Page 17 of Drop the Mitts

Luc laughed. “A Picasso, maybe.”

André gave him a cheesy grin, then took another bite. “You go to therapy today?”

Luc’s eyes dropped. “I slept in. Had a bad headache.”

There was nothing he could say to that. All of the therapies he’d encouraged Luc to sign up for were experimental. They didn’t have enough data to prove that they worked, and both of them knew it. He couldn’t blame him for being unmotivated.

“How’s work?” André asked.

Another shrug. “I missed a few days last week. I should go in tomorrow, but now I think they’re mad?—”

“They’re not mad.” He didn’t know if that was fully true, but he did know they wouldn’t fire him. Legally, they had to work with him because of his disability status.

André stabbed his chicken hard enough to scratch the plate. It had been years, but the anger still lived in him, simmeringunder the surface. One bad hit. That’s all it took. One blindside, one reckless charge into the boards when Luc was playing Juniors, and just like that, his career was gone.

Worse than that? So was a part of him. The migraines never stopped. Neither did the memory problems or depression.

André hated it. Hated how unfair it was. Hated how Luc, his big brother and hero, had been robbed of everything he’d worked for.

But he’d become an expert at hiding that over the years. Tonight was no different. André smirked, pushing away the heaviness in his chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft. You’re not scared of a boss, are you?”

Luc snorted. “I’m not scared of my boss.”

André grinned. “Then get your ass to work in the morning.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

André filled his fork with roasted veggies. “Mom and Dad come by this week?”

Luc nodded. “Mom did. Dad was on a work trip.”

André had to work hard not to scoff. It was always a work trip. At some point, he’d have to get more creative with his excuses. “Did she look good?”

“She brought me cookies.”

“You little bastard, you didn’t send me any?”

Luc laughed, dragging a hand through his curls. They bantered back and forth for a few minutes more, and when Luc ended the call, André sat in silence, staring at his empty plate. He hated that he couldn’t do more. That he couldn’t fix this.

He was running a charity game and doing all he could to raise money for Heads Up Alberta, but that seemed like it was too little too late.

André took his plate into the kitchen, that old guilt niggling at him. He should be there. He should bring Luc here, let him stay in the guest room. He’d chased both of those argumentsround and round like a dog chasing his tail, forgetting every time why neither option would work.

He turned on the faucet, and the water ran warm over his hands. He rinsed and scrubbed the sheet pan, then moved on to the other dishes. He worked until the only evidence of his dinner was neatly stacked in the drying rack. He liked clean counters, an empty sink, and everything in its place. It made his head feel less cluttered—or at least, that was the theory.

He wiped down the stove, slung the dish towel over the oven handle, and stretched, rolling his shoulders. The game left his body aching in the best way. Not sore, not tired—just deep, bone-level satisfaction.

He stalked into his room and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into the laundry hamper in the closet. His socks and jeans followed, leaving him in just his boxers as he brushed his teeth. He then dropped onto the edge of the bed, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

The screen's glow lit up the room, the only illumination now that the kitchen lights were off, the city outside muted behind closed curtains. He scrolled out of habit, then flipped over to his calendar, thumb hovering over the screen.

Sunday supper at the Thompsons. Monday, ten a.m. training session. Optional, not a full team practice, but one he planned to attend. Tuesday, poker night at Country’s. Then Wednesday he had a meeting with Heads Up Alberta to hammer out a few logistics.

He stared at the calendar entry, the wheels in his head spinning. They didn’t need a lawyer present, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe Grace didn’t want to be involved in the entire process, but would she consider coming along as a consultant? A one-time advisory favour?

André exhaled, flipping his phone over in his hand. He swiped to his messages and pulled up Jenna’s number. Couldn’t hurt to ask.

Chapter

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