Page 99 of Stick With Me
He once again makes himself at home in our living room and puts on the Saints’ game.
“Did Lo ever give you that book?” he asks.
He sent a book home with Ryan after practice last week. We’ve bonded over our shared love of reading, but while I prefer a good psychological thriller, Dom ironically likes romance. “Yeah, I see why you like it. It’s practically porn.”
“Nah, I’m in it for the romance… Carly and Drew, swoon.”
His deadpan face makes me clutch my stomach as I dissolve into laughter. “You’re an anomaly, Dominic Fox.”
I flinch as he slaps his hands down on his thighs, drawing my attention back to the television. “Fuck, that was a sloppy pass,” Dom mutters.
It’s true, they’re looking just as off their game as they did the other night. The second period has just started, and by the looks of it, they’re going to add another loss to their record playing against Colorado. “Yeah, this is kinda painful to watch.”
When the buzzer sounds at the end of the second period, the Saints are down by two. When the new line comes out at the start of the third, I’m surprised to see Ryan playing on Jace’s wing. I guess in their desperation to turn this game around, they’re switching up the lines.
“Oh boy, I’m sure Lo loves this,” Dominic says, voicing my thoughts. “What was Coach even thinking? This is a recipe for disaster.”
I nod, then scoot to the edge of the couch, my feet bouncing restlessly, watching as Ryan, Jace, and Helm, the other winger, attempt to break into the offensive zone.
Like all the other bad luck that’s followed Ryan since I moved here, it’s hard not to feel like this is somehow my fault. I’m the reason Jace even came to Chicago, why Ryan’s contract might not get extended, and now they’re changing his normal center forward position to a right winger? And on Jace’s wing of all people. Just when I think the dominoes are done falling, another one is knocked down.
They get through their first shift together without issue, but it’s clear it’s not a great match. “Think they’ll change the lines back?” I ask.
“Fuck, I hope so. It’s clear there’s no chemistry there.”
“I need a glass of wine. Want anything?”
I don’t bother waiting for his response and only catch his “No thanks” as I twist off the cap of pinot grigio, too worked up to deal with opening one of the nicer bottles.
“Fuck!” Dom’s shout startles me as I’m putting the wine back in the fridge. I quicken my steps, assuming Colorado must have scored again, but when I glance at the huge flat screen, the play is paused, and Ryan is down on his knees, head resting on the ice, cradling his elbow as if trying to hold his arm in place. I can’t make out his number or see his face, but I know it’s him.
“What happened?” My voice is shaky even to my own ears.
“They collided center ice. Didn’t see each other coming. Both went down, but Ryan’s not getting up.”
“Who did he run into?”
“Knolls.”
Because of course he did. I know Dom is watching me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Ryan on the ice.
“What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he getting up?”
“Don’t know. I’m sure he’s fine. Come sit down.” Dom pats the cushion next to him.
I sink into the couch, but my gaze is still fixed on the screen, willing Ryan to get up. Any second now. He’ll get up. “Can you rewind it? I want to see what happened,” I mutter.
Freddie’s wet nose nudges my hand, accompanied by a low whine. I run my fingers through his shaggy fur, trying to ground myself.
Dom eyes me skeptically. “I don’t think you need to see that. It probably looks worse than it actually is.”
He’s right. My thoughts are already racing faster than a NASCAR stock car.What’s wrong with him? Is it just his arm or is it something worse? Did he hit his head when he went down? Why isn’t he getting up?Seeing the hit would only make it worse.
But it’s that last question I can’t shake. I’ve seen him go down countless times over the years, but he’s always gotten back up.
I stand, place my untouched glass of wine on the coffee table, and pace in front of the television. “You’re right, it’s better to stick with the live feed so we don’t miss anything.”
There are two people in Saints polos kneeling by Ryan’s side, talking in his ear. “Are they doctors?” I ask, even though I already know they’re the team’s athletic trainers.
