Page 4 of Elite Player
Sheffy frowns. “No shit.”
“Apparently, I’ve fucked one too many girls for their puritanical morality.”
My best friend raises his brow in surprise, although it quickly melts as he tilts his head as if he understands. And what the fuck?
“You think so too?”
“No, no. Not that you deserve to be traded. You’re our grinder. But, yeah, I mean… Lay off the pussy, man.”
“You’re just jealous you’re stuck with the same one for the rest of your life.”
As usual, whenever the subject of his wife comes up, a dreamy look overtakes his face, and he smiles. “Love her pussy.” When I knock him off-balance, he laughs. “Okay, so what’s going on? Is Fitz really going to trade you?”
“Not if I change my ways. So he and Jameson assigned me a babysitter to make sure I’m being a good little boy.”
“Mm. Sounds kinky.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if it were you.”
He taps my shoulder pad with the end of his stick. “Do what you gotta do, eh? We’re finally back to playing together again, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
I heave a sigh and put on my helmet, following him out to the blue line, where a bucket of pucks had been tossed out so we can take a few shots on goal before we start drills.
Playing hockey has always been my outlet, and it’s no different now. I slide one of the pucks closer to me and wind up, taking out my aggression on it, sending it flying into the air. But instead of hitting the back of the net, it ricochets off the bar, hurtling sideways.
Right into the head of a woman.
Fuck me. I’m in trouble again.
CHAPTER 2
JO
“On a scaleof zero to ten, where is your pain now?”
“Uh… Maybe… Five…?”
The nurse types something into her iPad then offers me a smile before she heads out of the room with the reminder, “Hit the button if you need anything. Try to relax. Maybe enjoy some of your deliveries.”
After a few hours of examinations and care, I’m finally alone in my hospital room. Or as alone as one can be with a five-foot-tall teddy bear, a dozen bouquets of flowers, multiple boxes of chocolates, a basket of salty snacks, and another of personal items that include a blanket, socks, lotion, and a small tin of potpourri. The gifts started arriving shortly after I did, the bear and personal items delivered by a man named Malcolm King, who introduced himself as the assistant to Nico Tremblay—the reason I’m laid up with a sprained wrist, concussion, and gash on my head that required eight stitches.
Sean and I had been taking some action shots of practice today when it happened. Being his assistant for the past three years means I’m used to the rink and working in the sports photography environment, but I’ve never been hurt on the job, let alone knocked unconscious. One minute, I was capturingLuca Abramova lining up for a shot in the net, and the next, I was in an ambulance. With one hell of a headache.
In the hours since, I’ve been patched up and told I needed to spend at least another day or two in the hospital for observation. Apparently, they want to make sure my brain doesn’t swell or bleed. I’ve been warned that my good condition can become worse, and since I was knocked out for a while then threw up, they want to make sure I’m all right.
Which I’m sure I am.
Though I had a tough time convincing my parents of it. My mother even demanded she talk to the doctor. Still, I don’t think she’s going to listen to me when I said she doesn’t need to come here.
I’m fine.
Really.
I’m fine.
“Josephine? You have a visitor.”
“I’m fine,” I say before turning to the door, assuming it would be my mother here already, only to find the puck blaster himself.
