Page 85 of Scoring Zone
“Leo’s love bite? No. Are you listening to me or blocking me out until your man gets out of the shower?”
“Sorry, I zoned out.” Benzy is a great guy, but when he talks, he changes subjects abruptly. I swear he was talking about his knee. Finn also sent me a video file that’s burning a hole in my mind and phone. He never sends me things.
“I’m doing all the talking so you’re not sad, but it’s not working,” he says.
“Thanks for helping Ace. He needs you guys.” The phone rests on the arm of the leather recliner.
“I’m not doing this for Ace, I’m doing it for my friend.” He huffs, and after a beat, he says, “You, ya idiot, you’re my friend.”
“Oh, yeah.” I cringe at my response.
“Gray doesn’t know how much we love him,” Benz yells to the rest of the team. “But we can’t do hug therapy because he’s in a blizzard.”
“Listen, Finn sent me something urgent, so I’ll call back.” I hang up before Benz can argue and take a deep breath. Three days here feels like a lifetime. Austin warned me that staying with my parents wouldn’t be fun.
He didn’t have to worry because they left the day after I got here.
That day was enough of them to last me for the next couple of years. My mom acting like I’m a convicted criminal on the run and my dad trying to get me alone to tell him the real story was exhausting. But then my dear older brother needed help with his kids, and they got in the car and drove the hour to him without a backward glance. My brother is a lazy fuck-up and their favorite child. His wife is divorcing him, and he’s incapable of taking care of his kids on his own.
There’s bitterness under my relief that they left. They see him and the grandkids once a week, but they don’t visit me or even show support. It’s childishly ridiculous because I’d lose my shit if they were up my ass like they are with my brother.
Finn attaches a puzzling note to the email. “Don’t say I never gave you anything, my little muffin. FYI, the meatballs were told to say ‘no comment.’”
From the looks of the file, he’s strung together a bunch of media clips. The first is Liska, who responds to a question about my lawsuit. “Grayson vas instrumental in getting me back on the ice after my concussion.”
Lucky responds with his trademark cheeky smile. “I could’ve avoided a lot of pain and suffering if I had listened to Grayson. He’s our owl and bear wrapped up in one.”
My snort turns into a laughing fit. I’m sure that made sense in Lucky’s mind. I guess he means I’m wise and fierce or protective. His bear reference isn’t clear.
Benzy’s baby face appears, and I brace myself for whatever will come out of his mouth. “Grayson’s the man. He keeps us all in top shape. He’s the best part of our team.”
My eyes sting, and his words sink in.
King’s aqua eyes go wide when he’s asked about me. “Grayson’s the real deal. We won’t tolerate any trash talk about him.”
There’s video of most of the team giving me credit for helping them or hyping me up. It’s too much to take in all at once.
Maybe it’s the therapy session I had that kicks my insecurities in the teeth, but I’m overcome with gratitude and cursing myself for taking these men for granted.
I scroll through all the messages the team has sent me over the last month. Not addressing me in the group chat but sending me individual messages of support and encouragement.
My blood brother hasn’t texted, and my parents express all their worry and concern but no empathy. The team and Austin care more about me than my family.
I’m foolish for thinking they only spoke with me as Austin’s friend. They always include me, and my isolation is all in my head.
As if on cue, my phone rings.
“Hey, Sunshine,” Austin says.
“Hey. You did much better in the presser,” I say.
“I’ve mastered the ‘no comment’ response.” There’s a commotion, and he sounds muffled. “Hang on. I dropped the phone trying to put my shirt on.” I hear more movement, and he says, “I’m back. The phone’s on the bench where it should be stable, but you’re on speaker.”
“No kissy-face,” Benzy teases.
“Meanwhile, he was telling me about the marks Leo left on him,” I shout to ensure Benz hears me.
“Don’t we have doctor-patient confidentiality?” Benz pouts.
