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My body sags against the sink and Rachel grabs me, holding me up and wrapping me in a hug. “I’ve got you, Franny.”
“When he went down…” my breath catches in my throat and my voice cracks on the words, “I was more scared than I’ve ever been.”
“He’s okay,” Rachel says again, reassuring me. “He’s going to be okay.”
But I’m not.
I realized tonight that I could lose him in more ways than one, and I don’t want even more time to pass between us withouthim knowing how I feel. Or how I’m starting to feel. Or maybe have felt all along.
The game ends and Rachel and Malina head out, leaving me in the silence of my apartment. Stevie is curled up in my lap, her head resting on my chest, those deep brown eyes of hers staring into mine. Burying my hand in her fur I kiss the top of her head. “He’s going to be fine, girl. He’s going to be just fine.”
His post game comments play on a loop locally, and on national broadcasts, and I can’t pull myself away.
“We’ve seen an uptick of hits like that across the league this season,” he speaks slowly, his words measured. Cautious. “Being on the receiving end of it isn’t a great experience. It’s hard to feel safe on the ice, even with all the pads and protection, but the refs are doing their best, and I’d like to think the league is as well to make sure that we’re safe. This was a reminder that there’s always room for improvement when it comes to player safety.”
“How are you feeling about being sent to the IR?” Another reporter asks.
“When you’re knocked out the way I was, injured reserve is a smart move. Hits like that could have lasting effects that we don’t see right away and I’d rather be safe than sorry. It means I miss the rest of the road games, but I’ll be back in action when we get home.”
“You should be proud of him, Stevie,” I rub the dog’s ears and she shifts, rolling onto her back so I can pet her belly, “it takes courage to speak out against the league like that.”
He’s not wrong. Player safety, at every level of this game, should always be top priority, and tonight it was clear that it’s not.
CHAPTER 8
REUNITED
STEFAN
I should have just gone home.
The team offered to send me home, and I turned them down, opting to stay and workout with the team during morning practices. I’m taking it slow on the ice, working with the trainers and getting my sea legs back as it were. Alex is razzing me from the other end of the ice, trying to goad me into a sprint, but I won’t give in. Mostly because the trainer is watching me. If she were anywhere else I’d rise to Alex’s challenge.
“Good morning, Stefan,” Gabriel skates past me, fully decked out in his goaltending gear, “have you called Francine yet?”
“No Gabriel, I haven’t called Francine.” Every morning since my on-ice injury a week ago Gabriel has bugged me about calling Francine. She texts me with updates on Stevie nearly everyday, so I haven’t yet seen a reason to call her.
“Stefan, do you think she isn’t worried about you? You need to call her. Let her hear the sound of your voice.”
“Don’t you have a net to mind?”
“I’m just saying…” Gabriel skates away from me, turning around and skating backward toward the goal as he shouts, “Alexander and I both think you should call her.”
“Don’t bring me into this!” Alex shoots me a pass from the centerline, a grin on his face as he does. “But yes, we do.”
“She said she doesn’t want a relationship with me,” I close the distance between me and Alex, keeping my voice low. “We’re not exactly in a ‘update you on my wellbeing’ kind of relationship.”
“You told me she said that youcan’thave a relationship,” Alex points out, “that’s very different from her not wanting a relationship.”
“We’re going to be home in two days. We have a game to play, and then I’m picking up Stevie. We’ll see each other then.”
“Suit yourself.”
My first game back at The Ren is an afternoon matinee, after having just returned home Friday night. I haven’t had a chance to see Francine yet. Warmups don’t afford me much more than a wave of my hand in the direction of the box before we skate off and get ready for the lineup to be announced, and it is torturous to sit across the ice from her, on our bench, knowing that she’s just meters away from me. The blaze of her hair under the lights keeps my attention in a way that I know it shouldn’t; I should be watching the action on the ice, following the puck so I know what we’re up against when my line goes out for our shift.
On the ice, the action is too fast. I never slow down. Near the goal, our defenders get wrapped up trying to assist Gabriel in front of the goal as a skater bears down on me. Without thinking, I reach out with my stick and catch him on the skate. If I’m going to serve a penalty, it’s not going to be for something as dumb as tripping, but here we are.
“Detroit, number fourteen,” the ref skates to center ice and announces my penalty, “two minutes for tripping.”
