Page 9 of Bleacher Report
I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My head spins, and I’m not even sure I slept so much as blacked out. I wipe the dried residue of drool from my chin. The taste of whiskey and regret still coats my tongue, a bitter reminder from last night.
Still clutching my phone, I shuffle out of my bedroom and out toward the kitchen, the light from the hallway an assault on my retinas. I yank open the freezer and grab the ice pack I keep there for bruises and hangovers alike, pressing it to my forehead as I lean against the counter, trying to gather my thoughts amidst the swirling chaos.
Another buzz.
Mom:Honey, you played well. Don’t let them get to you.
I type back with one thumb while keeping the ice pack balanced against my temple.
Hunter:Did you hear back from the doctor about the tests they ran? Do they think it’s coming back?
It’s been almost two months since she let it slip that her doctor wanted to run more labs. She brushed it off, but I’ve had a bad feeling about it ever since—one that gnaws at the edges of my mind like a persistent itch.
Her reply pings in.
Mom:Don’t worry about that. I’ll let you know when I hear back. No news is good news. Anyway,don’t think about me. I want you to focus on your comeback. That’s more important.
Hunter:My offer still stands to move you out here to Seattle. There are a lot of great doctors, and I’d be closer if you need anything.
Mom:Who would run the salon? Who would keep the a cappella group going? No, I’m good here.
Of course, she’d say that. My mom’s never been the type to burden anyone, especially not me. She’s still in Jersey, won’t leave the salon, her friends, her doctors—even when I’ve practically begged her to move west. Says she’s “content.” But I know what that means. She doesn’t want me to worry—which only makes me worry more.
I move to the couch and drop down with a grunt, still clutching my phone, the ice pack now resting on the back of my neck.
Only child. Single mom. We’ve always looked out for each other. She gave up everything to raise me. I owe her a lot.
The door swings open.
“Reed! You alive in here?”
Trey Hartley’s voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.
Thank God. If anyone gets the push-pull of family guilt, it’s the guy who gave up special forces to raise his niece after his brother and sister-in-law passed away in a car accident. He’s seen the worst life can throw at someone, and still, he managed to walk on to the Hawkeyes team as a starting left winger after being off the ice since high school.
“It’s open,” I call out, wincing at the sound of my own voice.
Trey steps in, dressed in sweats for practice this morning, while Aleksi Mäkelin, the Hawkeyes’ right winger, trails behind him, way too chipper for this hour.
“You look like shit,” Trey announces, crossing his arms over his broad chest and a teasing grin spreading across his face.
“Feeling the love, Hart,” I mutter, slouching deeper into the couch, wishing it could swallow me whole.
"Maybe next time don't try to drink your weight in whiskey," Aleksi suggests, his Finnish accent always thicker in the mornings. "Though watching you try to convince the bartender you could recite the entireMighty Ducksmovie was entertaining."
I groan. “Please tell me I didn't.”
“No, we stopped you,” Trey says. “Though you did try to challenge Wolf to a dance-off. Something about showing him your 'sick moves' from your middle school roller rink days?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, running my hand over my face, genuinely embarrassed.
"Don't worry, he said no," Aleksi drops onto my couch next to me and grabs the remote out of my hand, changing the channel to some cooking show. “But you might want to apologize to Cammy’s friend from last night. Word is you were kind of a dick.”
Trey chuckles. “Kind of a dick?” he asks, shooting Aleksi a glance and then back to me. “I’d say that’s an understatement. I was sitting next to you, and you were in rare form last night. More dick-ish than I’ve ever seen you towards anything with two X chromosomes. I watched a ninety-year-old woman blush and give you her number once on a napkin at 5th Avenue Cafe... So I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but Cammy’s friend sure as hell didn’t do anything to deserve what you said to her.”
I try to pull the memory from last night, but everything seems blurry post-media and walking down to Oakley’s from the stadium. “Cammy’s friend?”
Aleksi glances over at me, his brow furrowing in thought. “The hot blonde fromBleacher Report. Her name is Peyton, I think. I don’t know why she didn’t just ask me to be on the show. I’d do it.”
