“Aravind Gulshan—I’m with ESPN PPHL?—”
“Online,” Tiago finished for him. “You emailed me asking me some really goddamn weird questions about how much I could see.”
“Were they weird?” Aravind asked. “It’s my job as a reporter to get all the facts, and since I’m not blind and since you don’t appear to be?—”
“Nope.” Tiago took a step closer to me, knocking into my hip. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“But you don’t use a cane. You don’t use a dog. Your friend here, I get it. But I’m trying to understand how someone who can’t see can walk around with no aids and can play the kind of hockey you do.”
“Are they paying you to be an ableist twat waffle or is that for free?” I asked.
Tiago choked on a laugh. “I bet he gets a bonus for it. I’ve read their articles, and they’re all fucking garbage. So, if you don’t mind…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Tiago turned, all but dragging me through the doors and into the back parking lot.
The parking lot was silent since this was where the players, WAGs, and staff parked, and they would be busy for a while, though someone’s engine was running a few feet from where we were standing.
I felt a tiny pang of anxiety, though I knew it would be impossible for Hunter to get into any arena with the notification Ben was supposed to send around.
All the same, I was freaked.
“Can you see the car that’s running at the curb?” I asked Tiago.
He hummed, then sighed. “No, not really. It’s too dark.”
“I can see it,” Aravind said.
“Great, you’re still here?” I turned my head to face him. “Fine. Is it a black Cadillac SUV?”
“No. Grey pickup truck. One of those overcompensating monstrosities.”
Tiago snorted, then went silent. He was probably horrified the guy had made him laugh. “Okay, thanks for your help. Bye now.” He paused. “And in case you need a little extra dismissal, au revoir. Ciao. Shab bakhair. Adios…”
Aravind said something rapidly in a language I didn’t recognize, but before I could ask him if he was insulting either of us, I heard my name across the parking lot in a very familiar voice. My insides warmed, and I couldn’t help a smile as I listened to him call after me.
“Micah! Wait there. I have important thing to tell you!”
“Jesus, Vanya,” I called back. I could hear him running. “Aren’t you supposed to be inside?”
“He’s still in his sweater and what looks like spandex,” Aravind said helpfully.
“He’s so fucking lucky I love him. I swear to god, I?—”
I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence. The world suddenly narrowed down to the sound of squealing tires on pavement, of Vanya’s sharp cry, and Ara shouting for Vanya to look out.
Then there was a thud against metal.
And then the sound of a body hitting asphalt.
A scream lodged in my throat, and then panic took over, and everything was fuzzy after that for a good, long while.
“Mr. Adams?”
I all but shot out of my chair, tripping over my cane I’d forgotten I’d put at my feet. Strange arms caught me, steadying me, and my nose burned with the smell of hospital anesthetic and starch and whatever else clung to doctor’s clothes.
I’d been sitting in the emergency waiting room for what felt like an actual eternity. Vanya was back in surgery, and it was going on six hours now. The guys had come and gone, and right now, Hugo and Boden were snoring a few feet from where I had nearly fallen.
It was saying something they hadn’t woken up from the commotion.
“If you’re here to tell me he’s dead—” My voice was a trembling mess.
