Page 83 of One Night with Number Nineteen

A long, hot shower has me feeling somewhat human, but I know I’m going to crash hard tonight. Thankfully, the only team event today is dinner. After the extended game last night, Coach gave us the day off from practice.

I still need to hit the gym though.

My neck is flaring up again and I need to do the shit my physical therapist and the team’s training staff prescribed, need to stretch and properly recover from last night. We have a lot of season to go and I need to stay in fighting shape for the months ahead, and eventually, the playoffs.

We have a legit chance at the Cup this year, and I need to make sure I’m pulling my weight.

So, I don’t crawl back into bed, even though I really want to.

Instead, I go downstairs and hit the gym.

It’s not empty, Ryan and Rip are on the bikes, and Leo is at the free weights.

I grab a foam roller and a lacrosse ball from the basket of supplies the equipment guys provide and spend a ridiculous amount of time trying to ease the tension from my muscles.

But the moment I loosen one tight spot, another crops up.

Something my teammates notice.

“Lainey isn’t here to massage you, huh?”

I turn my head and glare over at Rip. “You think you’re funny, Rookie. But you’re not.”

“Yup,” he says. “I’m hilarious. And you’re old, Cupcake.”

Not even thirty yet, and the kid who can’t legally drink thinks I’m old.

Christ.

“Maybe I am old,” I agree. “And maybe I can go up to the bar and order a beer.” I smirk at him. “Can you say the same?”

He scowls. “So fucking dumb. I can go home and drink, but here…”

“Shit outta luck,” Ryan supplies, grinning at me. “Poor little baby.”

“Asshole,” Rip mutters.

Ryan just reaches over and turns up the resistance on Rip’s bike in retaliation.

Which has Rip retaliating back.

And then the two of them are in a pissing contest for speed and distance and resistance.

I shake my head at them, but don’t get in the middle of it—hockey players are going to hockey player—and honestly, it’s nice to see Ryan let loose a little.

The man’s life and emotions have been so carefully controlled they make me and my shit look easy-breezy.

“You look like hell,” Leo says quietly.

I sigh and keep stretching. “Same old. Same old.”

His eyes come to mine. “You need help handling it?”

Handling the shitshow that’s my mom?

Absolutely fucking not.

“Naw,” I say. “I’m good.”