Page 17 of Hard Check
“Take some Tylenol and get some sleep,” Dawson said. “You’re going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow.”
Leo got out. He stood on the sidewalk as the flatbed pulled away with his Audi strapped to the back, the taillights shrinking until they turned the corner and were gone. His throat felt tight and his stomach churned as he realized he had no way of getting away if the voices in his head got too loud again. Back home, he could’ve called a rideshare, but here it was now walk or stay put.
His room at the Lakeside Inn was dark and too quiet. He dropped his keys on the nightstand and stood at the window without turning on the lights. The lighthouse photograph on the wall, the quilt on the bed, the AC humming at its usual frequency. Two more days, and he’d be in the apartment Gunnar had found him.
He smelled like the bar still. Cologne that wasn’t his, sweat, stale air. He stripped out of his clothes, hoping a hot shower would wash away the piling regrets he had over how his night went. A bruise was already forming on his chest from where the airbag had caught him.
He showered until the water ran cold, put on clean shorts, and got into bed. Stared at the ceiling. Thought about the bar, the guy who’d been right there and willing, and how he couldn’t even will his dick to be interested. The guy at the pool table who’d have happily followed Leo into a bathroom stall to blow him.
But then his mind drifted to Dawson’s hands on the winch controls, steady and sure, checking every connection. Thought about the quiet in the truck cab, and how comfortable it had been.
He rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow. His chest throbbed. In the morning, he’d call Phil, who would hopefully have news, and Leo would get out of this town and away from this man who hadn’t flirted with him, hadn’t touched him, hadn’t even been particularly friendly, yet still managed to ruin a perfectly good hookup from forty miles away.
Tomorrow.
Jonesy pickedhim up at seven the next morning in a Jeep that smelled like cheap body spray and stale french fries. Leo had texted the team group chat at six, asking for a ride, no details, justcar trouble, anyone going past the Lakeside Inn?Jonesy had responded with a thumbs-up emoji, three fire emojis, and the message:Say less, bud, I gotchu.
“Dude,” Jonesy said as Leo climbed in. “What happened to the Audi?”
“Deer.”
“Oh shit. You okay?”
“I’m fine. Car’s not.”
“Where is it?”
“Wyatt’s Garage.”
Jonesy hummed and nodded. “Those guys are solid. Dawson’ll probably be the one who works on it. That dude’s a whizz when it comes to cars. My buddy brought in a Camaro that three other shops couldn’t figure out, and Dawson had it running in less than a week.”
Leo looked out the window. “Good to know.”
The Icehouse hit him with a wall of cold air when he walked in, and for the first time in days, something in his chest loosened. He laced up and hit the ice. His edges were sharp, his hands were quick, and the puck felt right on his blade. His first shot went bar-down with a crack that echoed off the empty seats. For two minutes, nothing else existed.
Then Coach Deluca blew the whistle, the drills started, and Leo was back to being the new guy.
“Vargas, you’re with Walsh and Novak. Two-on-ones, far end.”
Carter nodded at him when he skated over. Novo didn’t. Leo set up on the wing and waited for the first rep, and when Carter fed him the puck, he one-timed it past the cone without thinking. Clean. Instinctive.
“Nice hands,” Carter said.
Leo almost said something back, but Carter was already resetting, already calling the next play, and the window closed before Leo found the words. That kept happening. He’d catch the edge of a conversation, almost step into it, and then hesitate a beat too long. By the time he opened his mouth, the guys had moved on.
During a water break, Jonesy skated up and sprayed ice on his skates. “Nice mitts, Vargas. Save some for the season.”
“Just making sure you know what you’re working with.”
Jonesy grinned. “Oh, we know.” He skated off before Leo could figure out if that was acceptance or criticism.
Deluca ran them through breakouts next, and Leo read the play two moves ahead, trying to get a feel for his new line. Carter called for the puck along the boards, and Leo hit him in stride, tape-to-tape. But the next rep, Carter cut back instead of driving wide, and Leo was already gone, streaking to where the play should have been. The puck hit the boards behind him.
“Vargas!” Deluca’s voice carried across the ice. “You’re not running a solo act. Read your linemates, not just the ice.”
Leo circled back. Novo glanced at him, not hostile, just trying to figure out where Leo fit in a system that worked well without him.
At the tractor pull, Leo drifted to the edges. He could feel it happening here too. The difference was that here, people were trying to pull him in. He just didn’t trust it yet.
