sec?”
Leo swam through the stillness of his dreams. He did not want to wake up.
“Earth to Leo. Come in, Leo.”
His eyes opened to find a figure sitting on the side of his giant bed. “Silas?” He sat up in a hurry.
“Sorry to startle you, dude. The doctor asked me to wake you up every three hours. Aren’t you glad you moved in? You get a bedroom, a big rent bill, and a wake-up at two in the morning.”
“Shoulda stayed at the hotel,” Leo mumbled.
Silas laughed. “Let’s make a deal—I’ll tell the doctor I woke you up several times, but instead we’ll both sleep.”
“’Kay. I’m fine, anyway.” Except for the pain in my face.
“I’m sure you are. They take concussions pretty seriously, though. Don’t be shocked if they put you on the injured list a couple of nights just to be sure.”
“Fuck.” He needed to make a contribution to the team, like, yesterday. He couldn’t do that without playing. “Fucking Karl.”
“Dude, you could get Coach in some serious trouble. Shit—you could get that man fired if you go to the commissioner with this.”
Leo cringed, which hurt the muscles in his face. “Sounds like a bad career move.” He didn’t want to be the rookie who got the coach fired. “O’Doul gets hit worse every other game.”
“O’Doul knows those fights are coming. And he’s wearing a helmet.”
Those were good points. But there was still no way he was going to make a big deal out of this. If anything, he was more determined than ever to play for Worthington. That asshole was going to give him scoring chances and learn to be grateful for it.