Page 86 of Scoring Position

But it would be nice to have someone he could talk to. And right now he wanted his mom.

“I’ll get her,” his dad said quietly, and Nico sagged a little in relief.

“Thank you.”

DINNER ATKitty’s, Yorkie texted Ryan the day after their first game without him.You’re cooking.

Ryan blinked gritty eyes and regretted falling asleep on the couch. And the amount of alcohol he’d polished off after last night’s loss. And several other life choices.

For example, his nose, extra sensitive thanks to the aforementioned alcohol, was loudly informing his stomach that his brain had forgotten to take out the garbage and now the house stank.

Maybe dinner at Kitty’s was a good idea. He could take out the garbage before he left to get groceries, and by the time he got home tonight he might be able to breathe through his nose without gagging.

How many plates?he wrote back.

Just 3. Picking Kitty up from hospital @ 4. I’ll text u his security code.

Then he peeled himself off the couch. He might be pissed off at the world in general and Nico in particular, but that didn’t give him the right to treat Nico’s house like a dump. He needed to clean up.

He let himself into Kitty’s house just before four. Pounding out the chicken breasts provided a kind of therapy, and he guessed the breading process could double as meditation. By the time he got down to the pan-frying part, the front door was opening.

A low voice called out from the entryway, followed by an audible translation from Yorkie. “Honey, we’re home,” laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Ryan snorted. “Good. You can set the table.”

Kitty and Yorkie entered a moment later, and it was immediately obvious that Kitty would be no use setting the table, because his right hand was in a bulky cast and he was stoned out of his mind.

“On second thought, maybe you better sit down,” Ryan said. “Hi, Kitty. How’s the hand?”

Kitty sat, almost overbalanced, then righted himself. He muttered something in Russian, then rallied and said, “Hurts. Feel very stupid. I get Kolya traded because block shot duringpractice.”

Ryan bit his tongue so he wouldn’t spit out that only idiotic coaches encouraged slap shots during practice scrimmages. Practicing slap shots was a solo activity for exactly this reason.

Yorkie patted him on the shoulder and made himself useful locating dishes as Ryan slid the chicken breasts into the oven. “Dinner in half an hour.”

“Smells good.” Nose in the air, Yorkie sniffed appreciatively. “Chicken parm?”

What could Ryan say? He was in the mood for comfort food. “Yeah. Nico doesn’t like it, so….”

“So you don’t make?” Kitty filled in. He gave Ryan an assessing look, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the fact that he kept listing to one side. “Maybe you’re better boyfriend than I think.”

Ryan grimaced. “I really wasn’t.”

Kitty cursed—English this time—attempted to bury his face in his hands, cursed again in Russian because that probably hurt. “Yorkie, you give us a few minutes, yes? Me and Doc will have conversation.”

Oh God.

Yorkie looked at Ryan. “Yeah, you’re on your own with this one. I’m going to go turn on the TV. Loudly.”

Fantastic.

The kitchen door closed behind him, and Kitty laid both hands on the table and spitted Ryan with a flat look. Then he said, “Why you not come to me?”

Ryan opened his mouth. “Pardon?”

Kitty waved his good hand. “I tell youmonthsago, when you need to talk, you come to me, but you never do. Now Yorkie say whole thing big mess.” He threw in some Russian for emphasis, which worked despite the fact that Ryan understood not a word of it. “Stupid,” he concluded, frowning severely.

“I thought you just wanted to scare me off!” Ryan protested.

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