Page 99 of Scoring Zone
“That was for context. Here’s the short clip getting attention.” He pulls out his phone to cue up a video showing Rhys Brant surrounded by paparazzi, trying to enter his building.
He tells them he’ll answer one question, and the pap asks if he’s my Sunshine. Brant’s face gets serious, and he says with honest innocence, “I don’t know.” He’s silent for a beat, then says, “But wouldn’t that be cool as fuck? I’d be so honored to be his Sunshine or Ward’s or King’s. If any of you are looking for a man…” He puts his hand up to his ear like he’s holding a phone and whispersCall mewhile staring straight at the camera. He shoots finger guns and turns around. Over his shoulder, he says, “Have a good night,” then disappears into his building.
I blink several times after the video stops. “He’s eating that shit up.” I chuckle. “What’s the fallout from that video?”
Without pausing, King chimes in. “For real, I called him, and we’re together now.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
G Call me waves his hand. “He’s kidding. You’re kidding, right?”
King stands and shrugs. “Real ones move in silence.” He strides to the door. “I got your back.”
“He’s messing with us?” I say as a question.
“I think so.” Sunshine bites his lip.
“We’re totally showing these memes to our future kids.” I pounce on him.
“We are not showing our kids memes about fucking other people.” His mouth twists with indignation.
“Fine.” I use other methods to put a smile on his face.
Chapter 42
Grayson
By the time the horn blows, signaling the game’s end in Boston, my team is defeated literally and emotionally.
The Enforcers’ playoff run has ended, and I’m nervous about Austin’s reaction. He hasn’t taken his restrictions well, and I’m grateful I’m not allowed to treat him. I love him, but he’s a terrible patient. Luckily, I don’t have to argue with him about protocols. Officially not my job. I assumed that I’d always be on Austin’s side for treatment, but brain injuries are tricky. Most of the time, you don’t know if something is too much until it’s too late.
He has pushed himself too far a few times, and it’s slowed his recovery down. His solution for forgiveness is to leave me massive amounts of sticky notes. I woke up with one on my forehead that said “Mine.” Did it melt me like a holiday candle? Yes. Did I still lecture him? Also, yes. But I was naked so it probably wasn’t effective.
With the playoffs and celebrities behaving badly, our memes are old news. I saved them on our phones in case we need a good laugh. Austin has never been afraid to make fun of himself, so I worried needlessly.
The Boston series has been a mindfuck, to say the least. Their top defender, Theo O’Keefe, couldn’t play for shit. He’s King’s stepbrother and usually plays like King and the rest of the team have insulted his entire lineage. O’Keefe didn’t get into one fight or try to get away with any shady plays.
In Boston, all the players exit and enter the ice from the same tunnel but turn opposite ways at the end.
I’ve treated all the minor injuries, and the guys won’t come for my help to stretch out until after they shower. Austin and Kenney are coming down from Ari Dimon’s suite, and I’m waiting for them by the elevator in the tunnel nearest to Boston’s side. Part of me wants to give Austin a big hug, and the other part wants to assess him. I wouldn’t have let him come if I was in charge of his treatment.
He doesn’t need this stress combined with guilt, noise, and bright lights. If I had my way, I’d strap him to the bed and not let him up until he was fully recovered. Probably overcautious.
Down at the end of the tunnel, King’s still on the ice, talking to his parents in the stands.
He’s handling coming out with grace and determination. Because of all the outrageous rumors, he’s having fun with innocent yet suggestive comments with Brant and me. Austin’s head hurts when he tries to read his phone, so he hasn’t joined in on the jokes yet.
King makes his way down the tunnel, and when he gets close enough, I offer my comfort. “Tough game. You looked good out there.”
He scoffs, but he had a goal and an assist. Our trouble was that without Kenney, our defense fell apart.
“Hey, Jamal, do you have a minute?” O’Keefe steps out of a doorway, still in his uniform but missing his stick.
“Not the time to gloat,” King bites out.
“No, it’s not that.” O’Keefe’s face is pink, and King jerks with surprise. “Can we talk for a minute?” His eyes cut to mine. “Privately?” They are opposites in looks. King has dark skin and black braided hair, and O’Keefe could give a ghost a run for his money, except he has green eyes. Eyes that are so intent on King, he makes me nervous.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, but we can talk right there.” King points to a spot a few feet away. I give an up-nod to confirm I’m here if he needs me. Hopefully, O’Keefe isn’t dumb enough to start a fight with me as a witness.
