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"My brain is fine," I lie. Despite all my claims to the contrary, my brain is not actually fine. I spent half of yesterday undergoing a battery of tests, all of which confirmed Gabbi's suspicions. I have a concussion. It's my second one in less than a year, so they're taking the shit seriously.
I'm riding the bench for the next two weeks. Another concussion and I'm out for the season. It's not a little thing. But I followed the doctor's orders and spent the entire day on the couch, doing nothing.
I was not built for that bullshit.
All I thought about all day was Gabbi and what she said. I still can't figure out what the hell I did to Hollie that pissed Gabbi off. Or how Gabbi even knows Hollie, for that matter. But I'd very much like to know the answers to both of those questions.
"Yeah, his brain is fine," Devlin Ramsey says. "The puck didn't get anywhere near his pinky toe."
I flip him off behind my back as the rest of the team laughs, the assholes. They give me a lot of shit—only a crazy man willingly plays goalie—but they all know I'm a smart motherfucker. I may be feral, but my mama didn't raise no fool.
I just happen to think life is too goddamn short to take everything seriously. We bust our asses day in and day out, pushing ourselves to the breaking point for a sport we love. If we can't have fun while playing it, what's the fucking point of any of it?
We head to our booth at the back of Park Avenue Bar, the only bar in town where people don't bug the shit out of us. Bender and Razor Montgomery are partial owners of the bar, both of whom are literal rockstars. When the owners of the place are infinitely more famous than your entire team, you tend not to make waves.
It's a nice change from the norm. Since the team moved to town, we've been creating waves everywhere we go. Billionaires are schmoozy people. They're also fucking sharks.
If I had a quarter for every time one tried to talk me into becoming their new spokesperson, doing an ad for their company, posing with a product on social media, or endorsing whatever they're hocking, I'd have a whole lot of quarters. So would every other man on the team.
I stumble halfway through the bar and nearly collide with Evie, the middle-aged bartender.
She tsks at me and then winks before sliding around us with her tray of drinks.
"Your ass should be at home in bed," Jensen Sparks says with a disapproving shake of his head. "You damn near got knocked out yesterday."
"It'll take more than Miles with a stick to knock his big ass out," Colter mutters, waving over Razor Montgomery's wife, Adalynn, once we reach our booth.
"Try harder next time," Reid tells Miles.
"You're all assholes." I glare at them. "If you lose tomorrow, it'll serve your asses right."
Reid's face falls. "Chuck is a fucking disaster in the net."
Chuck Willie, our backup goalie, is a disaster in the net. The man needs glasses and a miracle. His lateral movement and glove hand are shit.
"We'll just have to keep them away from the net then," Miles says, his expression grim. "It's going to be a long two weeks."
Colter and Jensen both nod glumly.
"Hey, guys," Adalynn says a few seconds later, stopping beside the table. She looks frazzled. "You want your usual beer and nachos?"
"I'll take water." I think about it for a moment, my stomach churning at the thought of bar food. "And skip the nachos for me."
Everyone at the table turns to look at me with matching expressions. Even Adalynn lifts a brow in surprise, but she doesn't comment. As soon as she walks away, Noah narrows his eyes on me.
"You need to go the fuck home and go back to bed, brother. You look like shit, and you just willingly skipped food."
"Can't a motherfucker just not be hungry?"
"No," everyone says at the exact same time.
"Man, fuck y'all," I mutter. I'm not even mad, though. Truth is…they're right. I should have my big ass at home in bed. My head is pounding, and the roar of noise here isn't helping. Neither are the stage lights.
"If by fuck y'all, you mean thank you, then you're welcome," Reid smirks at me. "Take your big ass home before you do more damage to your brain, and we get stuck with Chuck for the rest of the season."
"Yeah, I'm going." I haul myself out of the booth, scowling at them. "Later, fuckers."
"Later."
