“Graves dislocated his shoulder,” he announces. “We’re going to the hospital for some X-rays. Are you good here?”
I nod way too enthusiastically considering the circumstances, but I can’t help it. “Yup. The bleeding has stopped. I don’t think we’ll need stitches or anything.”
“Good.”
Russ’s attention shifts from me to Theo and back again. Like he’s reading the room. Like he’s been a fly on the wall all along, and it causes the hair along the back of my neck to stand on end.
Are we that obvious?
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word, disappearing toward the exit.
With my anxiety caught in my throat, I open my mouth to call off our plans, but Theo cuts me off. “I’ll pick you up at eight on Friday. As friends like you said. Besides, it’ll save space for parking, and you can lessen your carbon footprint. You’re welcome.”
“Won’t it still save car space and lessen my carbon footprint if I carpool with one of my friends?” I point out. “I could always catch a ride with Ash or something.”
“You could, but you won’t. I’m picking you up.” He gives me a look daring me to argue, but I keep my lips pulled tight as the rest of the team shuffles into the locker room down the hall.
The game must be over.
Taking the ice pack from the bench, Theo mutters, “Good girl.”
Then, he stands up and walks away.
24
THEO
Me: Hey. We still on for tonight?
I send the text and stare at my phone, anxious for Blake’s reply as I stand on my brother’s front porch. The message says it’s been read, but the little blue dots don’t appear. Which means she isn’t answering me.
“Come on, Blake,” I mumble under my breath as I stare at the screen.
When two minutes go by without a response, I let out an annoyed sigh, tuck my phone back into my pocket, and knock on the heavy oak door in front of me.
The hinges are smooth as butter as Macklin opens the front door to his new place. It’s a cabin in the woods. There aren’t any neighbors for at least a couple miles, and even those are recluses. Pretty sure it was the main selling point for Mack.
“You look like shit,” he greets me.
I tug the bill of my hat a little lower and step inside his new place without waiting for an invitation. “Says the hermit. How’s the drive to the hospital from here?”
“Not bad. Thirty minutes, give or take.”
Mack became a paramedic after high school. He was always the one with the brains and had enough empathy to be a perfect fit in the medical field. Unfortunately, having a baby at sixteen can mess with long-term plans, including going to medical school. At least the bastard had the insight to buy some lottery tickets. It only paid out ten million, which, by lottery standards is pretty low, but he isn’t one to complain. Not even when his ex, Summer, took her half and ran for the hills as soon as the money hit their bank account.
Tucking my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, I look around the newly-finished cabin. Mack built it with his own two hands while living with our parents after the divorce. It has three bedrooms, large glass windows along the walls, a massive fireplace, two bathrooms, and a kitchen with granite countertops and dark green cabinets. Most people would kill to live here, and Mack threw it together in his spare time when he wasn’t in the back of an ambulance saving lives. All right, that’s not entirely true. I know he paid to have a contractor do a few things, but overall, this place was his baby, and it turned out great.
“Looks nice,” I add. “I haven’t been here since the foundation was poured. You should’ve let me and the guys come help.”
“It was good to be distracted.”
I turn around and face him again. “And now that it’s finished?”
With a shrug, he walks past me and into the family room. There’s an L-shaped leather couch pushed up against one wall. It separates the kitchen from the massive fireplace on the opposite side of the large space. Mack collapses onto it and props his feet up on a dark, mahogany coffee table in the center of the room. A stack of logs sits next to the unlit fireplace, which I’m sure will be roaring as soon as the first snowstorm hits. Blue and gray stone make up the hearth which covers half the wall, and a huge TV hangs above the mantle. I lift my chin toward the stonework. “Did you put it in yourself?”
“It was a good distraction,” he repeats. Not with pride, but with a sad humility. Apparently, Mom wasn’t completely off-base sending me out here to check on him.
I clear my throat and look around the space again, unsure what to say. “It turned out good.”
“Thanks. So.” He scratches his jaw, then lets out a sigh. “Mom sent you?”
“She’s worried about you.”
“Why?”
I shrug and sit down beside him on the opposite side of the couch. “Probably ‘cause you’re shit at talking.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“I dunno? What’s new?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
I scoff. “You gotta at least give me something. How’re Hazel and Miley? Have you heard from them lately?”
“No. Summer keeps filling their heads with a bunch of shit since the divorce. They still don’t want to talk to me.”
Bitch, I think to myself, but I bite my tongue.
“And it’s not like I can force it,” he adds. “They’re in high school now. They can make their own decisions.”
He’s got a point, but it doesn’t make the situation any easier.
“That sucks,” I mutter, thumbing the edge of my cell.
“I text them every week,” he continues. “Ask about their day. If anything’s new. Sometimes I send memes or funny TikToks I think they’d like. Usually, they don’t reply, but every once in a while, I get a response.”
“That’s something at least,” I offer.
“Yeah, I guess.”
What it is, is depressing, but it’s not like I have my shit together, either, so I’m not exactly one to talk. Actually, I’m not usually one to talk––period––and Mack’s the same way, which makes this conversation about as easy as having a root canal.
Mom owes me big-time for this.
I set my cell on the coffee table, giving up on the idea of receiving a response from Blake and rub my hands against my jeans.
“How’s hockey going?” he asks. “I was at the arena the other day when you played the Razors. Work had me on standby in case there were any major injuries during the game.”
“If you were at the Razors’ game, then you saw us play like shit,” I point out.
“Come on, you weren’t that bad.”
I quirk my brow, daring him to lie again.
Hiding his grin behind his hand, he clears his throat, and concedes, “All right. Has the rest of the season at least been better?”
I motion to the damage on my nose. “I got a stick to the face and was thrown from our last game.”
“So that’s why you look like shit.” He laughs and lifts his chin. “Bet you got a few good punches in though.”