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Nobody knows about us. They won’t let me see him.
Okay. Well. That’s a problem for later. Right now, I have to figure out where they’re taking him.
My brain is just useless. The only thing it does is send me images of Ryker crumpled on the ice, clutching his leg, features contorted from agonizing pain.
Eventually I come to a decision. I’ll go back inside. Wait somewhere—in front of the locker rooms if I’m allowed, or the exit by the locker rooms if not—and catch somebody from the team and hope like hell they know something.
I turn around, ready to run again, but then there’s some sort of divine intervention happening right in front of me. One of the doors of the arena flies open, and Ryker’s mother walks out at a brisk pace, phone by her ear, rapidly shooting out orders.
She looks just like she used to.
Who the fuck comes to a hockey game in a pantsuit?
Genevive James does.
Contrary to what Ryker seems to think, I don’t harbor any deep-seated anger toward his mother. I barely think about her, to be honest. She probably didn’t expect her new husband to come with a side of surly teenager dropped on her doorstep every few weeks. So yeah, maybe she didn’t take it in stride like her son did, but… I don’t have the brain space to fault her for that right now. I just don’t. If she gets me to see Ryker, I’ll forgive, forget, and… Fucking hell, I don’t even know what else. I’ll just give her a blank check of promises, and she can fill it in with anything she wants.
As long as I get to see Ryker.
She’s past me now, so I turn around, call her name, and sprint after her.
She turns around, a confused look on her face, but it clears after a few seconds, and her mouth falls open, recognition dawning on her face.
“Lake,” she says.
It’d be funny how caught off guard she looks if I weren’t so desperate to get moving.
“How’s Ryker?” I don’t bother with pleasantries.
She looks down at the phone she’s still holding in her hand, a faint voice coming out of the speaker, then up at me. It takes her a second to compose herself, but once she does, she’s all business.
“I’m going to the hospital right now,” she says.
“I can drive.” I stare at her with every shred of stubborn determination I have in me. If she tries to get rid of me, I’ll fucking stalk her if I have to.
Instead of looking put out, she sends me a curious look. Instead of arguing, she lifts the phone to her ear and says, “Jeremy, it seems I’ve managed to secure transportation for myself, so you can ignore the request for a car.” She listens for a bit before she nods. “No, I will not be back by tomorrow.” I start to move, and the click of her heels confirms she’s following me.
“Chicago has to wait,” she says from behind me. “Reschedule those meetings.” She continues in this vein the whole way, one order after another, to the car and the whole way to the hospital. I don’t mind at all. It saves us from having to try and keep up what would most likely be an awkward, stilted conversation. Now she’s reduced to background noise. Like a radio station.
My mind is left to its own devices.
My hands clutch the steering wheel.
He’s going to be okay.
Ryk is not here right now to be annoyingly optimistic about life, so I have to do it myself until I get him back.
He’s going to be okay.
He’s strong. Whatever it is, he’ll get through it.
He’s going to be okay.
I’m going to be there. Every step of the way. For as long as he’ll have me.
He’s going to be okay.
He’s going to be okay.
