Ethan Murphy might be a grump, but he loves Sloane in a way that makes me a little lonely. It’s strange to miss something you’ve never experienced before, but that’s what it feels like to be around the two of them. Like I’m missing love.
“I’m fine,” Jack insists, swinging his feet off the bed. His fingers dig into the thin mattress, his knuckles almost white.
I sneak closer so he doesn’t collapse against the floor.
His gaze snaps to mine, as if he knows. His hand moves to his chest, fingers brushing over a fine gold chain I’ve never noticed before. A small shamrock pendant. His jaw tightens.
“Two concussions?” I whisper.
“Part of hockey, sweetheart.”
I hate that endearment, hate the condescending tone that leaks out around his words as he stands and tilts his neck from side to side. I hate more how I notice him wincing, then hate myself for recognizing he’s hurting. Why do I even care?
The girls and I slip out to wait by the back entrance while the nurses start the discharge process with Jack. It’s quieter here, tucked away from the main entrance, just the occasional employee sneaking out for some air.
“Well, this was a night.” Annie turns to face Sloane and me.
She doesn’t fool me though. I hear the soft shake in her voice. She’s only a year older than Peyton.
“He’ll be fine,” Sloane says, as if reading my mind. “Jack is always okay.”
“Don’t let that smile fool you.” Annie spins back around.
For a fall night, it’s surprisingly muggy in the city. The sky iswashed out from all the light pollution, a hollow midnight blue hanging over us and the collection of buildings around the hospital.
I tug on Annie’s hand, drawing her back until she’s beside me, then wrap my arm around her shoulder.
“I thought you hated your brothers,” I whisper against her ear.
She pulls away and flashes me a sad smile. “Try being the youngest girl to the three Murphy brothers.”
Annie nudges my shoulder, and we keep walking, skirting the trash scattered on the sidewalk. Traffic from Storrow Drive is a low hum this time of night. Well, it’s morning now. It’s almost two, and my eyes sting from the lack of sleep.
Jack is wheeled out in a wheelchair through a discreet staff entrance, tucked away in the maze of the hospital complex. He didn’t want to deal with cameras, reporters, or the few fans who might have waited to catch a glimpse of him, or worse, get an autograph.
Still, a Boston cop shouts at us out of his patrol car parked tight by the dumpster and waves to Jack.
“Big hit tonight, huh?”
“Yeah.” Jack chuckles, then pushes himself up from the wheelchair, and the nurse pushes it back inside. Annie holds her hand up to Jack—a quick “give me a second” gesture—as she crosses the small lot. At first, I think she’s going to yell at the cop, then I realize she’s flirting with him.
“Still okay?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows and winces. “I didn’t think I’d be so lucky to see two of you tonight.”
Jack sinks to the sidewalk and plasters the instant ice pack to the side of his face. I sit beside him, the quiet stretching between us before I peek over at him.
“You’re too handsome for black eyes,” I mutter.
“They don’t help my appeal?”
I snort. “Your appeal? You got dropped to the ice like a sack of potatoes, lost consciousness, and forgot what team you played for when you finally woke up.”
He shrugs. “I landed a few good punches first.”
“Hey,” I whisper. “Stay awake. Ethan should be here any second.”
Jack hums in response, his eyes drifting closed for a moment as headlights sweep across us and the truck pulls up. Jack insists he’s fine, but when he stands, he staggers a step.
