“Noah’s going to look to us for how to handle this,” I whispered into his ear. “We’ve got to show him that we can handle it and stow all this guilt shit.”
Stan gave a silent nod against my shoulder, and I guess that was the beginning of the end for self-imposed blame, and probably mine too.
No one could have seen this happen.
“We’ll get through this,” I breathed, believing it for his sake, for Noah’s, and maybe a little for my own. “We’ll learn everything we need to, we’ll make adjustments, and we’ll still be the family that we’ve always been. Nothing changes that. Not diabetes, not anything.”
Pulling back just enough to see his face, I searched his eyes and saw the flicker of resolve reigniting there.
“Together,” he said, then smiled. “Like Elvis and Blue Suede Shoes.”
“Yeah.” I returned his smile. “Yeah.”
It was a day later when Oliver “Cowboy” Cowan defenseman with New York, showed up without warning at the hospital.
Courtesy of Ten, apparently.
“Hi, guys.” He waved. “Ten said you needed me,” he added, standing in the doorway as the three of us glanced up, startled.
Stan growled. Oliver was one of those D-men who hovered around the net, and I knew Stan had big feelings about players like him. Annoying. Assholes. Or as he called them—buzzy bees.
Noah was the one who actually strung words together.
“You’re Oliver Cowan,” he said with respect.
“Sure am, kid,” Oliver responded, stepping just inside the room, and extending a hand to me, which I shook, and then to Stan, who refused to uncross his arms, and just stared.
Yep. He wasn’t fond of Oliver Cowan.
“Okay if I come in?” he asked.
I was confused. “Ten sent you?”
Now it was Oliver’s turn to be confused. “He didn’t tell you?”
Stan muttered something in Russian, and I sent him a quelling glance, because it was clear there was a reason for Ten to… wait…
“You have diabetes,” I exclaimed.
Oliver twisted his mouth into a parody of a smile. “But more importantly, I have great two-way defense skills with the twenty-third highest point tally of all defensemen of all time,” he corrected.
“Buzz, buzz,” Stan muttered.
Oliver reached out to shake a hand again, and this time Stan took it, and the two big men faced off against each other like warriors on a battlefield. I stepped between them before Stan made some comment about… well, about anything… and guided the conversation back to Noah.
“Noah has just been diagnosed,” I said, and couldn’t fail to see the flare of something in Oliver’s eyes. It wasn’t pity, or anything like that, it was understanding and compassion.
“Yep, that’s why Ten sent me. He saw how I handled things firsthand when I was at the Olympics and thought I could help a bit. Can I?” He waved at Noah, and I stepped back and let him pass.
What was he going to do? Would he say something that would upset Noah? Ten had sent him. Ten must’ve thought he’s okay. I exchanged quick glances with Stan, who nodded.
“Sure,” I said, and took a seat the other side of the bed.
Oliver folded his big frame into the tiny hospital chair next to Noah, which wasn’t built for hockey player asses, and then held out a fist to bump, which Noah bumped back. He’d seen a lot of big-name players, but I’d never seen him this tongue-tied. I checked the machine monitoring his vitals and was relieved his sugar levels seemed to be in the okay region. They would be in here, given everything was so balanced, and he was cared for.
But what would happen when he came home? What if we dropped the baton again, and fucked up?
“So hey, Noah,” he began. “I hear you’re joining the one club nobody really signs up for,” he began as he wriggled in the chair.
