Page 100 of My Merry Mistake
“We know he’s in real estate,” Poppy says. “What else?”
“He runs,” I say. “He’s doing the Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning before he comes to dinner. He’s an only child. Never been married. His parents live in . . . Naperville, I think? No, Barrington? Work is really important to him, so we have that in common.”
Poppy looks away.
“We both believe in direct communication, so we’ve laid out clear expectations,” I say.
“Wow. Sounds swoony.” Eloise’s tone drips sarcasm.
“I don’t need or want swoony,” I say. “Sensible suits me just fine.”
Eloise does a robot motion with her arms, a blank look on her face, but I ignore her.
I take another cracker and load it up, wishing I could convince my sisters that this really is the best thing for me.
There’s a collective “Ooh!” from the crowd, a huge reaction from the announcers, followed by a series of loud whistles on the television that draws our attention back to the game.
“And Holbrook is down! Ahugehit on a wind-up by Pendleton!” one of the announcers shouts.
The cameras cut and swing around to Finn, sprawled out on the ice.
“Oh my gosh,” the words escape before I can stop them. The crowd is going crazy. “Why are they still cheering?!”
“It’s an away game,” I hear Poppy say, but my eyes are glued to the screen.
“Holbrook just got absolutely destroyed, and it looks like—yeah, on the replay—it looks like he saved Hawke from a hit of his own,” the play-by-play announcer says.
They switch to a zoomed-in shot, and on the replay, there’s a player from the other team who lowers his shoulder to hit Gray, but at the last second Finn skates in from the left and blocks the hit.
“And now that hit has drawn a crowd—a scrum with several of the Comets. It looks like the gloves are off. Stevens and Pendleton are locked up, with—OH!” Both the announcers react to Jericho, who rears back and levels the guy who hit Finn. “Jericho Stevens lands a shot, sending Pendleton to the ice! Other players are starting to jump in?—”
“—Yeah, I wouldn’t want to mess with Stevens, he’s got forty pounds and five inches on Pendleton?—”
“—And Finn Holbrook is still down—either knocked the wind out of him or knocked him clean out—but he is not getting up.”
My eyes are glued to the screen.
The referees manage to separate the players, pulling them away from one another and sending them off, but Finn is still down.
They replay the moment of impact in slow motion, and I see the guy lower his shoulder, launch a bit off the ice as Finn takes the brunt of the hit on his chest—but he’s sent flying backward, out of control, and lands in an awkward position.
I gasp as I watch Finn land on his back, his head snapping back and bouncing off the ice.
“Oh no.” Eloise stands. “That looked bad.”
“The trainers are out on the ice, tending to Holbrook, who still hasn’t moved—we’ll be right back.”
It cuts to commercial.
I’m holding my breath. I didn’t know I was doing that.
I look over at my sisters, who wear the same expression I feel on my own face.
After about a minute, the game pops back on. The trainers have Finn upright and help him to his feet. He looks dazed, but he’s up. There’s lackluster applause in the stadium from the opposing fans, peppered with boos and whistles, and I realize I’m standing, eyes glued to the screen.
“That’ll most likely be the last we see of Finn Holbrook today, I’m afraid,” one announcer says. “Let’s hope the Comets can get by without him.”
I know I’m not supposed to care, but there’s no hiding the shock of watching someone you know get hurt on such a public stage.
