Page 48 of Never Pucking Ending

I gesture toward the door. “I’ll talk to the guys and fill them in. Go.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t argue like I expect him to. That’s how I know how exhausted he must really be. So after giving the team the update on Head’s condition, and the likelihood that our starting roster is shifting for the rest of the season, I watch everybody disperse and take my time before heading out too.

Belle is leaning against the wall outside, texting somebody on her phone. Her mom, maybe. Or my dad. When they can’t attend games, she’s usually the first one to give them updates and play-by-plays that they might not see watching it on screen.

“Hey,” I greet, nudging her foot with mine. She instantly puts her cell phone down and smiles at me with obvious concern on her face.

“How is he?” she asks of Richie, scanning my expression to see how bad it is. “Is he going to be okay?”

I lift a tight shoulder as I readjust my grip on the duffle bag hanging from my hand. “He’s out for the season.”

She winces knowing that doesn’t mean anything good. “That sucks.”

All I can do is nod, walking with her toward the side exit leading out to the parking lot where the staff leaves their vehicles. “Do you need a ride home or did you drive? I can take you to your car.”

Belle smiles at me. “I called a Lyft to drop me off for the game, so I’d love a ride if you’re not too tired.”

I roll my eyes. “Since when am I too tired to drive you home?” I ask, knocking her with my bag. “Don’t be stupid.”

She snickers at my dry tone. “You played hard out there. I know how exhausted you get. In fact, do you want me to drive?”

The thought of her driving my brand-new Tahoe makes me smirk. She hates driving big vehicles. When we were in high school, her car broke down and she had to take my dad’s pickup truck. She was so afraid of hitting other people’s cars that she parked at the other end of the lot.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she accuses, knowing what I’m thinking about. “If you bring up that one time I drove your dad’s truck—”

I laugh, unable to hold it in. “You had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel the whole way to school. You looked like you were going to vomit.”

Belle smacks my arm, but there’s amusement breaking through the mock embarrassment. “He had one of those ridiculously long truck beds! I was terrified I’d clip things when I turned. If you weren’t in that leg boot then I would have made you drive instead.”

I’d been getting over a pretty bad sprain after practice had gone wrong and wore a stabilizing boot to try healing quicker. It was rough. But not as rough as Belle’s driving.

“He needed the eight-foot bed for the construction projects he did on the side,” I explain, shrugging. “Regular truck beds can’t hold the same type of wood he needed.”

That doesn’t seem to matter to her. “I can’t believe you still tease me about that. I hated that truck. It makes me nauseous even thinking about getting around in one of those.”

We arrive to my Tahoe, which is not that much smaller than Dad’s truck. “Then I think I should drive tonight. I wouldn’t want you throwing up your stadium hot dog.”

She doesn’t address the comment as we climb in—her in the passenger seat—and I drive us out of the stadium parking lot. Her phone buzzes a couple times, pulling her focus down to the lit up screen. She’s quick to tuck it under her leg without replying.

“I’m sorry to hear about Richie,” she tells me, her eyes a dim shade of brown. “I’ll have to make him cookies. He loved the chocolate jumbos I did last Christmas.”

Of course she’d make my injured teammate something. When Jackie Dawson had to sit out three games because of a nasty concussion he’d gotten last season, she brought him homemade cheesecake. An entire fucking cake. Cheesecake is his favorite because she pays attention to those things. He ended up sharing it with a few of us so he didn’t eat the whole thing, and I could tell she earned another fan that day.

Her phone buzzes again with another message, and she doesn’t look.

“Do you need to get that?” I ask, gesturing toward where her phone is stuffed under her thigh.

She hesitates before shaking her head. “Oh. Uh, no. It’s no big deal.”

As we slow for a stoplight, I turn to her. She sounds weird, and she’s fidgeting. “Your mom?” I guess, even though I’m positive it isn’t. She would reply to her otherwise.

She shakes her head.

It’s none of my business, but I keep pressing the issue. “Work?”

Her body shifts uncomfortably. “No.” There’s a pause before she sighs. “It’s Dane.”

Dane. Motherfucking Dane. “Huh,” I say slowly, trying to come up with a better response. “I didn’t know you still talked to him.”