Page 38 of Hard Hitter
O’Doul reached for Ari’s hand and rubbed her palm. “When can she fix the lock again?” O’Doul asked. “It isn’t safe to leave that open. Someone could take advantage.”
“We’ll call you when we’re finished with our investigation,” the detective said, standing up. “Shouldn’t be more than a few days.”
“Like, maybe tomorrow?” O’Doul pressed. He didn’t mind being an asshole on Ari’s behalf.
“Maybe.” The guy was noncommittal.
“Uh-huh. And how does she get a restraining order against him?”
The detective offered a business card to him. “That’s not my specialty, but call my office line and ask my assistant to e-mail you the forms. She’ll need to go to the courthouse on Jay Street.”
Ari was the one to stand up and take the card from his hand. “Thank you. I’ll do that today.”
When the detective was finally ready to leave, O’Doul walked him out the door. The second the door shut, he turned to face Ari. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” But her expression was closed off, like a door slammed shut. “You’d better report to the trainers’ office. They must wonder where the hell you are.”
She wasn’t wrong. But still. “Did Becca e-mail you some lawyers?”
“I’m sure she did.” Ari hugged herself. “Thank you for chatting up the cop. I know you were trying to help, but”—she traced a pattern on the wood floor with her bare toe—“I can take it from here.”
“Okay,” he said, because what was his choice? He took two steps and put his hands on her shoulders. “Be well.” He kissed her forehead. But, fuck. That wasn’t good enough. He wrapped his arms around her, wanting to feel her soft body against his one more time. She was kind of addictive.
She gave him a quick hug in return, but then pulled back. And he had no choice but to release her, fetch his stuff from upstairs and go.
So he did. But he knew he’d be thinking about her the rest of the day. No—the week. Whether she liked it or not.
***
After a quick stop at home, O’Doul headed over to the practice facility. The doctor did another concussion examination,thankfully clearing him to play. He didn’t even have to argue.
That done, he hit the weight room for an hour or so.
But on his way out that afternoon, Coach Worthington and the GM—Hugh Major—stopped him in the hallway. “Got a second?” Coach asked.
As if he could say no. He followed Coach into his office like a well-behaved player would. “Is there a problem?”
Coach shook his head. “Just wondering what you think of something.”
“Shoot.”
“How do you like the idea of Crikey fighting tomorrow night?”
O’Doul’s chin snapped upwards. “Why?”
“To take some of the pressure off you,” Coach said immediately. “Give your strain a little extra cushion.”
“I can handle it,” he said, sounding defensive as hell. But he didn’t want anyone easing off his duties. When the team started taking it easy on you, it was the beginning of the end. He was thirty-two, not thirty-eight.
“The kid wants to fight, though,” Hugh said, speaking up. “This guy Falzgar used to beat the crap out of him in juniors.”
“So we’re just gonna let him work out his vendetta in the middle of the game? That is not a strategy. And Falzgar is a leftie. Has Crikey fought a leftie?”
Frowning, the two people in charge of O’Doul’s life exchanged a loaded glance.
Fuck.
“We need you healthy,” Coach said. “You can take tomorrow’s fight. But only if you are a hundred percent sure you’re up to it.”
