Page 11 of Finders Keepers
Nate cocked an eyebrow and his stomach sank. Plattsmouth was twenty miles south of Omaha, and it was an hours’ drive round trip when all was said and done, even at four in the morning. An expensive ride, to say the least. “Dude, you’re not gonna get a ride to Plattsmouth at four a.m.”
“I’ll go to a hotel then. This bill is already going to be ridiculous. I can’t thtay.”
Nate took a breath. He’d never known what it was like to live without enough money to cover any expense, any need, any want. His dad had made enough to support two households and then some. He’d also paid for Nate’s prep-school education. As a rookie with signing and performance bonuses, Nate himself had earned in the lower echelon of six figures. Now he earned a shade over four million a year.
Nate didn’t know what being a schoolteacher paid, but money was clearly an issue for Wesley. Nate could pay for a hotel room for a few nights. In the grand scheme of things, five hundred bucks was pocket change.
Or you could just drive him home. What’s another hour of your life?
Nate took another breath. “Listen, you can stay at my place for a few days, if you want.”
Shit. Not what he meant to say.
Wesley shook his head, made a face. “Oh, God, I can’t athk that of you. You barely know me. I— Thankth, but— Really?”
Nate closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited for his gut to scream at him to take back his words. The offer didn’t freak him out, surprisingly.
“Look, don’t worry about it. I can afford a hotel for a few dayth. I can even get the front dethk to call me ev—”
Nate held up a hand, eyes still closed.
Nothing about having Wesley as a house guest set off his radar. If anything, leaving Wesley to deal with his condition on his own made Nate’s internal klaxon blare. It was likely the guy’s first concussion. Chances were good that there’d be no long-term damage, but if the doc thought he needed observation for a few days, it was still serious.
Thankfully, Nate had suffered few concussions in his career. He knew how to deal with those. He scratched the back of his head and nodded, opened his eyes. “Yeah, really.”
“I’m probably more trouble than I’m worth. I don’t know what to thay.”
He didn’t have to say anything. His face said it all. Despite the swelling, Nate could read the relief.
Shaking his head, Nate said, “You don’t need to say anything. Just sign the paperwork, and we’ll get the hell out of here.” He indicated the space outside the curtained-off area they were in. “I’ll be in the waiting room.”
Wesley nodded.
* * * * *
Nate wandered out, shook his head. What the hell had he done? He shouldn’t be taking Wesley home, but something about the man spoke to him. He’d felt it at the club too but had chalked it up to Ash—Wesley’sbedside manner and the experience as a whole.
Maybe there was more to it, maybe not, but in a day or two, he’d take Wesley home and that would be that. Nate had been left in the lurch one too many times by those who professed to love him. The people who managed hockey and hockey teams were just as fickle. But hockey—hockey loved him and he loved hockey. The game wouldn’t abandon him, but he couldn’t endanger his career by doing something so spectacularly stupid as fall down a relationship rabbit hole.
Nate went in search of the cashier. The older woman with tight gray curls and gold-rimmed glasses on the other side of the glass barely glanced at him when he said he wanted to make payment arrangements for Wesley Byerly. Just typed away on her keyboard.
Nate shouldn’t pay the hospital bill either, but he had money out the ass and could afford it. Wesley, clearly, could not.
The lady rattled off an amount well over two grand. “How would you like to pay for that, sir?” She finally looked at him...cocked her head and studied him.
He dug into his wallet and handed her his driver’s license and his credit card.
She peered at them both, blinked, and then looked at him again, eyes widening a bit.
Here it came.
“You’re not Wesley.”
Well, maybe not. “No, ma’am. Wesley’s a friend.”
“But...” She nodded. “Youarethe new goalie, right? I’m not imagining this?”
“I am and you’re not.” He should smile, make nice, but he was exhausted. It was almost five in the fucking morning. He quirked his lips instead.
