“He’s feeling beat. Take someone else,” Hugh said.
That made her job a little trickier, but if the captain had decided he was in no mood for polite conversation, she wasn’t about to argue. She pried Bayer out of the locker room to say something about his goal. He made a little dig at the other team, something about “past grudges that some players couldn’t set aside,” but it wasn’t too bad. Tonight would not be a complete PR disaster.
Lately that counted as a win.
A lot of time went by, though, without Leo showing his face. Georgia was worried about him. She checked her phone, but there were no messages. She could always go into the locker room and ask, but if something was seriously wrong, her father would be there, too.
Rock, meet hard place.
Georgia gathered her things together and went to find the bus back to the hotel.
TWENTY-TWO
Leo was prodded six ways ’til Sunday by the doctor and the trainer after the game. They did a battery of tests for concussion, shining a light in his eyes, asking stupid questions.
“What day is it?”
“Game day!” he answered cheerfully.
“Mr. Trevi . . .”
“Thursday, I’m pretty sure. But on the road, I forget sometimes. You should ask me who the president is, or something. And I’m fine. Really.”
That went on for some time, and then they probed his ribs and shoulder, which were admittedly pretty tender. But he was used to feeling beat up after a game. “I’ll take an ice bath,” he suggested. He’d offer anything to get ’em off his back. The doctor and the trainer were also worried about cracked ribs, but Leo knew from experience that it would be a day before he was sure whether the soreness could be written off as muscle aches or not.
“All right,” the trainer finally agreed. “We’ll look at you again tomorrow.”
Leo took a quick shower, trying not to hiss when the hot water hit an abrasion on his neck. Then he went to suffer in the ice bath, as he’d promised he would. At this facility, the thing was just a plastic tub and a cold tap, which some helpful soul had running at full blast. He put his hand in the water and then wished he hadn’t. With a sigh he stepped in, one leg at a time, and then sank quickly below the surface, up to his chin.
Some people swore by the cold bath as a way of staving off muscle aches, but Leo had never been convinced that it accomplished anything more than shrinking his nuts down to pebble size. He counted to three hundred and then got the heck out of there, drying himself with blue-tinged fingers and cursing the inventor of the ice bath.
By the time he’d fumbled his shaking limbs into his suit and shoes, the press conference was over and the bus had already left with the first group of players. The dressing room was almost empty. And by the time he’d hefted his duffle bag to leave, the only other player in there was O’Doul. The captain sat fully dressed on the bench in front of his locker, his head tipped back, as if he were reading a treatise off the ceiling.
When he caught Leo watching him, his chin snapped down, allowing Leo a view of the bandages on the side of his face. “You okay, rookie?” he asked Leo suddenly.
“Yeah, sure. I’m not sure why everyone is freaking out over this hit. It’s just another day at the office.”
“Maybe ’cause you didn’t see it.” O’Doul tapped his fingers on the bench. “Looked reckless as hell. If your body had been positioned differently, coulda been ugly.”
“Good thing it wasn’t, then.” Leo took a step to the side to see how big the bandage on O’Doul was. “You okay? That looks kind of brutal.”
“’Course.” O’Doul stood up quickly. “Just a flesh wound.” His Monty Python accent wasn’t terribly accurate, but Leo wouldn’t call him on it. “Want to walk back? I don’t feel like waiting for the fucking bus.”
“Sure, why not.” Leo held the dressing room door open for O’Doul to pass through.
“Are you the last ones?” a young man with a Bruisers’ ID hanging around his neck asked in the hallway.
“Yeah, Jimbo,” O’Doul confirmed. “Thanks.”
The young man went into the dressing room they’d just vacated, probably to start packing up their gear. It felt strange to Leo to just walk away from his gear after a practice or a game. But these days it was someone else’s job to pack up his pads and his equipment and transport them to the next facility.
Weird.
He and O’Doul exited the rink via the back door near the parking lot. Leo didn’t know exactly where they were, but he could see some fans waiting over to the left, probably hoping the home team would come out and sign jerseys for them.
O’Doul pointed right, and the two of them wordlessly avoided the crowd in favor of a slightly longer walk around the exterior of the rink.
In his pocket, Leo’s phone buzzed. He drew it out, noticing that O’Doul did the same. “You get this text?” Leo asked. It was an automated message from the travel team, asking his location and whether he needed transportation.
“Yeah,” O’Doul grunted. “Just reply to it and they’ll leave you alone.”
Walking back, Leo texted. Thanks.
O’Doul shoved his Katt Phone into his pocket. “They’ve got the geolocation working all the time. If you ever rob a bank, leave the Katt Phone at home.”
“Good tip.”
“Though you must not be a criminal, or Kattenberg wouldn’t bring you on board. He’s the most sophisticated miner of data in the business, I’m told. He probably knows your shoe size, how many fillings you have, and your kindergarten teacher’s first name.”
“Millie,” Leo offered. “But I think she’s dead now.” They reached the main drag, and the hotel lights were almost on them. “Thanks for, uh, throwing down for me tonight.”
“Anytime. You’re wearing the sweater, I’m gonna have your back.”
Leo chuckled. “I know it’s not personal. You’d defend even the most irritating rookie.”
To his surprise, O’Doul gave him a playful check with his elbow and said, “You’re not even the most annoying guy on the team. Gotta work harder if you want that title.”
“Damn. Okay. I’m on it.” A man in uniform opened the hotel door for them, and they went inside.
“Night, college boy,” O’Doul said without a glance over his shoulder. Then he broke away, heading for the bar.
Leo almost followed him, because O’Doul made him curious. The dude was not easy to read. But he didn’t feel like a trip to the bar. His ribs ached, and he was too tired to drink. So he headed to the elevator instead, where he texted Georgia. Hi, honey, I’m home. It sure would be good to see her face.