Page 2 of Played
“Morgan was great, but this new guy, Mont Hannah, he’s good. You’re just biased. The Pirates did well in preseason,” Cam says.
But Jared snorts, jerking his gloves off and tucking them in his pocket. “So what if I am biased? Harry Morgan is one of the greatest goalies in the game. Or was. I still can’t believe he retired. And I don’t care what you say, the team’s play shows it. The cohesiveness is off. You can always tell when the locker room isn’t great by how they are on the ice.”
“Look at it this way, Lieutenant,” I say, setting my helmet on my head again and removing my own gloves. “Maybe this will light a fire under them for the season.” When he turns and mugs me, I wrinkle my nose. “Too soon, isn’t it?”
“Get in the fucking truck, Wright.”
“Yep, definitely too soon.” I snicker and climb into the engine.
Behind me, Cam coughs, but yeah, he’s not fooling anyone. Including Jared. He opens the door and climbs into the front passenger seat. Jared follows behind me, and Michael, the last member of our crew, takes his place behind the wheel.
My eyes close, and a sigh eases out of me. A deep sense of satisfaction over another successful call settles in my chest, my gut. Yes, there was property damage, but no one died. Not in the fire and not one of us. I call that a win. Things can be replaced, buildings renovated. But neither can be done to people.
Opening my eyes, I take in Providence as it whizzes past outside the window.
I was born and bred in this city, and it has my heart. It’s where my family lives, where I found my place and purpose. Yes, we have our issues, as any city does. As this country does. But I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
Except maybe Middle Earth. Or Westeros.
But since I only have a 3 percent chance of ever living there, Rhode Island will do.
Minutes later, we pull up to our firehouse, a somewhat unassuming medium-size brick building that looks more like a church without the stained glass than a station. Built in the mid-nineteenth century, it’s been my home away from home, and I wouldn’t want to be assigned anywhere else.
Especially since, for the last thirty years, at least one member of my family has been a firefighter here. At the moment, there are three of us: me, my dad—the shift captain—and my oldest brother, Malcolm. Thankfully, my second-oldest brother, Malik, is assigned to another station across town. Believe me, it’s both a blessing and a curse, working with family.
A blessing because I recognize the privilege it brings me, as far as being cushioned from the unease and harassment women can face when first being assigned to a house. Men being afraid they’ll have to curb their language or that we won’t pull our weight. Or men seeing us astargets for sexual advances. With my father and brother here, I’ve been insulated, protected from that behavior.
Well ... for the most part.
Not going there today.
But it’s still a curse because that protection can go overboard when they slip and see me more as their daughter and sister rather than a fully trained and competent firefighter.
Our engine rolls into the bay, and as soon as it’s parked, we jump out. Peeling off the turnout gear is like shedding a heavy skin. Then we go through our normal routine. Check equipment, do inventory, replace and reload supplies for the next call. Afterward, I shower and dress in my station wear—black uniform pants and a long-sleeved black shirt with the Providence Fire Department emblem—and head toward the kitchen for some dinner. Terry, our rookie, is cooking, and he can burn his ass off. So yay!
Hours later, after Cam has us outside doing hose carries and rolls and after another shower, I finally sink to my bunk, the leather-bound book in my hands. Like back in the training facility, I stare down at it, flipping it from front to back. Why am I so drawn to it? Hell, right now, I really am feeling like fucking Gollum with the One Ring.
As I shake my head, a puff of laughter escapes me. This holds someone’s personal, most private thoughts. Yet I trace the Celtic tree of life emblem on the front, then toy with the leather string wrapped around it. The longer I hold it, touch it, the stronger the curiosity stirs inside me.
It’s wrong to pry. Wrong to even consider opening the cover and ...
Dammit.
Even as the ...ickinesswrithes inside me like a pissed-off nest of snakes, I loosen the strap and slowly open the journal. There’s no name on the inside flap or on the first page where it’s typedThis journal belongs to ...with a line for the identification of the owner. Conversely, that makes me feel an iota better about violating this faceless and nameless person’s privacy.
Or I’m just trying to justify what I’m about to do.
What I can’t seem to stop myself from doing.
Slowly, as if I’m opening a box of precious treasure, I flip to the first page.
August 2
Dear Kendra,
Goddamn, I feel so stupid even writing that. You know I don’t do this shit. The most I’ve ever written was a grocery list the one and only time you let me go shopping by myself. And we both remember how that turned out. A $500 bill and a shit ton of beer and beef jerky. But here I am, writing in a journal of all things. The therapist your father insisted I go see gave me this as homework. And if I want to keep seeing the ice, I have to cooperate. Apparently, I have an anger problem that’s not getting any better. Your father better be glad he’s not just my in-law but the owner of my team or else I’d tell him and the therapists to go fuck themselves. Yeah, sorry. I know that’s your dad.
Well, since I have to do this and you’re the only person I want to talk to, I’m writing this shit to you. Besides, as crazy as it sounds, I swear I can hear you in my head. And I feel closer to you. Like you’re here right next to me. I said it sounded crazy, right?
